The airline worker behind the check-in counter offers a sympathetic but firm look. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the bag is ten pounds overweight. You’ll have to pay the fee or remove some items and put them into a carry-on.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes, and I clench my jaw to prevent a snarky response from tumbling out. And as if this situationweren’t frustrating enough, the tag of my blazer scratches against my neck.
Each item in my bag was meticulously considered, folded, and made to fit within the small confines. It’s not as simple as “remove some items.” What does she expect me to do? Throw them in the trash? Uber home, drop them off, and then make it back to LAX for my flight?
There’s only one unreasonable person in this airport right now, and it’s the woman in front of me.
I want to unravel the stupid scarf around her neck just to spite her.
“Please,” I whisper, not above begging.
She doesn’t budge, so I collect my luggage from the scale and do the airport walk of shame to the corner of the lobby, using the potted plant as a shield so other travelers don’t witness my impending conniption.
Deep breaths rattle my lungs, and I force my heartbeat to calm before Jett, Molly, and Doug arrive. Crying in the airport is not the way to start a trip or how I want to present myself. I am a professional, reliable employee, not a blubbering mess of a woman.
I chant the declaration under my breath. After ten times without success of the words sticking, I give up.
My phone chimes, and against my better judgment, I answer. No “Hi, Sofía” or “How are you?” or any socially acceptable greeting. My sister leaps into her requests and demands.
“Did you have time to read my essay?” Luisa asks. “It’s due in three days.”
“Lu, I can’t do this right now.”
I know I’m behind on their essays—I knowbecause our mother called to remind me. But I’ve had the trip to plan and venues to find for the premiere of the first episode. Add in packing, helping Dad figure out tax write-offs, and listening toVivian practice her proposal speech to her girlfriend, I simply haven’t had the time.
“Have you looked at mine?” Maria asks. “I’m not sure if my personal anecdote is competitive enough.”
Fuck.
“I’ll take a look at them on the plane.”
“Sofía,” a cheery voice yells out from behind me. My muscles stiffen.
“Mom says Abuelo isn’t happy with Brookwood because the food is bland,” Luisa says. “She wants to know if you can call and ask about changing his menu.”
“And we need to get something for Mom,” Maria calls out. “Her birthday is coming up.”
Each task adds to the anxiety stewing in my stomach until I’m a pressure cooker ready to explode. “I’ve got to go. I’ll handle it and text you when I land.”
Jamming my thumb against the button, I hang up and swipe the tears cooling against my cheeks in time for Jett to appear. His luggage bangs to the ground before he sweeps me into a swift hug. My nervous system calms a fraction in the tight embrace, and I’m no longer one second away from tears.
I’m a solid three seconds away now.
“What are you wearing?”
Why is he always asking that? Do I look bad?
This is a casual travel outfit. Loose blue jeans, an expensive but comfortable t-shirt, navy blazer, and tennis shoes that are easy to slip off in security, while still stating “I am a professional woman on a work trip.”
“What areyouwearing?” I counter, not thrilled he’s judging my outfit selection, given his own.
Jett’s taken acomfortableapproach, wearing a navy sweatshirt and joggers, the color illuminating the humor swirling in his gaze. The backwards baseball cap is the cherry onthe cake, the blue color faded and the edges of the brim frayed with age.
“It’s my airport outfit,” he boasts, spinning in a circle. “Cozy. Loose. Lots of pockets to hold my things. Why are you wearing something so…uncomfortable?”
“This is professional.”
His face slackens, and then his head tips back as he releases a roar of laughter. My cheeks heat the more focus we draw from passersby. I shift on my feet, tugging at my collar.
