"I don’t think you understand." I lower my voice because I don’t want to feel even more embarrassed than I already am. "I don’t have the money to buy a last-minute international flight ticket."
"Hey, young lady," some man behind me shouts. "You’re holding up the line." Someone adds something in a foreign language.
"Would you step aside, please?" the airline rep asks, fake politeness and all.
I don’t want to make a scene. I made plenty this weekend. So I do as I’m told and move to the side, then start pacing around my luggage. Sweat beads on my palms as I call Jett’s number. It goes to voicemail. I redial again and again, wishing for him to just answer the fucking phone.
It’s not a mistake.
I know that piece of trash did it. He bought the ticket, and he had the audacity to cancel it too.
My fingers are numb from the constant tapping, each call ending the same way. Jett's voice on the recording, taunting me with its calm, artificial tone.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against a cold pillar, feeling the vibrations of the place pulse through me. How many times have I stood in a spot like this, caught between escape and the reality that he controls everything? I open my eyes and stare at the blank faces of people passing by, all of them rushing toward something, none of them caring that I'm stuck in this limbo.
It's supposed to be different this time. I walked away.
An announcement blares over the speakers, flight numbers and gates blending into a meaningless hum. The noise grates against my nerves, setting my teeth on edge. I try to focus, to keep moving forward, but the lights stab at my senses, leaving me disoriented and drained.
I shove the boarding pass back into my bag and I dial Jett's number again, more out of habit than hope. The line clicks over to voicemail once more.
A plane roars to life somewhere outside, the sound reverberating gently through the glass. I press my forehead against the window and watch it taxi. I wonder if it’s the one I should be on.
After a few minutes of painful contemplating, I reach into my gym bag and pull out the crumpled scrap of paper with Cruz'snumber. I smooth it with trembling fingers and stare at the digits. Yes, I’m stalling, not wanting to be pathetic.
Call.The words form in my mind, soft and insistent.Call him.
I bite my lip and hesitate, fear and doubt battling inside me. What if he doesn't answer? What if he regrets giving me the number in the first place?
Another boarding announcement echoes through the terminal.
Ah, fuck it.
I punch the keypad.
It rings, and I can barely breathe, waiting for it to go over to voicemail like all the rest. But it doesn't. He picks up on the second ring.
"Yes?"
My heart lurches at the sound of his voice.
"Hey, it’s me," I mumble tentatively.
"Wendy?"
I hold the phone tight against my ear and spill my desperation in a rush. "I know I said this was a one-time deal, but Jett’s voided my ticket back to LA. I'm stuck at the airport."
There are no questions. Just a brief "I'll be right there."
Somewhere in the background, I hear Zander’s voice. "Where are you going, dude?"
"Gotta take care of something," Cruz tells him, his voice a little distant, as if he’s placed a hand over the microphone.
"Yo!" That’s Chance. "We’re about to leave."
"Go without me. I’ll catch up in a rental."
I can’t make out the rest. Instead, I hold my breath, afraid to trust what I'm hearing, afraid to believe that he really means it.
