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(Blakely)
I shoved my way off the plane and staggered, bleary-eyed through the terminal, looking for a bathroom.
I peed, then washing hands, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped in my tracks. Holy shit — what?
I dropped everything to the floor to finger comb my hair. I had been going for a hip rockstar look, like Miley Cyrus, but instead looked like Keith Richards. I was glad my clients weren’t here to see me like this. I wet a paper towel and wiped my face. I unscrewed the mascara applicator but decided against putting it close to my eyes because of unmanageable weaving and blurry sight.
I looked exhausted. I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. I hadn’t had a moment’s peace since I had seen that text and my marriage had blown apart like an exploding star, like a white hot star exploded in a blinding blast, and then had collapsed in on itself, into a deep dark cold black hole.
Since I found the fucking text — it had been heat, blinding rage, then cold darkness.
I looked harried, as if a flock of albatrosses had been pecking at my head and shoulders because I wouldn’t share my airport pretzels.
I smeared on some lipstick and then shoved everything back into my bag. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t know what albatrosses ate, or really anything at all about them — were they flocking birds? Who the fuck knew? Not me.
I tossed the paper towel in the trash and went out to the hall.
The passengers were all gone. The airport was closing down, doing that after hours thing where all the shops were gated and there was a lone custodian buffing the floor.
A guy with a briefcase emerged from the men’s room and strode purposefully down a corridor so I shadowed him, trying to be nonchalant, though my new boots were making a squidging noise on the newly buffed floors.
Squidge, squidge — I wasn’t new to walking. I was sort of expert, but usually I wore heels. Suddenly I couldn’t remember how to walk — I had so many questions. Was it supposed to be heel - toe or toe - heel?
And why did I feel like I was prancing?
Also, were hiking boots supposed to be this noisy?
I was twenty-eight, shouldn’t I be better at things?
Things Blakely should be better at:
Walking without squidging.
Paying attention to the flight attendant when they explained where the baggage claim would be.
Knowing what the hell my husband had been doing. Who he had been doing.
Squidge, squidge, squidge echoed through the hallway.
I bet albatrosses were quieter, I bet they mated for life. I bet an albatross would have been the perfect guardian angel for me. I was sure heaps of wisdom would have been in that article.
Though, to be honest — It was pretty stupid to have a guardian angel I knew nothing about.
There wasn’t a soul to be seen in any of these corridors, and it dawned on me the guy I was following might be a murderer — he looked Midwestern, wasn’t that always the type...?
Squidge, squidge, squidge.
* * *
And then there was baggage claim. My bag, the last bag, spinning around the carousel, like a sad albatross going around and around on a playground. I hiccuped.
I had tied a bow to the handle so Darren would be able to find it easily, though this was a noticeable bag, pink with leopard print details, hard to miss. It was convertible: it had wheels, but it was lightweight and could transform into a backpack.
I needed the backpack because Darren and I had planned this great big hiking adventure, the culmination of all my dreams.
We had been planning it ever since we met — as we started college together, got married, started our careers. We had always been planning to go on a really long hike.
