Page 3 of The Significance of Moving On

He leans across the whole of the seat separating us, pushing way into my personal space. His breath fans the hair around my ear, close. “Ever joined the Mile High Club?”

“No,” I answer curtly now.

“It can be amazing. Two strangers connecting for one moment in time. What do you say—how ’bout you let me get you off before you get off?”

Now would be the time when I lie, and I lie big. “I just finished my junior year of high school”—that’s not a lie—“I don’t think it’s even legal for you to get me off”—which it is, I’m eighteen—“So… ”

His spine straightens, he doesn’t pull back yet.

Okay, lie two. Pulling my purse onto my lap, I unzip the first pocket and withdraw my phone, going to Tom’s contact and angling the screen strategically for him to see.

“Wh-who you calling?”

“My brother. He’s an agent in the FBI’s sex trafficking division. I want to make sure when we land, he has people waiting to talk to you.”

I don’t actually know if the FBIhasa sex trafficking division. But the lie must sound plausible because Mr. Creepy-Dude turns sheetrock white.

So I use what’s left of my lady-balls and point to the phone in his hand. “Which means you should text your wife and tell her you won’t be home for dinner.” Perfect timing. His phone pings again with another text right when I say wife.

Karma,bitch.

He withdraws to his seat completely. As in, he might move his seat to the wing if that were an option, and begins texting frantically until we’re ordered to put our phones away for take-off.

It’s a pleasant flight from here on out. The man avoids eye contact, hell, he doesn’t even clear his throat the rest of the plane ride he’s next to me.

About an hour in I get up to use the bathroom and when I return, dude is M.I.A.

We’re on a plane, not somewhere he could hide, but he certainly makes sure I don’t see him again.

When we land an hour later, I’ve all but forgotten about Mr. Creepy because Tom, my Tom, should be waiting for me.

Purse strap slung around my shoulders, I stand and open the overhead bin to grab my carryon, being jostled and shoved by other passengers trying to be the first off the plane.

A kind woman pauses the line to let me take my spot in front of her and move along with the rest until we disembark, able to fan out in the tunnel.

Saginaw. Home sweet home.

My heart beats faster with anticipation. You couldn’t pry the smile off my face with a crowbar. My feet move faster through the terminal until I find myself dodging and weaving between all the bodies hurrying toward baggage claim.

One large roller case later, I move into the large area of the airport where families and friends connect all around me.

But no Tom.

Well, he could be in the bathroom, which means I sit on my bag and wait—for about ten minutes.

Still no Tom.

I pull up the text with my flight information that I sent him. Correct times. Correct day.

Oh…kay…

Phone to ear, I actually call my brother this time. No answer. His voicemail picks up. Just to be safe I leave a message, but keep trying back anyway.

After an hour more of waiting in this stupid airport, and I still can’t get ahold of my brother, I use my phone to hire a ride-share driver to take me home.

The driver shows up twenty minutes later and she’s kind enough to help me with my bag.

She drives a newer looking sporty-type minivan. And when I climb in back, there’s a child’s booster seat and a stuffed, plush sea turtle lying next to it, reminding me of the summer when I was eleven, Tom took me to Sea World. It had been the summer after our father died.

---