My response is more of a snort than anything else as I glance at the drizzling gray sky above me. Not exactly an image of ‘okay.’
“I’m lost, and not just figuratively. I wish I could bend time and have you materialize right here,” I admit to the open air, longing for my words to possess some magical power to summon her. “We’d wash down our sorrows with a bottle of Cabernet and two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s...”
“I feel you, sister.” Her voice is filled with genuine compassion; suddenly, it’s like she’s sitting beside me. I can practically see the twinkle in her hazel eyes reflecting concern for me. But the harsh reality comes crashing back, and it’s just me: alone, soaked from the Scottish rain and nursing a shattered heart.
“So,” she says after a silence. “You coming home?”
“I dunno,” I take a deep breath. “I’m trying to get to the airport. But…I might stay the night? You still okay with babysitting Chanandler Bong? I might stay. I might need more time to unravel this book...and myself.”
“Anything for you,” she says brightly, “Even though he is the most high-maintenance feline I’veever encountered. Woke me up this morning by planting his furry body on my face.” There’s a brief silence before she adds, “More action than I’ve had in months if I’m honest.”
A giggle bubbles up from my chest. “You’re a gem,” I manage to squeeze out between laughs. “I owe you one. But I should probably hang up before my phone dies a painful death. I’ll call you back once I’ve solved the meaning of life...or, you know, after a warm meal and a bubble bath.”
The promisedbus station finally appears ahead. It’s a modern glass structure that looks almost obscenely dry from where I’m standing. I quicken my pace, the prospect of shelter briefly outweighing my awareness of how I must look: a soggy eclair with raccoon eyes and a hairdo that’s transitioning from “stylishly curled” to “recently shocked by electric eels.”
Inside, the fluorescent lighting is merciless, highlighting every mud spot on my once-cute travel outfit. A man in a tweed newsboy cap behind the information counter observes my approach with the wary expression of someone who’s had to deal with too many tourist emergencies for one day.
“When’s the next airport bus, please?” I ask, summoning every last bit of my strength to lace mywords with courtesy despite the bone-deep exhaustion tugging at me.
He glances at the clock, then back at me, a highland accent coloring his words. “Last bus to Inverness Airport left twenty minutes ago, lass. Next one’s tomorrow morning at 6:20.”
Of course it is. Why would anything about this day work in my favor?
“I could take a taxi…” I think out loud, mentally calculating what remains of my credit card limit.
“Aye, but with this weather...” He nods toward the windows where rain continues to pour. “They’re all backed up. Could be an hour wait, maybe more.”
I close my eyes briefly, searching for patience, humor, or any emotion other than the overwhelming urge to scream into the void. When I open them, the clerk observes me with an expression that has softened from wariness to pity.
“Rough day, aye?” he ventures.
A laugh escapes me, sharp and brittle. “You could say that. I came to meet someone who...wasn’t what I expected.”
“Aye,” he nods. “One of those Internet predicaments?”
“That obvious, is it?”
He offers me a smile as he shrugs and adjusts his cap. “The luggage, that expression of a lassie whose world’s just come crashing down, the desperate rush to flee the city...Aye, I’ve seen it all before.”
Great.
I’m not just a cliché; I’m a recognizable cliché with its own taxonomic classification in the Inverness transit system.
“Where were you planning to stay tonight?” he asks, his tone shifting to something more professionally helpful.
“I had... arrangements,” I say delicately. “They’ve fallen through.”
“Aye, lass.” He drums his fingers on the computer keyboard. “With the Spring Bank Holiday upon us, lodgings are likely to be scarce, but there’s a wee hostel up the road a bit. It’s nae exactly luxurious, but it’s neat as a new pin and the owner happens to be my cousin’s wife’s sister. I can give her a ring if you’d like?”
The unexpected generosity from this stranger nearly shatters my already fragile composure.
See, there you go, Mills! Not every man is a self-centered jerk. I blink back the sudden tears, giving him a quick nod. “That would be... thank you. Thanks so much. Could you maybe give my phone a little juice, too?”
His smile is warm as he rummages around to reveal an assortment of cords and chargers. “Absolutely. A year’s worth of lost and found coming to your rescue, lass.”
While he dials the number, I connect my phone and take a moment to assess myself in the dimreflection of a nearby vending machine. My chocolate brown hair clings around my face like wet seaweed, contrasting with my ghostly complexion marred by smudged mascara under my green eyes. My once-prized jacket—once justified as an ‘investment piece’—now looks like it belongs at the bottom of a swamp rather than on me.
I am the very picture of what I am: A woman whose romantic fantasies have just crash-landed into harsh reality.
