Page 22 of The Summer We Lie

"Security's gonna take forever," I groan, taking in the sheer volume of people with dismay. Every person represents another minute of delay.

Harper grabs my hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "Come on, we can make it. We're not missing this flight."

The security line seems to take years off my life. I bounce anxiously on my toes, watching the enormous clock on the wall tick closer and closer to our boarding time. When we finally make it to the front, I'm frantically untying my shoes, nearly flinging them into the plastic bin while simultaneously trying to remove my laptop from my bag.

"Flight 2187 to Los Angeles now boarding," the announcement echoes through the terminal just as we're collecting our scattered belongings on the other side of security.

"Thank god," Harper exhales, grabbing her bag and shoving her feet back into her shoes without bothering with the laces. "Let's go!"

We sprint through the terminal like Olympic athletes, dodging slow-moving travelers, leaping past families with luggage carts, my bladder protesting violently with every jarring step—I've needed to pee desperately since we hit the traffic jam, but there's absolutely no time now.

"Gate B22," Harper pants, pointing ahead at a sign, her face flushed beneath her freckles. "Almost there! Don't you dare stop, Skye!"

We skid to a stop at the gate just as they're calling the final boarding group. I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath while my lungs burn from the unexpected cardio workout.

"We made it," Harper says, grinning triumphantly despite her flushed face and disheveled appearance. "Barely, but we made it."

My bladder sends another urgent, painful signal. "I really need to pee," I whisper, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"No time," she grimaces sympathetically. "You'll have to use the one on the plane as soon as we're in the air."

When our turn comes, we hand over our slightly crumpled boarding passes, and the gate agent gives us a knowing look, eyebrows raised. "Cutting it close, ladies."

"Traffic," we say in perfect unison, then dissolve into breathless, slightly hysterical laughter.

"Window or aisle?" Harper asks as we step onto the plane, the recycled air cool against my overheated skin.

"Can I have the window? I want to see everything," I admit, already thinking about potential sketches of clouds and landscapes from above.

"You got it." She steps past our row to let me in first, always accommodating.

I slide my carry-on into the overhead compartment with trembling arms and collapse into my seat, still catching my breath, relief washing over me in waves. Harper drops in beside me, her hair slightly wild from our sprint, but somehow she still manages to look put-together.

"You ready for California?" she asks, buckling her seatbelt with a definitive click.

"Yep, I'm ready to get there. I'm absolutely starving," I admit, my stomach growling audibly. "I only had a cup of coffee this morning before we left. Too nervous to eat."

"We can hit up an In-N-Out Burger when we land. I'm dying for you to try them," she says with that familiar Harper enthusiasm that makes everything sound like the most exciting adventure. "Trust me, it'll change your life."

"Sounds good to me. Can't go wrong with burgers," I agree, settling back into my seat as the flight attendants begin their safety demonstration, trying to ignore my screaming bladder. Six hours to California. Six hours until I see my best friend's childhood home and meet her father. Six hours until the summer officially begins.

As soon as the seatbelt sign dings off, I leap from my seat like I've been spring-loaded, practically climbing over Harper in my desperation.

"Jesus, you weren't kidding," she laughs as I stumble into the aisle.

"Be right back," I mutter, already speed-walking toward the bathroom, one hand pressed against my bladder like that's somehow going to help.

But when I reach the tiny lavatory, the door is locked. What the hell? Who had time to beat me here? I jumped up the second we were allowed! The injustice of it burns almost as much as my screaming bladder.

I shift from one foot to the other, doing an unmistakable pee dance in the narrow aisle. A flight attendant gives me a sympathetic smile as she passes with a drink cart, probably seeing this exact scenario play out dozens of times a day. After a few agonizing minutes of waiting—each second stretching into eternity, my bladder sending desperate SOS signals to my brain—I can't take it anymore and knock.

"Occupied," a man's voice calls from inside, sounding irritatingly relaxed.

"I'm sorry, but I'm about to pee my pants," I blurt, dignity completely abandoned at this point. This is what I've been reduced to—begging a stranger to hurry up their bathroom business.

"One second," he replies, and then I hear the toilet flush followed by running water. The sound nearly breaks me—my bladder contracting painfully at the cruel audio torture. I bite my lip and cross my legs tighter, bouncing slightly.

Finally, the door opens and an older, stumpy guy with thinning hair walks out. "Better hold your nose," he warns with zero shame, ambling away like he didn't just commit a war crime in there.