THE BRITISH AIRWAYS customer service rep—Rupert, his badge says—slides paperwork across the counter to me.
“Fill out this form. Please describe the property in question as accurately as possible.”
“Is there a way you can track it?”
Bright lighting above the help desk shines on Rupert’s bald head. He jackhammers keystrokes and stares into the computer screen.
“It seems the mix-up occurred in Charlotte. We’ll re-route your bags and deliver them once they’ve arrived. Be sure to include the proper address for where you’ll be staying.” He gives me a curt smile, and that’s that. Rupert moves to assist the lady behind me, but I step in front of her.
“I’m sorry, excuse me.” Her eyes widen as she looks me up and down and finds my bare foot.
“So where are my bags now?” I ask Rupert.
His nostrils flare and he sighs. I try to imagine what color his aura is, because no matter how hard I stare, I can’t see it. Maybe he doesn’t have one. Maybe he’s an alien, like the TSA agents in the states, and if you opened up his face you’d find a tiny sadistic alien sitting at a control panel, sending people’s bags to all the wrong places.
“Miss Bryant, it appears they are en route to Bangkok.”
My mouth drops open. “Thailand?!”
His knuckles pale against his grip on the counter. He probably has these conversations every day. God, who’d want this job? Somebody hardcore failed Rupert on career day.
The lady behind me elbows her way back in. “Pardon me, Cinderella, but you aren’t the only one with lost bags.”
I narrow my eyes and mumble as I slide down to an empty spot at the counter. “Cinderella. Good one.” Leaning over, I yank off my other shoe and chuck it in the wastebasket marked rubbish next to the wall. Rupert turns his attention to her and they exchange a knowing look. Like I’m the drama queen here.
Stiff carpet crunches between all ten of my toes, and a little thrill wiggles loose in my belly. I smile, a few inches closer to the dream. As I fill in my contact information, my phone dings. I set the pen on the counter with a thump and retrieve the text.
I return to the paperwork and fill in the address for George’s place, then list the description of my bags and their contents. How specific does that need to be? Do I list everything, all the way down to my prescriptions? The tampons, too?
A documentary narrator voice interrupts my thoughts.
“You must be Jojo.”
If words were punches, this would be the KO.
My mom calls me Josephine when she isn’t yelling (Josie Michelle when she is), and everyone else calls me Jo. Nobody’s called me Jojo in a very long time. Hearing it on a stranger’s lips slides me off my axis.
A tall, lean guy with messy brown hair steps up to the counter next to me. He wears faded jeans with holes in the knees. Chucks. A t-shirt hoodie peeks out from under his black peacoat. He drops an elbow on the edge of the counter, cool as a vintage cigarette poster. Behind black-framed Warby Parkers, he has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like he’s figured out how to use a color saturation filter on his real-life face.
“J-jojo?” I overcompensate for the trembly voice by sticking out my hand for a shake, like we’re closing a business deal or something. “Just Jo,” I say. “Just call me Jo.”
God, I’m so bad at this whole scene. New people. New situations. Awkwardness abounds. If only Pfizer made a pill that could make me say all the right things without thinking, I’d take it with no complaints.
“Just Jo, then.” He accepts my handshake politely and pencils in a dimpled smile. Suddenly I’m glad he looked like a weirdo on his Instagram page and that Dylan didn’t see this. It’s like this guy graduated summa cum laude from a boy band.
“And yeww must be the wayn-kuh.” I fake a British accent and grin. Who has two thumbs and on-the-fly wit? This girl, that’s who.
But his smile evaporates and he drops my hand.
“Henry, actually.” Ach-chu-ally.
My joke flails on the ground at our feet. Dying slowly like a Shakespeare character. He doesn’t even chuckle. Welp, that settles that. I barely know Patrick, but I’m certain he would’ve laughed.
Instead, Henry looks down and does a double take. His nose ach-chu-ally curls, as if there’s an odor to accompany the discovery of my toes, neatly pedicured with black polish.
He meets my eyes again. “Did they lose your shoes, too?”