Then I recognize the pullover at the top of the neatly folded clothes.
It belongs to Mr. Capulet. Phew! Of course, our bags are nearly identical. We even congratulated each other on our good taste.
I pick up my phone, pleased to have an excuse to text him outside of work. Hey, Mr. Capulet. I accidentally bagnapped your carry-on.
He responds immediately. What are your demands?
I bite my lip and smile. His text sounds a teensy bit flirty. I know I’m imagining it, but that doesn’t matter—I’m still smiling like a teenager who’s just been asked to Homecoming by her crush. Ransom: my carry-on in exchange for yours. Do you agree to these terms?
They sound reasonable. Drop-off at your apartment?
Tempting. But it doesn’t make sense for him to drive all the way out here. I live across town from him. My parents, however... You can bring it to my parents’ house tomorrow evening, actually. It’s much closer to you. And, you’d be welcome to stay for the Christmas party.
I can’t believe I asked him that. He’ll say no, of course. Which is probably smart, because Tag will be there, acting like his obnoxious self. Say no, I think. Say it’s inconvenient.
I’m not sure about the party, he texts back, which fills me with relief and a lonely sense of loss. I don’t want to intrude on your family time. But I can bring your bag, of course. Please text me the address and time of the ransom drop.
I text him the info and wait with my breath held. Will he send me anything else that I can interpret as flirtatious? A comment about how I drive a hard bargain, or I’m the craftiest bagnapper he’s ever met?
No. He simply reacts to my text with a thumb’s up.
3
TAG
Crawford Holiday Party, Take Two. Seven p.m. on the dot, I’m standing in front of the Crawford house, a canvas bag of gifts slung over my arm, wearing my nicest jeans and a sweater that Janie bought me three Christmases ago. These parties are a casual affair, but I won’t roll up in sweats and disrespect the work Janie’s mom put into the meal, or that her dad put into decorating the house.
I ring the doorbell and wait. Behind me, a set of footsteps comes up the path.
Turning, I expect to see Janie. Instead, a broad-shouldered man approaches. He looks to be five years older than me, putting him in his late thirties. He’s wearing nice slacks and a jacket, making me look like a slob in comparison.
“Is this the Crawford residence?” he asks.
“The very one.” I offer him a bland smile.
“Hey, I’m Christopher.” He holds out his hand to shake mine.
“Tag,” I say, and then, without stopping to think of the implications, I add, “I’m Janie’s boyfriend.”
His eyebrows rise so high on his forehead, they nearly touch his salt-and-pepper hair. “Cool—she’s a great person. I’m her boss. She probably told you we accidentally switched carry-ons.”
It’s only now that I notice the large, black carry-on in his other hand. “Right, yeah. She might’ve said something about that.”
Not to me, though—she wouldn’t have said anything about it to me. Because while I am a lot of things, I am not her boyfriend anymore.
One of the things I am? I’m an idiot. I know this guy from somewhere. My mind whirls as I try to recall where. I don’t think I met him at Janie’s work, because she’s only had this job for a year, and she and I broke up a little over two years ago.
“Do we know each other?” I ask.
“Not really, no.” He smirks and opens his mouth to elaborate, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything because the front door opens.
What was he going to say? Shit. I’ll probably never find out.
“Tag!” Janie’s mom, Demelza, exclaims, tugging me into a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry my text went amiss. You should’ve stayed for dinner the other night, though. I’d made tacos.”
“I missed out,” I say with a grin, hugging her back. “Your tacos are legendary, Demelza. But I’m here tonight, and I brought my appetite.”
“Good thing, because I made a ton of food. And who’s this?” Demelza looks over my shoulder.
