Cassidy
I jolt upright and whip my head left and right. Recognition of my surroundings dawns as my sleepy brain flickers to life. Airport. The lights are dim but not out, like a theater just before a show.
And here I was hoping the diversion was a dream.
My attention falls to a foreign bundle of gray fabric in my lap. A tired squeak leaves my mouth as I shove it off my legs.
The heck?
With a pincer grip, I pluck it off the ground. It has a hood, but no drawstring. The cotton is threadbare and faded. A quick peek inside reveals the tag is missing.
This is the baby blanket of sweatshirts, worn to death.
I lift my chin and search the area.
Of the hundred or so people camping in this gate, there’s only one I could pick out of a lineup. And the last thing Mr. Is This Your First Time Being Right? would do is offer me a sweatshirt. His dislike of me is so intense he chose to argue with me instead of conceding that I was right about the hotel situation, even after we’d achieved a mutual understanding and respect as our plane landed.
Or so I thought.
That’s what I get for attempting to turn over a friendlier leaf: Luke sass. A glimpse at his ego. I bet if I told him the airport was on fire he’d have to google it to be abundantly sure rather than trust my assessment.
So what if he doesn’t like me? I didn’t like him first. I’ve got squatter’s rights on this grudge.
And yet, I have a sweatshirt in my clammy hands.
I spot Luke and his tousled shock of hair across the walkway. It appears he’s ransacked it with his hand a time too many. Even the WASPyish among us are susceptible to the harrowing realities of an all-nighter, I guess. He’s putting the lap in laptop as he pecks away at the machine perched on his thighs. His glasses reflect the glow of the screen.
I could ask him. But if it isn’t his and belongs to a random good Samaritan who saw I was uncovered—or a random person who intended to smother me in my sleep and failed—I’d be mortified.
Playing The Sims until the airline provides an update is safer.
My phone lights up at my touch. Five twenty a.m. The drained battery icon winks at me.
I scan for an open outlet. Too many people have fallen asleep body-blocking their charging phones. All plugs are taken except for the top half of one.
The bottom half has been claimed by Luke.
This ought to be fun.
I gather my stuff, cross the crowded space, and approach with my chin lifted and the sweatshirt tucked under my arm. “Can I use the top half of that outlet?”
He looks at me for approximately half a second before returning his gaze to the keyboard. “Sure.”
I’m reveling in the ease of this interaction when he adds, “I mean, I don’t own it.”
“Could’ve just left it at yes,” I mumble as I dig my charger out of the front pocket of my suitcase and plug myself in.
Muscles tight from the plane and sleeping upright, I extend my legs. I’ve got enough room for a full straddle, but I don’t push it far. Just a half. My hamstrings hum in objection, which means it’s all the more important I do this to avoid injuries. Even a small one could put me out of work.
“What are you doing?”
I glance to the right as I stretch further. Luke’s face is aghast.
I keep my voice low to match his. “I’m stretching my legs.”
“Here?”
With the scandalized tone of his voice, you’d think I stripped naked and bent over. “Sure. Why not?”
He slides his glasses off his face and buffs them on his shirt. “I’ve never seen anyone do a split in the middle of an airport.”
“This isn’t a full split, nor am I in the middle of anything. We’re on the side of a room where barely anyone is awake. It’s not like I dropped down while in line for security.” I lean against my elbows, and my muscles sing. “Does this bother you?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound bent out of shape?”
“I’m not.” He returns to his computer, peck-peck-pecking.
“Great.” I shift even further until my legs are almost a perfect 180, which I had no intention of doing until he questioned me. There’s something about his tone—that there are right and wrong ways to do things, and his ways are right—that makes me want to poke him until he snaps. “It’s part of my job to be flexible. I’m working, too. Just like you are with your type-type-typing.”
The typing ceases. “Your job?”
“Choreographer. Dancer. Professional stretcher, as it were.”
He swivels his head roughly ten degrees, runs his gaze up my body, and returns to working. He could weaponize that sharp jawline. “Fascinating.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Astounded by my talent?”
“Moved to tears.”
“I’ll get out of your way soon enough.”
He lets out a strained sigh and scrubs his hand over his mouth. His hoarse voice suggests a lack of sleep. “I didn’t say you had to move. Forgive me for asking a simple question.”
“Speaking of simple questions.” I cross my legs and hold up his sweatshirt. “Any idea where this came from?”
He freezes for a good four seconds. The volume at which his silence yells rails against my eardrums.
I purse my lips and lift it to my nose. The scent is vibrant and refreshing, evocative of California with a hint of citrus, like cold lemonade sipped on a beach. I’d know it anywhere thanks to a summer in high school working at JC Penney and huffing enough cologne to jump-start puberty: Ralph Lauren. “Smells good.”
While he continues to ignore me, I lean sideways into his bubble and sniff the air around him.
His gaze remains firmly on his computer. “Did you just smell me, Cassidy?”
“Absolutely not.” The delicious scent lingers in my nose as I breathe deeply. “Gosh, it’s just the strangest thing. I woke up and it was on me. I guess I’ll have to go ask every single person in this terminal individually so I can thank—”
“You were freezing.” His brow furrows. “Your arms were going to fall off.”
I grin, pleased that he admitted it. “So it is yours.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s not a big deal.”
I scoot a little closer. At this angle, I get a peek of a color-coded spreadsheet filled with numbers on his monitor. Gag me with a calculator. “That was very nice of you.”
The words leave my mouth and heat trickles across my cheeks.
It was nice—unexpectedly so.
“Can I do something in return?” I scan the darkened room. “I don’t know, buy you a snack from the vending machine or something? You a Doritos guy? Wait—blue bag or red? This is a crucial distinction.”
“Not necessary.”
“Okay, no Doritos. Soda? Chocolate?”
He pushes his glasses a fraction of an inch up his nose. “You were in danger of frostbite, and I’m not even sure this town has a hospital. Consider it a public service.”
“That’s actually a perfect comparison. I put out a huge basket of Snickers and Cheez-Its for overworked delivery drivers every December. To thank them for their service. I wish you’d tell me what zero-nutrient crap you like so I could thank you.”
He eyes me warily. “Not a big fan of snacks. Can we drop this, please?”
“Who isn’t a fan of snacks?”
His laugh is incredulous. “Have you ever had a conversation that doesn’t end in frustration?”
“Actually, my conversations usually reach a satisfying conclusion.” My lips arrange themselves in a smile. “Except with you, apparently.”
He presses his eyes shut. “And to think, I could’ve been sleeping this whole time and missed out on all this fun.”
I swivel toward him and push up on my knees. He tenses and rears back, hitting his head on the wall.
“I’m not going to smother you with it, Luke.” I reach for the suitcase standing upright near his feet, loop the sleeves through his handle, and tie it in a knot. “There. Tiny soldier has returned home.”
I catch his eye, and my stomach twists. My neck heats as he studies me.
“You’re something else,” he says quietly.
I’ve been on the receiving end of that tilted-head, appraising look before. Like I’ve rattled off a complex riddle and forced him to solve it against his will.
It’s fine being something else—until someone goes out of their way to point it out. It then becomes a judgment. A branding.
I drop back into my seat and angle my body away.
We co-exist in silence long enough that an inkling of color threatens the cloudy horizon. It is the La Croix flavor of sunrise, an almost imperceptible taste. In the interest of letting my battery fully charge, I forgo The Sims and dig a notebook out of my purse. I’m halfway done filling the page with pointless doodles when my and Luke’s phones light up in unison on the ground between us.
“No.” I topple back into my stretch of carpet and snatch the phone off the ground. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening. How can they just cancel? Oh my god, how long are they going to leave us here?”
“That’s the airlines for you.” His voice has precisely one degree of heat. No urgency.
“This is a nightmare! I can’t just wait around here forever.”
“Exactly why I’m not counting on a plane.” He nods toward a hallway. “The car rental place opens at nine if you’re looking for an alternate way out. The desk is near baggage claim.”
A few people have stirred in the area, all glaring daggers at their phones.
Our eyes lock.
In unison, we scramble to gather our stuff.
If this entire terminal is trying to escape, I need to be first in line.
…
We blaze into the quiet baggage claim area, collecting a few looks as we skid to a stop at the back of the rental line.
Luke beats me by a hair.
“I would’ve been here even faster if you didn’t kick my suitcase over,” he grumbles.
“You must have me confused me with someone else. I’d never disrespect Samsonite luggage that way.”
“Must’ve been another pint-size redhead with an agenda.”
There are eight people ahead of him, and we’ve still got an unholy amount of time before it opens. My breathing calms as we file in, with two people already queuing up behind me.
Luke’s neck hovers just above my eye-line, his perfectly precise hairline hitting like visual ASMR. Smooth and weirdly satisfying. This one doesn’t skip his monthly stint in the barber’s chair. The strip of tan skin above his travel-rumpled collar brings dull friction to the tip of my finger, like I accidentally traced it.
His physical presence is overwhelming up close. Long legs that perfectly fill a pair of dress pants. A lean but strong back that tests the seams of his shirt. Broad shoulders, perfect for throwing a girl over. For swing dancing purposes, of course—
My phone stirs to life, sending a pulse through my hip. A peek at the caller sounds my internal alarm.
Isabelle, calling at six a.m. her time.
Admittedly my nervous system is hair-trigger sensitive this morning, but this doesn’t bode well. “Hey. You okay?”
“Cursdy,” she slurs. “You were supposed to call me back!”
I inhale a sharp breath. “Are you drunk?” At six in the freaking morning?
“Nope! I slept for two hours. That cancels the drunk.”
“Yeah, not how it works. What’s going on?”
“This wedding is a disaster. I should cancel the whole stupid thing.”
My stomach plummets. “Slow down, Bells. Did something happen? Did you and Mikael have a fight?”
“The caterer can’t get salmon because of some kind of boat problem, the florist’s cooler broke and all my flowers died—died!—and I have to go find more and make my own bouquets I guess? Wait, what about the table flowers?” She groans straight into my eardrum. “Mikael’s been mostly MIA working on a big, dumb lawsuit. It’s like he doesn’t even care we’re getting married.”
“You know that’s not true. He’s obsessed with you.”
“We haven’t had sex in three days. Three. And two of those were weekend days!” She sucks in a fast gulp of air, a pseudo-hiccup. “Guess he’s not attracted to me anymore. I stayed up all night waiting for him to get home from work, and he just passed right out! I had wine and everything. Gah, fucking florist, stupid caterer—”
“—Isabelle—”
“—I’m in way over my head with this stuff. And my PTO is not time off because my boss is a fuckwad. Mom is useless because she’s being so Mom, worrying about random stuff I don’t care about.” She sighs, regaining composure before adding, “I need you.”
I saw my lips together. I knew I should’ve come home a week sooner. I could’ve been attacking the smaller to-do list items, leaving this week free for the more important stuff. But Isabelle is always so meticulous and competent I hardly thought we’d find ourselves in meltdown territory. I never expected we’d be on doubting-our-fiancé’s-attraction terrain.
She’s losing it. My mother, as a result, is going to lose it. It’ll be fire and fury when I get home. The makings of a panic attack simmer at the base of my brain, threatening to alert the rest of my body.
This is my fault. Not much I can do about her tragic three-day sex drought, but the rest of those problems I must fix. Somehow.
“Bells, you still got your drink? I want you to put it down.”
“But—”
“Down, girl.”
I wait until I hear the faint thud of a glass. I don’t often get to be the boss—little sister problems—but Isabelle needs a firm hand.
“You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through this. The wedding is not a disaster. I’ll call the caterer and florist today. You need to go back to sleep.”
A beat of silence passes. “One more thing. Dad’s not coming. Called him last night, which—you know I don’t ever call him. And…no-sir-ee. No answer. Just a text back. ‘Can’t make it, Isabelle. It’ll be all the better for it.’ What does that even mean?”
My heart pangs. “You called him, though. That’s the important thing. I’m happy you tried.”
“What’s it matter if he’s not even bothering to come?”
“If you want a relationship with him moving forward, it matters. He’s just being stubborn because he’s terrified of Mom’s wrath, and he doesn’t want to upstage you on your big day.”
“He’s punishing me for Mom being Mom.”
I let my head fall back. It’s not the time to have this discussion yet again about our biological father. That’s a conversation best left for when she’s stone-cold sober and we can give it the unpacking it deserves. “I’ll call Dad.”
“I mean, I don’t want you to drag him to the wedding.”
“It’s clearly important to you. You only get one wedding, and he should be there. Let me handle this, okay? Sleep. We’ll talk soon.”
“What time is your new plane coming?”
Like the time I borrowed and promptly lost the Ariat boots she bought for Coachella, I have to pick the perfect words to soften the blow. “About that. I’m going to be a bit longer getting there. Having a slight transportation issue. It’s looking like tomorrow at the latest. I’m going to get a car and drive straight through.”
“What?”
“I know it’s not ideal—”
“Not ideal? Sixty percent humidity is not ideal. You not being here right now is a crisis! I swear, if one more thing goes wrong, I’m calling off—”
“Whoa.” I jolt at the mere mention of calling anything off, even if it is just tipsy threats. “Don’t even say those words, Bells. Everything is always more okay after a good sleep, I promise. I’ll make calls to vendors as I drive. I’ll even call your boss if he doesn’t back off the bride.”
“Jack Astaire would drop all the way died”—hiccup—“dead if someone talked to him about anything other than profits and numbers.”
“Then I’ll speak to Jack Ass-taire in binary code. Jack Ass Tear. Wow, what an unfortunate name.”
“Promise me you’ll be here soon, please? I can’t do this without you, Cass.”
Determination snakes its way through me until I’m nodding. It’s more important than ever that I show up for her. Even if it’s just for this week, to check off all one hundred to-dos. To talk her off ledges. To keep my stepfather’s side of the family distracted so they don’t accidentally perceive Mom’s blood relatives and how poor they are, the shame of Mom’s existence.
Isabelle, pillar of human perfection, needs me. Trusts me to be there for her.
“I’ll be there,” I say firmly. “I promise.”
And when I get there, I’ll be the best fucking maid of honor that has ever maided or honored. I may have chosen the wrong flight, but I will do what it takes to get this job done. I want to show Isabelle, Mom, everyone that I can be good at this.
Because if I’m not good at the role I’ve trained for my whole life—standing by while Isabelle shines, helping her look good, and building her up—then maybe I deserve Mom’s constant criticism.
We say our goodbyes, and I perch on my suitcase, studying Google Maps for what feels like an eternity, until the desk opens.
When the clerk materializes, she scans the now long line of waiting patrons and anxiously fluffs her short salt-and-pepper hair. She receives a lot of intense stare-downs from people awaiting their turn as she works with the first two customers, the kind of impatient scrutiny that would turn me into a blubbering mess. After observing her pace as she hands out the seven rentals in front of Luke, I almost want to climb over the counter and help the poor thing.
She raises her voice to a solid 30 percent intensity when it’s Luke’s turn. “Next.”
Luke lopes to the counter and draws his wallet like a sword. I’m close enough to hear his measured tone. “I’d like a vehicle, please. Something bigger, if you’ve got it.”
She clacks chipped mauve nails against a keyboard.
“Oof.” Clack clack clack. “This is, um…”
Luke, already gripping the speckled countertop, slides his hands farther apart, bracing himself. “Really, anything will work. Size isn’t important.”
Her thin, pursed lips and wide eyes suggest she’s on the verge of a meltdown. She glances past Luke at the line, catches my eye, and quickly drops her gaze to the computer. “We’ve only got one vehicle left.”
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