I wanted to get away from this guy, but we were closer to landing than take-off, and I didn’t want to leave my luggage unsupervised. “That’s okay. Thank you.”
As she walked away, the guy beside me elbowed me in the ribs.
“Ouch.” Rubbing my side, I narrowed my eyes.
“Why’d you say no to the food?”
“Because I have nowhere to put it. My tray is still swimming. Hopefully she’ll come back with a pile of napkins.”
“You could have used my tray. She offered you free food. You should always take free food. I would’ve eaten it if you didn’t want it.” He leaned back and pulled his headphones over his ears.
I shook my head in disbelief. Who does this guy think he is? Focusing my attention on the sky, I ignored his lame head bopping to whatever music he was playing. As his shoulders shook to the beat, his arms brushed against mine and I couldn’t help but notice the goosepimples that rose from my skin.
Over the next hour, I watched the sky transition from pewter to tangerine and strawberry. It was only eleven p.m., Boston time, but four in the morning in Ireland. The ocean water flowed below us, and the blue waves eventually transitioned to round green hills.
My heart thumped in my chest, and excitement brewed up from my toes. I am in Ireland! I pinched my arm and embraced the pain. Yep, I’m definitely here.
The guy beside me leaned over to see the landscape out the tiny window, obscuring my view. The scent of his soap caused me to shiver. Squeezing against the seat to give him more room, I pursed my lips, and waited for him to return to his seat. This guy is so rude. His knee pushed against mine, and I did everything I could to slink away from him.
“Ah-hem,” I roared into his ear. He turned toward me, and his light brown eyes remained inches from mine. The deep amber color glistened under the muted light, and my stomach fluttered when laughter flashed from his eyes to mine. I fought the urge to smile. “Do you mind?”
“Almost home.” He grinned like he had a secret he was dying to share, and leaned back in his seat.
“Thanks, a little space would be nice.” I flapped my arms like a chicken, demonstrating my personal bubble.
His left freckled arm flapped in response. “Sorry about that. Airplanes are tight.”
The butterflies inside took flight, and I questioned if they were due to anticipation or attraction. This guy might have been cute if he wasn’t so damn annoying.
Chapter 3
A crowd of strangers swept me along the concourse. It seemed they knew where they were going, so I fell into the current they controlled, and it led me straight to customs. Watching the guy with the red hair march past me to the green channel, I envied the speed his line moved. I debated following him, but most of my flight remained at the red channel, and I needed to stick with my fellow Americans.
Shannon Airport looked like any other airport, except for signs in English and Gaelic. Looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, you would think you were in Chicago, Boston, or Baltimore. There were no signs of Irish life except for the traditional music blasting through the overhead speakers.
I snaked through the immigration line with other foreigners, where we pushed through the turnstiles like cattle. My hand shook as I gave my passport to the attendant.
“What’re you doing here?” A short man with thin, straight hair asked.
“College for a semester.” My voice shook, fearful that he’d find a reason to send me back to America.
“When are you going home?”
“Um, right before Christmas.”
He took my luggage and rummaged through it before handing it back to me.
“Welcome to Ireland, Rory Stanley.”
I followed the crowd to baggage claim and spied the same red, spiky hair that ruined my flight mingling with an older couple next to the conveyor belt. As I stood behind him, watching, I thought about his life in Ireland. Does he live nearby? Does he have any siblings? I imagined his duplex outside the city center. I envisioned him rolling into the city on a skateboard, traipsing to the fish and chips shop or the local pub.
He appeared happy to see the couple, who I assumed were his parents. His dad hugged his shoulders, and his animated mom talked with her hands. She passed him a water bottle, and I saw his mouth sequence “thanks.” Seeing them made me wonder how my parents would behave when I came home from Ireland. Would they even be at the airport to pick me up, or would they tell me to catch a cab?
I scanned the red-haired family and realized my parents would never come to an airport looking like them. The mom’s baggy jeans, circa 1990, and ill-fitting jacket practically hid her black pocketbook, which she wore underneath her coat. The dad wore dirty jeans and had a scruffy gray and orange beard overdue for a shave, just like his son. They looked tired, but joy spread through their facial expressions and excessive hugs.
People disappeared with their luggage, and I focused on the conveyor belt. My bag may have rotated around already, but the red-haired family kept popping into my view and distracting me from what was happening around us.
Once they exited the main doors, my attention zoned in on my one suitcase. I had stuffed my duffle like a sausage, making sure to pack an extra bag for all my souvenirs. It strolled down the conveyor belt as the group of bystanders dispersed with their luggage.
