Brè’s warm laugh flows through the line. “Okay, okay—breathe. Deep, grounding breaths, darling.”
“I am one iced coffee away from committing a felony.”
Stopping at the baggage claim area, I scan the carousel for my suitcase. The carousel starts moving, and I watch as bags begin their journey around the belt. None of them are mine.
Brè goes silent for a moment. “Listen, I can fix this.” I hear her tapping away on her keyboard. “Okay, let me see what’s happened here. Oh, I see, yep, yep, oh no.”
I draw in one last steady breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and whisper a silent prayer—clinging to whatever calm I have left.
“What do you see?”
“Okay, so… minor plot twist,” she says, her voice too chipper to be safe. “Chloe may have—technically—booked the wrong tickets “
“Give the girl a prize.” My tone is sharper than intended, but panic is setting in. “I need to get to Maine, Brè. Like, yesterday.”
“I hear you. Fear not, my little chaos muffin,” Brè chirps, her tone aggressively upbeat. “Everything’s totally fine. Totally under control. Totally fixable.”
The sheer number oftotallysmakes me think that this is, in fact,totallynot fine.
“We just need a miracle, a backup plan, and maybe—just maybe—a cowboy with a plane. Easy peasy.” She says sounding all chipper.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Let me check for flights.” She types furiously, like she’s trying to break the keyboard. “Shit. Next direct isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s too late. The Gathering starts tomorrow morning.”
“I know, I know, I’m on it.” More clacking. “Okay, there’s one with two layovers...gets you there by... late tomorrow night.”
I exhale sharply. As I scan the carousel, the last of the bags roll away. None of them are mine.
“It just keeps getting better.”
“What?”
“My luggage is MIA.”
“I’ll call you back,” I mutter.
I approach the airline desk, give the attendant my best help-me-or-I-will-cry face, and brace for the next wave of incompetence. Because apparently, flight chaos wasn’t enough—the universe wanted to go full disaster movie.
Twenty minutes later, I leave the desk with a sad little overnight kit, a hotline number to check when my rogue luggage turns up, and a cheerful “maybe tomorrow” from the airline staff. Also? Every flight to Maine is either full or doesn’t exist.
I call Brè back.
“So what’s the plan?” she asks.
“There isn’t one. I’m stuck in Texas. No luggage. No hotel. And apparently, it’s rodeo season, so every room within ten miles is booked solid.”
“The universe is really testing your control freak levels right now.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s alittlefunny. I mean, Mia Bonney, world-class swimmer, Machu Picchu conqueror, fearless shark diver—taken out by a ticketing error.”
I groan, but I can’t stop the laugh that slips. “Okay. A little funny.”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
