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Traffic was horrific, because why would anything possibly go right, but breathing a sigh of relief as I finally made it to the airport was premature.
The link sent for my flight was wrong, or the terminal changed overnight, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to check. I lost valuable time finding the correct one.
Side note, huffing at TSA while they dig through your suitcase because your leave-in conditioner is a half-ounce too big will not make them work faster, and they have perfected the failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine look. They must teach it in orientation.
They are calling my name over the intercom system as I run through the airport, waving my phone at the gate attendant as she steps away from the desk to close the door.
“I’m Leighton Redmond!”
It feels like a million eyes turn in my direction, but I’m not worried about these people. I’m more worried about the irritated people I’ll have to spend the next five hours on a flight to San Francisco with.
“Bad day?” she asks as I approach.
“The worst,” I tell her, holding up my phone.
“Can you unlock the screen for me?”
I turn it over. The screen is as black as night. I tap the thing but nothing happens. Tears well in my eyes, and I curse technology not for the first time today.
I have to tap the screen twice more before it comes to life. Finally managing to unlock the screen, she scans the barcode and urges me to hurry. The flight attendant isn’t as welcoming when I finally arrive, and the glares I get from the passengers cause physical pain in my chest. I keep my eyes down. The high I was floating on two days ago from landing the job with Deacon Black’s company was nearly crushed with being forced to work with Gaige Ward, and this morning took every gust of wind out of those sails.
Then I get to my seat, finding him with the same frown as the other passengers. Disappointment, as if he has any right, creases his forehead as he stands so I can take my seat against the window. His fingers brush mine as he reaches for the handle on my rolling suitcase, and I just let him have it. If I have to open my mouth and speak to him, I’ll cry, and I hate myself from so easily turning from the confident woman who strutted from his office yesterday to the blubbering mess I am right now.
My eyes are focused out the window where I plan to keep them the entire flight by the time he takes his seat. I won’t talk to him, and I damn sure won’t apologize for a bad morning. He cheats on his wife for fuck’s sake. Being late pales in comparison.
I feel him settle back in beside me, his eyes burning into the side of my face. I guess I should be thankful that I’m hidden from the agitated glares of the other passengers. It’s an early morning midweek flight, probably filled with business professionals like us. They have places to be, schedules to keep, and the fifteen-minute inconvenience I caused is just long enough to irritate them enough to form hatred. People are so petty these days, forgetting that they’ve probably also had bad days.
My throat burns with emotions, and I will them down as best as I can.
“Ma’am?”
I don’t look over. I don’t want nor need a drink or snack. I need to be left the hell alone, a few minutes reprieve to get my shit together.
“Ma’am?” The irritability in the flight attendant’s voice doubles.
Gaige nudges my arm, and when I turn my head, I glare at him first for having the audacity to touch me before looking up at me.
“We can’t take off until you have your seatbelt on. I think we’ve been delayed enough already.” She cocks an eyebrow at me.
I scramble for my seatbelt, hearing a man mutter, “Stupid bitch,” in the seat behind me.
Gaige turns, glaring between the seats.
My fingers tremble as I struggle to clasp the belt, swallowing repeatedly before I can get the thing to lock in place, but once it’s done, my gaze goes right back out the window.
We taxi, take off, and reach altitude quickly. I guess I can be thankful we don’t have to wait in line behind a slew of other planes because of my delay. It’s the only thing that has gone right today.
Gaige pulls out his computer, lowering the tray table and begins to type away. Curious, I look over, but he has one of those privacy screens on his computer that makes it impossible for me to see what he’s working on. Feeling like he’s purposely trying to one-up me, I decide maybe I should look busy too, but doing so would mean I have to stand and get my own computer out of my carry-on.
