Page 101 of Parentmoon

I love him.

Continuing forward, I check a departure screen to confirm which gate Dallas’s flight will leave from. Thank God for small miracles as we are on the same airline just destined for different cities. Only I’m not destined for anywhere right now because I just walked off my flight, which is probably illegal or something. While I count down the gates, thoughts of being arrested cross my mind.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight.

I try Dallas’s number again. No answer. And I don’t have much charge left on my phone.

I call Michael.

“Mom?”

“Michael. I . . . I can’t really explain, but I need to reach Dallas. He isn’t answering his phone. We separated in the airport but I . . . I don’t want to separate from him.” I giggle, like a teen. Like a person on the edge of hysteria. Like a lover about to be reunited with her love. “My phone is about to die, but I want to be with Dallas.”

The statements don’t coincide. I’m rambling and my confession is met with silence.

“Michael?” He’s shocked.

“Michael?” No response.

I pull my phone away from my ear to find the charge depleted. Fuck! I’d set it to charge last night but realized this morning the charger wasn’t plugged in all the way. I planned to charge it at an outlet in Belize’s airport and completely forgot in the chaos. I could have charged it on the first plane, but again, my head space was elsewhere.

And now I’m standing in Miami International Airport without a charged phone or a flight anywhere.

“Fuck,” I grit under my breath as I near Dallas’s gate. Hope rises like a tidal wave and then crests when I don’t find a nearly-bald, silver and ink bearded man in the crowd. A long line and giant blob of later-group passengers has already formed for boarding. I spin and double back, but still don’t see him.

He must come here soon. The thought brings me little reassurance as I find an electrical outlet as close to the check-in counter as I can and plug in my phone charger. Stepping only a foot away, I lean against the window, staring out at the parked plane waiting for departure to Houston.

Please don’t let me be too late, I silently send out into the universe.

As I stare at the plane, a strong possibility comes to me. He might have already boarded. He’s probably got first class tickets or premiere-plus, or something fancy that allows him to board before others.

I rush to the check-in counter. “Can you tell me if a Dallas Cole already boarded?”

“Are you in his party?” The attendant clacks away at the keyboard.

“I’m . . . No.” When I hear her stop typing, I try again. “Yes.”

“Which is it, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“And you are.”

“Josephine Hudson.”

She stares at me like I have two heads or spoke in tongues.

“Oh, you mean who am I in relation to him?”

Who was I to him?

He didn’t want me to go but what did that mean to him?

What exactly does he want with me?

“I’m—”