“Boarding will begin in fifteen minutes,” a flight attendant announces over the speaker.
I groan. I’m fully prepared to leave without her. Maybe she’s decided she really can’t do this.
But then I see her.
Her bright pink coat is slipping from her shoulders as she struggles with her carry-on that appears to have a broken wheel as it dares to topple toward one side. Her hair is swept up in a high ponytail, which means her flushed face that has a sheen of sweat is on full display for everyone to see her inability to wrestle with the small suitcase. And of course, she’s wearing another dress.
This one is a navy plaid with a low-cut neckline that is perfectly framing a stress rash.
I should get up to help her, but I don’t. Assisting her seems uncharacteristic of me in the current state of our relationship, which is 'business only' with a side of hate. Instead, I pretend not to see her and look out the window.
I can hear her huffing before she hits my shin with her suitcase and plops down in the rigid seat beside me with about as much drama as those soap operas my mom used to zone out to.
“Ouch,” I mumble, bending down to rub my leg and shove her suitcase back toward her. “I hope this isn’t the kind of entrance you’re planning to make everywhere we go.”
She blows a piece of hair out of her face that was tangling with her eyelashes, leans back in the chair, and then says, “Security was insane!”
“It usually is when you’re late,” I say, sitting back up.
“I hate airports,” she admits. “They just feel so…sterile.”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
She glances at me, rearranging her face so it looks more poised than anxious. “Well, I don’t hate them as much as I hate you. How long have you been here? Are you one of those passengers who gets here early and then boards first, only to have to sit inside the airplane while everyone must walk past them, hitting them with their luggage on the way by? That's never made sense to me. You sit on the plane longer than anyone else.”
“At least you know you are on the plane and aren’t going to miss your flight,” I object. “I suppose you are one of those people who think the plane will magically wait for them on their own timeline?”
She sits up to shrug off her monstrosity of a coat, revealing the sheer sleeves that go along with the dress. When I saw that coat for the first time in my office it reminded me of the off-brand Pepto Bismol I bought with my money I had been saving for Lily's birthday present one year. But she was sick, so instead of buying her the Barbie she wanted, I bought her what she needed.
“Obviously not. I’m here, aren’t I?” she questions.
“Unfortunately,” I grumble. “I was hoping you changed your mind.”
I pull my sleeve up to check the time on my watch. We should be boarding soon. I glimpse over at Rachel, who is now looking at her ticket.
“I’ve never flown first class before,” she mutters, and I can see her thumb rubbing over the boarding number.
We’re in Group A.
“That’s when you’re supposed to board, Rachel,” I remind her, already feeling my jaw begin to grind, knowing after her previous comment that she’d most likely delay her own boarding. “They have systems for a reason.”
“Just because you can board then, doesn’t mean you have to,” she disagrees.
There’s a faint beep on the intercom. “Any passengers requiring assistance, please come to the front to board. Also, any members of the military, please feel free to board regardless of what your ticket says. Thank you for your service.”
I watch as three families with strollers and babies struggle toward the gate, much like Rachel had struggled with her carry-on with the broken wheel. There’s a mom that has more bags under her eyes than bags that she is attempting to haul to the front. She’s holding an infant while two other children try to stay close to her, but one drops his blanket. His hand is still gripping his mom’s jacket instead of leaving her to retrieve it. The tears are immediate, and soon he’s screaming.
I’m so focused on the chaos that having children clearly creates that I miss when Rachel disappears from beside me. She is now part of the hectic scene playing out in front of everyone. She rushes to grab the small blue blanket dotted with some kind of tow truck character and kneels beside the small boy, handing it over to him.
I watch Rachel rub the overwhelmed mother’s back and lean in, whispering something that is obviously soothing because the mom takes a deep breath and seems reassured. Rachel bends down one last time, and both children smile at her after she says something.
She walks back to me with a glimmer of a grin gracing her naked lips, and her eyes are bright. Once again, I notice she’s not wearing much makeup.
“Do you naturally feel the desire to fix other people’s problems so you feel better about your own?” I question, trying to find a way to wipe that smile off her face.
It works.
She glares at me and says, “Do you naturally feel the need to judge someone else’s problems to make you believe you don’t have any yourself? We all have problems, Evan. That mom needed help. Sometimes we just need to let others help us, which admittedly, is something I struggle with.”
