"That was a terrible pun," Jax mutters, wiping a smear of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. "He’sgoing to live, but his sense of humor is terminal. I should have ordered a psych consult."
We step out of the jet bridge and into the terminal proper.
Usually, Gate B12 is a place of transit—a liminal space of stress and Cinnabon. Today, it is a throne room. The air conditioning seems colder here, the lighting harsher. The ambient noise of the airport—the rolling suitcases, the crying babies, the announcements about unattended baggage—seems to die down as we approach the centre of the waiting area.
Standing there, flanked by two TSA agents who look like they have been personally tipped the GDP of a small nation, is Mother.
She is wearing a pantsuit that defies the laws of physics. It is immaculate, sharp enough to cut glass, and somehow repels the grime of a rat infested international airport. While the rest of the terminal is a sea of sweatpants and travel pillows, Mother looks like she has just stepped out of aVogueeditorial on corporate dominance. She is holding a Starbucks cup like it is a scepter, her grip loose but absolute.
"Mother," I say, stopping ten feet away. I maintain a safe perimeter. With Mother, you always maintain a perimeter. "You grounded a Boeing 747 because you didn't like our itinerary."
"I grounded a Boeing 747 because the in-flight service was declining," Mother corrects smoothly, taking a sip of her latte. She doesn't even look at me; she is inspecting the cuticle of her thumb. "And because you were attempting to elope to a city that was built on bad decisions, neon lights, and polyester. I was saving you from yourselves. Think of it as a preemptive strike against tackiness."
"Mother," Preston says, stepping up beside me and brushing his hair back absentmindedly. He doesn't look angry; he looks fascinated, like he is observing a new, particularly aggressive species of raptor in the wild. "Kidnapping is a felony, not a love language. I’m going to need a new chapter in my case study for this.'The Matriarch as Domestic Terrorist: A Field Guide.'"
"Don't be dramatic, Preston," Mother says, waving a handdismissively. "It wasn't kidnapping. It was a logistical realignment. Besides, you were flying commercial. I did you a favour. Have you seen the legroom in Business Class lately? It’s insulting."
"HEY! YOU! LADY GAGA!"
The scream comes from behind us. It is distinct, nasal, and unmistakably from the Garden State.
The woman from row 5—the bride—marches toward us. She is wearing a plastic tiara that saysBride Squadwhich is currently crooked, a pink sash that readsFuture Mrs. Whatever, and enough leopard print to legally classify her as an endangered species. Her mascara is running, but her acrylic nails are out and ready for war. She is flanked by three bridesmaids who are holding their neck pillows like blunt force weapons.
The bride stops three inches from Mother’s face, popping her hip and chewing gum with aggressive velocity.
"Are you the bitch that ruined my bachelorette party?" she demands, her voice echoing through Terminal B.
Jax steps forward, his "Trauma Chief" instinct kicking in. He shifts his weight, preparing to de-escalate, but Preston holds up a hand.
"Wait," Preston whispers to Jax, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "Let nature take its course."
Mother slowly lowers her Starbucks cup. She looks at the bride. She looks at the leopard print. She looks at the precarious structural integrity of the woman's hair extensions.
"I beg your pardon?" Mother says, her tone freezing the air around us.
"You heard me!" the bride yells, pointing a finger with a three-inch hot pink talon at Mother’s nose. "We were goin' to Vegas! I had tickets toThunder From Down Under! We were gonna drink daiquiris out of plastic Eiffel Towers! Now I’m in Queens? You kiddin' me?"
She turns to her friends and hands one of them her oversized hoop earrings.
"Hold my hoops, Tina," the bride commands, rolling herneck. "I’m gonna drag her. I’m gonna drag this lady right here in front of the Sbarro."
"Ma'am," one of the TSA agents starts to step in.
"Back off, rent-a-cop!" the bride screeches. She turns back to Mother, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a prizefighter. "You think you can just buy the sky? Who do you think you are? I’m from Jersey, sweetheart. We don't play this game. I will mess up that pantsuit so bad you’ll have to shop at T.J. Maxx!"
Mother doesn't flinch. She doesn't step back. She simply looks at the bride with the same expression one might use when discovering a cockroach on a piece of fine china.
"I am the woman who just upgraded your entire party to the Presidential Suite at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park for the weekend," Mother says, her voice bored, flat, and terrifyingly calm.
The bride stops bouncing. "The Ritz?"
"I have also arranged for a private viewing ofHamilton—front row, obviously, with backstage passes to meet the cast," Mother continues, checking her watch. "And a spa credit at the Guerlain Spa that is worth more than your fiancé’s Honda Civic. You will be drinking vintage Dom Pérignon instead of whatever neon-coloured gasoline you were planning to consume in the desert."
The bride’s mouth drops open. The gum falls out.
"Dom P?" the bride whispers. She looks at Tina. Tina drops the neck pillow.
"Get over yourself, dear," Mother snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. "I have provided you with a story you will tell at dinner parties for the rest of your mediocre life. Now, take the voucher from my assistant and stop vibrating. You’re wrinkling my airspace."
