With my flaming hair and ripped tights, I feel painfully conspicuous among the suited businessmen and glamorous European women in chic outfits. Sure, there are people in jeans and leggings, but for some reason, I still feel very American and very country.
When I see my luggage, I gently elbow my way through the masses, barely dodging a collision with a stout man. Small women like me have no choice but to get a little aggressive sometimes.
I scramble for my neon leopard print suitcase as the man mutters something in German that I'm sure isn't complimentary. Nothing in German ever sounds so. I flash a tight smile again, saying I’m sorry. "Entschuldigung. Excuse me.Entschuldigung."
My phone buzzes insistently from my pocket, and I fish it out. Jett's name is on the screen. For a second, I'm tempted to ignore it because I can’t afford another call in a foreign country, but I jab the answer button instead, hoping he’s found a moment in his busy schedule and is on his way to get me.
Based on what I found online, the drive from the airport to the festival grounds is only half an hour. It’s not like he has to cross multiple borders. It’s a straight shot out of the city.
"Should I wait for you?" I ask immediately.
"Babe! Wendy! Can you hear me?" Jett's voice is muffled, barely audible over the sounds of laughter and pulsing music. "I'm sorry, it’s this promo thing. Can’t leave just yet. Y'know, with the label guys... And there’s a potential investor."
"Are you seriously bailing on me right now?" I shoulder my way through the crowd as I wrestle my huge rolling suitcase behind me.
"It’s important."
"More important than your girlfriend?"
"Don’t be like that."
My gym bag slides from my shoulder and into the crook of my arm. I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, trying to tamp down my irritation. Of course he’d find a way to turn it all back on me. Silly Wendy for thinking she’d actually come first for once. "Jett, I swear to God..."
"Look, just get a cab," he slurs, and I can practically see him waving his hands around in my mind's eye, a half-empty bottle of vodka clutched in his fist. "Tell them to drop you off at theartists’ entrance. They all know where it is. I’ll meet you then, yeah? I'll be waiting for you!Iloveyoubye!"
He hangs up before I can get another word in, leaving me gaping at my phone in the middle of the heaving crowd once more.
Un-fucking-believable.
I look around helplessly at the unfamiliar faces, the bustle of the terminal, and I feel utterly, hopelessly alone. At least, until I spot two girls, no older than eighteen, both sporting hoodies that sayI’ve been Justified.
If one has never heard a single song from The Deviant, they’d probably fail to get the meaning behind the words. No, it has nothing to do with justice that’s responsible for interpreting the law. It has everything to do with the notorious lead singer of The Deviant, Justice Cross.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and we share a sense of camaraderie—the kind that one alternative kid feels when he meets another alternative kid.
"I love your tee," one of the girls says in accented English, pointing at the Linkin Park logo slapped across the front of my T-shirt.
"Thanks. I love yours."
"Maybe see you at Ragnarock?" She winks.
"Maybe." I smile.
Then, with a groan, I hoist my bag up on my shoulder and start marching toward the terminal’s exit.
The cab rideseems to stretch on for forever because of the traffic around the airport. The city blurs past in a haze of unfamiliar sights and sounds. Buildings and signs whirl ina kaleidoscope of dizzying colors that somehow seem different here.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as the towering concrete of Munich gradually gives way to stretches of green. There’s an angry dark cloud forming on the outskirts of the city, and I start wondering if we’re getting some rain this weekend. I hope not. That’s never a good thing for a festival like the one Jett’s band is playing.
God, what am I even doing here?
Chasing after a guy who can't even be bothered to pick me up from the damn airport. And then I think back to my mom's words, the words she’s been knocking into me ever since I was little.
Find yourself a man who'll take care of you, Wendy. Don't end up like me.
Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mom, but it looks like I've gone and fallen for another asshole. One just like dear old Dad. May he rest in peace.
The only difference is that Jett is famous and has money.
