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Speak of the devil.
The doors slide open a heartbeat later, revealing a frazzled looking Ezra, two suitcases in tow. He looks angry—and his gaze is locked on Alexander. He storms over, tossing the suitcases to the ground in the process. Two attendants scurry over to pick them up.
“When the fuck did babysitting Tara and Nya become my job?” he screams at Alex, who doesn’t seem even the least bit miffed. “Why the fuck do they even needthat manysuitcases?” He’s genuinely in the middle of a meltdown. He turns to one of the security guards. “Have three of the porters meet them outside, please.”
Alex’s wearing a shit-eating grin and Ezra looks two seconds away from slapping it off him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He adjusts his septum piercing. “What’s fucking right, is a better question. I just had to drive Tara and Nya over here with my car full of their shit. They wouldn’t fucking stop talking.”
I bite my tongue so I don’t laugh. I knowexactlywhat he’s talking about.
Just then, the doors slide open again. Tara and Nya walk in, hand-in-hand, their purses slung over their shoulders. They are chatting with each other and smiling, completely oblivious to the meltdown Ezra is having because of them.
Ezra scoffs and storms away toward the bar.
I head over to Tara and Nya.
We greet each other with hugs, and I hold on to them a little longer than usual. This will be the last time we’ll see each other for the next few weeks. It’s not the end of the world, especially now that I’m certain I will be back next semester, but I still want to cry.
I’ve been crying a lot more, as of recently. Stress does that to you.
“You guys drove Ezra crazy,” I say with a sniffle, hoping my eyes aren’t too wet. I use my fingertips to swipe my waterline.
Tara laughs. “It’s what he deserves. He’s way too uptight all the time.”
“In my defense, most of the bags are Tara’s,” she grins. “I travel light.”
The porters who stepped outside at Ezra’s behest come through the doors then, wheeling in trolleys piled high with luggage. I recognize Tara’s Louis Vuitton trunks, so the hot pink Gucci set must belong to Nya. Ezra was right. It’s a shitload.
“How did all of that even fit in his car?” I ask, my mouth half-agape.
I’ve counted at least fifteen pieces so far.
“It didn’t,” Nya quips. “Vance brought the rest.”
The guy in question appears behind the mountain of suitcases, looking just as harried as Ezra did. All he has is a backpack slung over his shoulder and a pair of sunglasses perched on his temple. He breezes past us with huge strides, taking up residence at the bar too.
In my absence, Alex has moved from his spot to join them.
Tara, Nya and I float over to the other end of the lounge, taking a seat in one of the booths by the huge windows that overlook the tarmac. On the runway are two jets—Alexander’s Gulfstream G700 and Vance’s ACJ350.
“It’s a little depressing that this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other for a while,” Tara says, cupping her face. She gives me a mopey look. “I’m going to miss you guys.”
“We have to FaceTime each other,” Nya says. “Every other day at least, to keep each other updated on what’s happening.” She eyes the rock on my finger. “And to wedding plan.”
Laughter erupts at the table. I swat her away. “No, no weddings just yet.” I say, sneaking a look over my shoulder at Alexander. “One thing at a time. I’m barely used to this as it is.”
Tara pulls a small smile. “I can’t even fucking believe I’m saying this,” she feigns a grimace. “But I’m happy for you Al, truly. You two are meant for each other.” She looks like she’s in physical pain. “As much as I hate Alexander, somehow he’s different around you.” Tara fake hurls. “God that’s so fucking cliché to say and I really wish it wasn’t true.”
I smile wryly. Of course Tara is still…Tara.
Nya, gives me a sweet smile. “What Tara means is that she’s happy for you. I’m happy for you. We can see the difference in you both.” She grasps my shoulders. “Take care of yourselves over the break.”
Tara leans forward. “If you think he’s going to kill you, make sure you kill him first—”
Laughing, I put a hand over her mouth, getting some of the gloss from her lips on my palm. “Yes, I know, T,” I say. “I stabbed him once, I can stab him again.”
