His eyes tense, and I see him pat his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out his ID.
I continue as we take a step forward. “And all those questions about my bags! Last time when they asked if I was carrying anything for someone else, I launched into this wholeexplanation about how I bought a sweatshirt for my cousin, and they had to stop me. Turns out they were actually asking if a stranger in the airport gave me anything to carry.” I make my eyes wide. “It’s stressful!”
He huffs. “That’s why I don’t fly much.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say. “I fly a lot and still get nervous.”
“If you don’t have anything to hide, then you don’t need to get nervous,” he says, clearly not believing it himself.
“So when they ask if I have any dangerous materials in my luggage, I probably don’t need to mention my nail scissors?” I laugh. I’ve heard at least fifty people ask about theirs before.
He chuckles with me. “Last time I traveled, they asked if I packed my bags myself, and I told them my wife did it for me.”
I give him a big grin, but something in the way he says it keeps me from laughing. “Did she really pack for you? What a sweetheart.”
His gaze goes distant. “She was.”
And I’m officially two seconds from sobbing in the TSA line. “I bet you made her happy,” I say, wrapping a hand tightly around the handle of my carryon. My other hand tucks a strand of wavy light brown hair behind my ear—I’m still getting used to how short it is after my impulsive chop last night—and blink back the tears threatening to spill.
His eyes water and he nods. “Thank you.”
I keep blinking hard, fighting exhaustion on top of emotion. I was too busy replaying yesterday’s disaster to sleep last night, which led to me emailing my boss at two a.m. and then using my own nail scissors to hack off my hair into the long choppy bob I’m working with now.
I’m basically running on fumes and bad decisions.
“Next,” the TSA agent calls. My new friend steps up to the counter and hands the agent his ID and ticket. “Did you pack your bags yourself?”
“Yes,” I hear him say.
“Are you carrying anything for anyone else?” the agent asks.
“No,” he says confidently.
And my heart swells as I hear him answer each question without a hiccup.
This trip might have been a professional and personal disaster, but at least I was able to help this sweet old man.
A small good is still good,I tell myself.
Sure it is,a dark part of my mind answers. Just not as good as what you should have done. You know, instead of ruining people’s lives and blowing up your own.
When I get past the security checkpoint, I glance up at the Flight Information Display System and see my flight—Blue Horizon 1247—is currently on time. I have a layover in Denver, but no deplaning, so I’ll be back in Rochester tonight before dinner.
That’s a good thing.
Really.
I spot my new friend about ten yards ahead. He’s about to pass my gate when he stops and calls out to someone at my gate who’s standing in line to board (even though our plane isn’t boarding for another ten minutes).
“How you doin’ there, Coach?”
The man’s head whips around, and … oh. It’s a tall, very attractive man with two-day scruff, a chiseled jaw, and blond hair poking out of a light blue baseball cap.
Hello, handsome.
I never get in the boarding line before I absolutely have to, but I’m curious. About my sweet old friend, not his young hot one.
Obviously.
