Then, it’s a thing, and the guard wants pictures. I let her take one, ignoring her hand which is definitely lower than my waist before practically sprinting through the terminal. If I wasn’t running late, I’d probably take a second look. No time for that now.
I picked the wrong day to wear flip-flops.
I reach down and pull them off. Much better.
I break into a run as I hear my flight paged. For most people, this would be a struggle, but it’s a warm-up for me. I make it to the gate as they announce, “Final call for Passenger Nix on Flight 647. This is the final call.” I slow to a walk as I flash the boarding pass on my phone. I’m not even winded.
Now that I know I made it, I stroll down the gangway to the plane, ducking as I enter. My seat is in first class so I don’t have to walk far. I pop my bag in the overhead and sit down. A minute later my earbuds are in and one of my favorite playlists is streaming through my ears. I close my eyes and don’t plan on opening them until I have to change planes. That should give me a good four more hours of sleep.
As I start to doze off, I think about the whirlwind the last twelve hours have been since Jess texted me. If I can just see for myself that she’s okay, maybe I’ll finally be able to relax. Maybe I can settle down and stop being so hot-headed. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist—or a psychologist like Watson Ross—to figure out that a lot of my stress is because of my family.
Since I can’t take it out on them, I take it out on my opponents on the field. It’s a coping mechanism that’s worked for me for as long as I can remember. But if I can get this family shit settled, maybe I’ll finally be less angry. Then, if I’m less angry, I’ll draw less penalties. I won’t be on probation anymore, and the Buzzards will have to start recognizing me for my contributions to the team.
When my contract is up, I can negotiate for a larger salary. My life is finally coming together. Just as long as this trip goes exactly how I need it to.
Chapter 9: Andi
Ihate running late. I’m sure it doesn’t take a lot of analysis to figure out why. We were always late. My mom never could accurately calculate how long it would take her to get Benj ready and loaded up into the car. Or how long it would take to tie down his wheelchair once he was in the van. Or how long it would take to back into the handicapped parking space because some asshat parked on the striped lines meaning Benj couldn’t unload on the passenger side like he was supposed to.
It didn’t matter, because we were always dashing in at the last minute. I wanted to shrink into the floor every time that happened. We got enough stares and gawks simply because Benj was in a wheelchair. Like that was all they saw—a wheelchair. I can still feel everyone looking at us. I didn’t need any more cause for a scene by entering late too.
As an adult, promptness is of utmost importance. I will never again be on the receiving end of the stares of those who were on time. I try to give them grace and all that, but it’s my Achilles’ heel.
It hits too close to home, so it’s easier to feel annoyed by the person making their grand entrance after the prescribed start time than to deal with all those feelings I had growing up.
I can take all my unresolved emotions and project them right onto the person who doesn’t have their shit together enough to make it on time.
Like the man getting on the plane now.
We were supposed to push off five minutes ago, but they held us for this guy. I don’t see much as he saunters on, except for a flash of long hair that used to be dark but has been on the receiving end of too much bleach. I really don’t like long hair on guys. I know, to each his own, but it’s definitely not a personal preference of mine.
He moves as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Certainly, no worries that he’s had us all waiting. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m anxious for this flight to take off so it can land so I can finally get to see my brother.
Now that Mr. Important has finally settled in his first-class seat—figures—I return my attention to my laptop. I might as well bang out some work while we fly. The more I get done now, the more uninterrupted time I’ll have with Benj.
My plan, which seemed ideal when I made it, did not account for the screaming toddler next to me. Even with my noise-canceling earbuds in, the cacophony is distracting. As are the child’s feet, which kick and thrash constantly. More than once my laptop skitters off the tray table.
