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I don’t argue, just thank him—even though the idea of talking about my fucking feelings with a stranger is about as appealing as swimming with piranhas.
I drink three bottles of water on the way to the airport and buy a pack of gum before I approach the ticket counter. I get a seat on the first flight out to Vancouver, leaving at six-oh-five a.m. I sober up in the lounge by eating breakfast and drinking more water, then stop at the airport store and buy a ridiculous number of overpriced bags of candy—all Bea’s favorites. I also buy a backpack because I have nothing else with me. Then I board the plane, loosen my tie, pop the top button on my shirt, and sleep the entire way to Vancouver.
But when we land, I immediately second-guess my decision. What if I tell her how I feel, but it’s too late? What if she wants to move to Vancouver after visiting Essie? What if she comes back to Toronto and I do something else to fuck it all up? I stand in the middle of the airport, wishing for a set of fucking balls. But I’m frozen. Unable to move. Unable to do the one thing I desperately want to, which is find my way back to Bea. I’m choking on my fear. Drowning in the panic that I’m here and so close to what I want, but certain I can’t have it.
People brush by me as I war with myself to do something—anything but stand here, paralyzed by my own fucking fear. I hate how weak it all makes me feel. How powerless I am, and how much power Bea has over my feelings without even knowing it. But as the minutes tick by, I can’t make myself text her or find another way to get Essie’s address.
I pull the card Roman gave me out of my pocket. I don’t know what I expect—for some magical fairy godmother psychologist to pick up and immediately give me the backbone to get the fuck over myself?—but it goes to voicemail.
“Hi. My name is Tristan Stiles. My teammate, Roman Hammerstein, gave me your number. I’m in love with my best friend’s sister, but I don’t think I deserve her. She also hates me right now because I’m an asshole, and I’m fucking up my life because I don’t know how to handle my feelings. I could use some help. Please. When you have a chance, can you call me back so I don’t lose her forever? Thanks.” I leave my number and end the call.
I still can’t make myself call Bea, so instead I go to the counter and buy a ticket home. It leaves in less than an hour. Since I have no bags and a Nexus pass, I make it through security and onto the plane without causing a delay, even though I’m the last passenger to board. I’m grateful there was an open seat in first class, because I don’t fit well in regular seats.
As soon as we take off, I regret my choice. It’s possible I’m losing my mind. But we’re already in the air, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s only ten in the morning Vancouver time, but it’s already afternoon in Toronto so I order a scotch.
An hour into the flight, I’m scrolling through pictures of Bea on my phone, and I swear I catch a hint of citrus and vanilla as someone passes me on the way to the bathroom. When I look up all I see is the bathroom door closing as the flight attendant tells someone they should use the washrooms at rows twenty-eight or fifty-four.
The smell makes me wish, again, that I hadn’t changed my stupid fucking mind and gotten back on the plane. I drain the rest of my scotch and grab the backpack from under my seat to rummage around for candies. I opened a few of the bags when we were landing earlier to get the taste of sleep out of my mouth.
The bathroom door opens.
“Miss, please return to your seat, and please use the designated bathrooms.”
“Sorry. Sorry. There was a taco incident. It won’t happen again.”
I’m in the middle of ripping into a bag, and the voice shocks me. The bag explodes, Fuzzy Peaches landing everywhere. One hits the man next to me in the cheek.
“Shit. Sorry.”
Bea’s head whips around. “The fuck?”
For reasons I don’t understand, I shove a bunch of Fuzzy Peaches in my mouth, even though they make my mouth itchy and I hate them. Bea loves them.
She stalks down the aisle. Her brow is furrowed in confusion, which is reasonable since I’m supposed to be in Toronto. “Why are you on a plane home from Vancouver when you played a game in Toronto last night?”
