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Daisy: Fine. No bath towels. And I guess if you have really crappy ones, I’ll buy new and leave them at your place after I leave. Your skin will thank me.
Daisy: Should I bring my own pillows? Comforter? Sheets?
Daisy: Gah. I’m an idiot, and we need to delete all these messages because they are insanely suspect and do the opposite of saying we’re in love. They scream “This chick is frauding the system and needs to be deported ASAP.”
Daisy: Oh my God. Delete that one too.
Daisy: P.S. Has anyone ever told you that texting with you is impossible? I never know what you’ve read and haven’t read because you’re not answering me.
Daisy: Delete that one too.
I’m smiling when I finish reading, and without thinking, I type out the first message that comes to mind.
Me: Love you, Daisy.
The words come so naturally that I don’t even catch myself until I put the phone down on the table again and look back up and into the weight of my brother’s stare.
I think we’re both wondering the same thing. What, exactly, is really going on here?
Monday, April 22nd, New York
Daisy
If you’re looking for peace and relaxation, do not go to JFK Airport. Do not marry a man to save your residency in the United States, do not move across the country, and do not do it within a week’s time.
I juggle my carry-on and big backpack through the narrow hallway that leads to baggage claim, hoping to find some peace away from the bustle of passengers running for their flights and lining up way too early, but it’s nothing like I hoped.
It is a madhouse. Every baggage claim is surrounded by impatient passengers who have just arrived, and the people who have managed to get their bags are careening through the crowd with their luggage like it’s the Indy 500.
Honestly, I’m surprised to see that it’s this busy on a Monday evening, but I’m a naïve Canadian who’s been living her life at an energy-depleting level for the last week, and New York eats its young for breakfast. I really hope I survive.
Swallowing thickly, I set my backpack down on the floor and take a minute to blow some of the wild curls of my hair out of my face. There’s a river of sweat running down my back from anxiety, and I need to calm the eff down if I have any hope of getting all my shit off the baggage belt and out to a cab.
Okay, Daisy. You can do this. You’re an independent woman, for Pete’s sake. You’ve been on your own most of your life, and this isn’t any different now.
Gathering myself, I check the board for my carousel number, and with my bags slung over my shoulders again, I head for the crowd standing around it. I have to dodge a group of rowdy twentysomething men with golf bags and nearly get run over by a woman with a screaming toddler sitting on her carry-on suitcase, but I make it to the shiny silver oval just as the red-siren-light thingie on the top starts to buzz.
Preparing, I drop my bags to the tile at my feet, tie my curls back in a loose ponytail, and adjust my favorite cutoff jean shorts. A couple of jigs and hops on my toes, and I’d be a boxer in the corner of the ring readying for her fight.
I take my position to the side of the conveyor belt bringing the luggage to the carousel and wait. In a shocking twist, I’m startled when the white of my bags is the first thing I see cresting the top of the hill and dumping onto the shiny silver metal.
Woo-hoo! This almost never happens!
I jockey through the crowd, using gentle elbows to make my body seem bigger than it is, and lean over the edge as I wait for my luggage to get to me. Having them right in a row is a challenge, but thanks to all my hyping, I’m gamed up and ready.
I step forward and latch on to the first handle and then the second, and I grit my teeth against the weight of them as I pull two of my suitcases with both of my arms and lift.
Unfortunately, between the weight and the instability of the soles of my poorly planned sandals, the bags and the carousel lift me, instead of the other way around.
Shit, oh shit! I scream internally as the panic of being dragged along in front of the people waiting for their luggage overwhelms me. Do something, Daisy!
Within a second, I’m fully aboard the carousel, the handles of my bags still in my hands as I ride around the oval like an airport cowboy. People start to shout for security—and I’m so tangled in myself and my hysteria that I can’t figure out how to get free.
