“Thanks. I’m taking three tablespoons of her ashes to Key West to reunite her with the love of her life. Give her the happily ever after she deserves.”
“Sure. I know I never leave my house without my wallet, keys, phone, and a dime bag of cremains.” I glance over at him and see that his expression matches his deadpan tone.
“This isn’t doing me any favors, is it? I’m sure Josh has told everyone all sorts of stories about how weird I am.”
“Oh, absolutely. And he said that’s why he ended things.”
So Josh is claiming that he broke up with me. I knew from the moment I left him at the book release party that this was how he would spin it. That he was the wounded one, totally innocent, and that I drove him away by being too difficult in my weirdness. But knowing someone is probably talking about you behind your back and hearing that someonedefinitely isare different things. Josh blaming the breakup on my personality instead of owning what he did shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
“Not that I put much stock into anything Josh Yaeger says,” Hollis continues. “Never met a bigger asshole. If he ran over a little girl’s cat, he’d tell the story as if he were the real victim.”
“That’s a strange way to talk about your friend,” I say, even as his words fill me with hope that he’s seeing me through his own glasses instead of Josh-tinted ones.
“I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. We’re more...”
I remember the things Josh used to say about Hollis and his writing.Nothing but a glorified gonzo journalist. Wouldn’t have even been accepted into an MFA program if his dad wasn’t a big-shot lit scholar.“Frenemies?”
“Competitive acquaintances,” he counters.
“Hmm. Hate mates.”
Hollis gives me another perfectly arched frown. Like a drunkenCthat fell onto its face. “Whatever the opposite of a way with words is, Millicent, I think you have it.”
He probably meant that as an insult, but for some reason it feels like a compliment. Something tells me that Hollis Hollenbeck is reluctantly finding me amusing, and that’s my favorite sort of power to have over a person. What would it be like to make him smile? What would that even look like on his handsome but stony face? I would love to figure out what it takes to flip thatConto its back before we board the flight and go our separate ways.
Maybe I’ll try a knock-knock joke.
A sudden commotion distracts me from my efforts to remember the punch line to the one someone told me on the bus last week. It’s not localized, though; exclamations and profanity have overtaken the entire terminal.
“What’s going on?” I ask Hollis.
“I’m not sure...” he says, stretching his neck to see farther. “Oh shit. Flight’s canceled.”
Why are people waiting for other flights upset about ours being canceled? Or wait, did he say “flight’s,” as in “flight is,” or “flights,” as in plural? I glance over my shoulder to look out the windows in case the weather has taken a sudden turn, but other than a few puddles left over from last night’s thunderstorm, it’s a dry, late-May day. “Why?” I ask, as if Hollis knows any more than I do about what’s happening.
“I don’t know,” he responds with some irritation, still looking in the direction of the arrivals and departures board across from our gate. “But it looks like it’s... most of them.”
The airline staff who were amassed around our gate’s desk have dispersed and stand like guards around the terminal,preparing to do battle with a bunch of irate customers—not a great sign. “Good afternoon,” a woman’s voice says over the PA system, just barely audible over the din. “The passenger service system used by multiple airlines is currently experiencing a nationwide outage. For your safety and security, affected flights have been grounded until systems are restored. Passengers should speak with their carrier’s customer service representatives concerning refunds and rebookings.”
Another outbreak of disgruntled noises fills the terminal as the announcement is repeated. Hollis tosses his empty Cinnabon container into the trash can near his seat without looking up from his phone.
My heart flutters with anxiety as I go over my options. One: Hang around here and hope they either fix the problem soon or that I can find a seat with an unaffected airline. Unlikely, considering it’s Memorial Day weekend; it was hard enough to get this flight on short notice. Okay, so two: A train? Could this problem somehow affect train bookings too? And how long is a train ride from here to Florida anyway? Three: I could try to catch a bus. I don’t know if there’s a DC-to-Miami direct route, but there must be one that goes at least a little south, and that’s progress. Four—
“Welp,” Hollis says, clapping his hands to his thighs before he stands. “I’m going to head out and get on the road before there’s a mass exodus.” He checks the black watch on his wrist. “Maybe I can get through Virginia by dinnertime. Good seeing you again, Millicent. Best of luck with the whole dead-lady delivery thing.” He and his duffel bag are strolling away before my brain can finish processing his words.
“Wait!” I grab my backpack and the handle of my carry-on. My shorter strides and a wonky suitcase wheel slow me down, but Isomehow catch up with him a few gates away. “You have a car?” I manage through my embarrassingly heavy breathing.
“I do.”
“And you’re driving to Miami?” I struggle to match his pace. He’s probably around six foot even, but I am only five-foot-one on a good day. My short little legs need to take two steps for every one of his, and my body resents being forced into cardio.
“I don’t see what other choice I have,” he says. “I’m not going to waste my limited vacation time waiting around for the airlines to get their shit fixed. According to airline industry people on Twitter, it could be hours, maybe days. And then dealing with the red tape of getting rebooked on a new flight? On a holiday weekend, when everyone else is also fighting for limited spots? Nah, driving will almost definitely be less of a headache. And it’ll give me time to think.”
“Let me come with you.”
“What?”
“Let me come with you,” I beg. “Please. We can even split the driving.”
