“Coming through. No time. Please get out of the way.”
Normally, the epiphany happens before you get on a plane. Sometimes it’s right on the plane, if you’re going for super original. But not once have I seen a movie or a show where the dumbass heroine actually makes it to her destination, leaves the airplane, then walks right back to the American Airlines stand.
Yes, here I am, slapping the counter, breathless and sweaty. “I need a one-way ticket to Logan Airport. The earliest you’ve got. There’s no time to waste.”
The woman behind the counter obviously begs to differ. She looks up from her blanket of fake eyelashes, quirks a well-drawn eyebrow, and leisurely types something as she gazes at her screen. She seems deliberately slow. Is this how murderers are born? By telling people something is urgent and then watching said people slugging along?
“You said Logan International Airport?”
“Hmm.”
Hmm? What kind of answer is that?
I try to appeal to her heart. “Please. It’s urgent. I have to get there fast.”
“And I have to get out of my tights, ma’am,” she says impatiently. “We all have things to do. Please be patient.”
It takes her a couple of more minutes—of course her computer chooses this exact moment to choke to death—before announcing, “There’s a flight leaving out tomorrow morning. Six o’clock.”
“No, no.” I shake my head, frantic. “I need something sooner.”
“You’re out of luck. I have nothing for you.”
“Please,” I choke out. I’m not above begging. “I really don’t want to turn around and leave this airport. I have to go back.”
She rolls her eyes, then types something into her keyboard. She nods at the screen, like it is talking to her. “There’s a flight boarding in forty minutes. But I only have one seat left.”
“Yes! I’ll take it! I’m one person!”
“。 . . it’s business class. Twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“Oh.” I falter before squaring my shoulders. “Yes. I’ll take it.”
No big deal. It’s just a month’s worth of work for me. On a job I don’t currently hold. I hand the ticket agent my credit card and pray to God the payment isn’t declined. I hold my breath as she waits for the confirmation to go through. Then sag in relief when the ticket starts printing.
She hands it to me, still stoic. “Better make a run for it, or your plane will leave without you.”
I run like my ass is on fire. Until I get to security, where I cut the line and explain my situation, frantic and blabbering, to people who protest. Then I run to the gate. Then I run into the plane. And what do you know, I’m on another five-hour flight to Boston.
Only this time, I don’t stew on all the things I’ve done wrong. I think about ways to make them right.
Also, can we talk about how tragic it is that the first and probably last time I’m in business class, I’m too distracted to even take in my surroundings?
I bring my family up to speed in a chat group I create. Consisting of Donna, Renn, Dad, and myself.
Ever: I’m on a plane back to Boston.
Renn: Why? Did you forget your charger there?
Renn: J/k. WTF?
Dad: I second your brother’s （less than eloquent） question.
Ever: I need to do something.
Donna: Could you please be a little less cryptic?
Ever: I need to win Joe back.
Donna: We are proud of you! （and slightly worried . . . ）
Dad: Let us know when you land.
Renn: Young love is such a drag. No wonder I want nothing to do with it.
It’s early morning by the time I land at Logan International Airport. Weak rays of sunshine pierce through the clouds, making them look like fluffy pincushions. I feel like I haven’t slept in years. My muscles hurt. My heart beats dully. Still, I’ve never been as ready to do something in my life.
I make my way to the taxi lane. Somewhere over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve lost my duffel bag, and I don’t even care. I have my wallet with me, and that’s all I need. Once I slide inside, I give the woman Joe’s address. It’s five in the morning, and I think I just might catch him before he goes to work if the driver goes over the speed limit.
“Salem, huh? That’s some ride,” she says.
“I’ll double your pay if you floor it,” I tell her from the back seat, yet again channeling my inner Bill Gates. I’m feeling ballsy with my bank account today.
The middle-aged lady eyes me curiously across her shoulder. “Tell you what. How ’bout I don’t get us both killed, and you take a long, deep breath?”