Page 117 of Crazy In Love
“Truthful,” she croons. “Sometimes, that shit hurts. So now you’re in New York, and Chrisdidn’task you to stay here. Which, honestly, was the right thing for him to do.”
“It would’ve helped if he had.”
“No,” she snickers, the sound watery and sad. “Because then you would’ve stayed. Forhim. We need to find whatyouwant.”
“I want him to want me.” If I was paying attention to how truly fucked my day is, I probably could’ve predicted what rolls out of the carousel tunnel next. But of course, the universe enjoys taunting me, busting my suitcase open so a pair of my underwear hang off the zipper. My shoes: one in, and one on the conveyor belt. “Damn.” I make damn sure my purse is hooked on the crook of my arm before wading through the crowd and getting my hands on the stupid suitcase. I yank its overweight heft across the steel lip and onto the speckled floor. “I’m hanging up now, Lana. I’ve gotta collect my panties before a creepy basement dweller pockets them.”
“You’ve…” She pauses. “What?”
“Nothing. Just my life. Try to get eyes on Chris for me, okay? Make sure he’s alright. It scares me that he’s gone underground.”
“I’ll check on him. I promise. You wanna stay on the line while you get in a cab and head home?”
“No. It’s time to be alone, I think.” I catch sight of my approaching shoe, so I skip around my suitcase and lunge for it, slamming my ankle against the handle of my bag and hissing as pain radiates up through my leg. Limping, I snag the damn shoe and scowl at the beady-eyed ogling of those around me. “Stop looking at me! I’m from here. I’m notdifferent.” I crouch in front of my suitcase and work on stuffing everything back inside. “I’ll text you when I get back to my apartment, Lana. If by some crazy miracle Chris is there, like this is a giant set-up for his grandI love yous, then I probably won’t text you. I’ll be busy sobbing and having sex.”
She snorts. “If he’s there when you get there, and you plan your life around whatever he asks, then we’ll circle back around and do this all over again in six months. Or a year. Or five years.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Even if the sex is really,reallygood. It’s important you make these choices for you.”
“Worst pep talk ever.” I roll my eyes and quickly snatch my underwear off the edge of the conveyor belt, stuffing them in the case. “Love you.”
She sighs. “Love you, too. Make good choices.”
I tap my ear and end our call, so the hubbub of JFK airport on a Sunday evening and the rushed grunts and quick steps of passengers collecting their things replaces the soothing comfort Alana’s mere existence brings me.
Who knew I’d eventually miss the tractor-buggy luggage guy from Barlespy Airport?
“Ma’am?” A dark shadow falls over my shoulder, heavy boots popping into my peripherals, and the delicious cologne of a man who buys what smells good hits my lungs. But I don’t even hope for the impossible.
He doesn’t smell like Chris, anyway.
I peek over my shoulder and up at the dude who towers over me. Six-foot something with broad shoulders and a pleasant smile. He offers a hand, but when I merely stare, narrowed eyes and flat lips, he grabs on and pulls me to my feet, then he places a wad of balled fabric in my palm and leaves me with a pair of my underwear.
“I couldn’t think of a more discreet way to hand those back to you,” heteases. “Though I won’t lie, I considered flinging them off my finger, slingshot style.”
“Ha.”Not funny. I close my fist and meet his eyes. He’s handsome, I suppose. In the traditional, normal human being way. But he’s not Chris. And he’s not this mythological self-lovingme. So I turn on my heels and continue packing. “Thanks.”
“I can’t help but notice you’re having a tough time.” He bends beside me, poking his head back into my space. “And you seem to be traveling alone. If you wanna, I could help you out?—”
“No, thank you.” I flip the lid of my case closed and sit on top, flopping down with all the weight I possess so I can drag the zipper around. I catch sight of his suitcase, rolled up and sitting safely beside his leg. More importantly, I notice the belt wrapped around it to keep his things together. Rudely, I reach forward with an unladylike harrumph and unsnap the clip, stealing from him without a single lick of remorse. “I’m gonna keep this.” I dig the fabric under the bottom of my bag, then around until the buckle meets, and because my case is thicker than his, I adjust the straps until everything comes together, and I’m one step closer tonotending up on the news. “If you wanna write your number on a piece of paper or something, I could send it back when I’m done.”
“What if…” His eyes flicker across mine. Searching. Flirting. “What if you write your number on a piece of paper or something. Then I’ll call you up and take you out to dinner sometime this week?”
“Can’t. I’ll only be in New York for a few more days, then I’m moving away.” I tug my suitcase to its wheels and place my heavy purse on top. Though I make damn sure not to release either handle. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all that, but I’m already spoken for.” By myself.Gag.“Thanks for stopping to help me, though.” I turn on my heels and jerk my stupid case away, and though I keep my head high and my spine straight, I pray no one notices thewee-woo-wee-wooof the broken wheel on the bottom.
This is my life now, even though New York is supposed to be my safe space.
I draw a long breath and fill my lungs with New York air—oddly, the air I considered life-giving five weeks ago tastes kinda gross now after spending so much time beside a beautiful lake. I limp out of the airport and onto the sidewalk, and turning my attention toward the line of cabs thatshouldbe waiting, I sigh and watch the last one go.
“It’s fine.” I drag my case to the glass walls at my back and snap the handle down to make room to sit. But I catch my thumb under the metal, hissing as fresh pain stings my digit and adds another ding to my alreadyshitty mood. Snagging my purse and hooking the straps over my arm, I plop onto the top of my case and slouch in on myself, breathing before I lose my shit. Exhaling before I end up on a terrorist watch list for doing something monumentally stupid. “Everything is fine. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Chief happiness what?
“Hey!” A man’s deep voice draws me around. His wolf whistle echoes in my ears, and a bouquet of flowers clasped to his chest turns my eyes wide.
But they’re not for me.
