His brows shoot up. “In Portree, Texas? Didn’t realize they had anything like that here in the South.”
The moment the wordsTexas andSouthleaves his mouth, a weird, icy sensation crawls down my spine.
“Texas?” I laugh—tight, awkward. “No, I’m going to Portree,Maine. Wellington is just the stopover.”
He blinks at me. Slowly. Like I’ve just told him I’m on my way to Narnia.
Then, casually, and slowly as if he’s trying not to make any sudden movements, he pulls out his phone and taps a few times. “Hate to break it to you, honey,” he says, slow and careful, like I’m a skittish horse, “but Maine’s in the complete opposite direction. This flight’s headed to Wellington, Texas and yeah we do have a Portree here…” He pauses, talking in soft calm voice as he gauges my reaction. “You know... in the South. Real Southern. Boots. Barbecues. Actual cowboys.”
I stare at him. My brain short-circuits. “No. No, that’s... that’s not right.”
As if the universe wants to double down on my unravelling, the captain’s voice crackles over the speaker, cheerfully announcing our descent into Wellington,Texas, and the lovely weatherwe can expect on the ground as we decent.
My stomach drops through the plane floor.
I rip open my bag, yanking out my phone like it personally betrayed me and scroll furiously until I find it: the confirmation email from Brè’s shiny new intern niece.
Portree. Great.
Portree, Texas.Accessible by car fromWellington Airport (approx. 45 minutes).
Dammit.
I slump back in my seat, absolutely floored. How did this happen?Idon’t make mistakes. I am meticulous, organized, double-check-my-toothbrush type of prepared. And yet—here I am.
Wrong plane. Wrong state. Wrong damn coast.
And, as if to really rub it in, the guy next to me pats my arm and says, “Well, on the bright side… at least it ain’t snowin’.”
I clench my teeth, plastering on a fake smile and debate if today’s the day my intrusive thoughts win out on a stranger. I could just cry or strangle him. Honestly, it could go either way.
My stomach clenches. “Shit,” I mutter. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Letting go of control is a mistake I willnevermake again.
I should’ve checked the itinerary. Like a rookie traveler, I just saw Wellington on the departure board and got on the plane, but I should’ve triple-checked it like I normally would have. Butnoooo, I was too busy shaking hands, smiling for flashing cameras, and answering the same three damn press questions on repeat.
How does it feel to win again? What’s next for your swimming career? Will you retire on top?
I mean, I’m twenty-three. I just won another swimming gold medal, not a lifetime achievement award.
As we touch down and I stride through Wellington airport with my phone pressed to my ear, the reality of my situation becomes increasingly clear with each unanswered ring.
“Come on, Brè. Pick up,” I mutter, weaving through crowds of travelers.
She finally answers “Mia! You landed! How is Maine? How’s the hotel? Is it as eco-chic as promised?” her voice beams through the phone.
“Yeah, about that… I’m going to find your intern niece and sacrifice her to the travel gods with a flaming boarding pass.”
A pause. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?” I bark. “UH-OH?I’m in Texas, Brè. Freaking. Texas.”
“The Gathering I'm supposed to cover—it's in Portree, Maine, right?” the hopeless desperation palpable in my voice.
“Of course it is! Portree Maine is a coastal town known for—”
“I’m in WELLINGTON, TEXAS!” I interrupt her. “You know what Wellington doesn’t have? An ocean. You know what itdoeshave? Heatstroke. Dust. Men named Hank. And oh, surprise, a completely different Portree located about an hour from here!”
