Page 4 of Doctorshipped
A few years ago I ran regularly—well, at least two or three times a week. I mostly did it to keep my then boyfriend happy with my appearance. He was picky, and commented if my clothes seemed tight, or I looked like I had gained any weight. When we broke up—after he cheated on me—I realized a lot of things. One was that I prefer walking to running. And I actually prefer sitting in a cozy chair with my bulldog at my feet and a good book in my hands best of all.
This morning’s little jaunt through the airport is probably the most exercise I’ve had in months.
I run toward the restrooms, continually reminding myself I’ll be okay. I’ve always been okay. Stress only shortens your life expectancy. Yes. I had a minor freakout back there at the counter. Who wouldn’t? But, deep down, I know things always work out one way or the other.
I picture that sweet girl in line with her dad. She seemed so hopeful and carefree. Her dad looked … sad. And a little grouchy. But I saw something else when I looked into his eyes. Not that it matters. He’s a total stranger. But, for that split second when our eyes met, I forgot I had lost my license. I almost felt—what did I feel?—safe. I felt safe, like he wasn’t going to let me drown in my own mess. Which is ridiculous since he disappeared right after that unusual moment between us passed.
I reach the restroom and run in through the entryway, turning toward the sinks first, and I see it right away, perched on the little metal shelf below the mirror. My license.
“Oh, thank goodness! You’re here!” I shout, kissing my license and tucking it into my wallet.
A woman and her preschooler walk out from a stall. The woman meets my eyes and gives me a wary look. Then she chooses the sink furthest from me, while scooting her child behind her legs. I nod at them and smile widely. The woman nods and gives me a nervous grin—one you might give a serial killer in hopes you don’t remind him of his mother or ex-girlfriend. Then she bends to whisper something into her daughter’s ear. Probably something like,don’t look at the crazy lady who says, “So glad you’re here,” to no one in particular in a public restroom.
I start hummingWalking on Sunshine, because I basically am now. I check my phone for the time. I’ve still got twenty-five minutes to get through TSA and make my plane.
Agh! I only have twenty-five minutes to make the plane!
I wave at the woman and her daughter. “Gotta run! Have a nice day!”
I’m from the Midwest. We take manners seriously, and we talk to everyone. I can’t just leave the restroom without saying goodbye. That would be rude.
Clutching my wallet, which now holds my stray license, I turn and run out of the bathroom toward the line of people taking off shoes and jewelry and emptying electronics into plastic bins.
The line moves quickly and I haul buns like a game show contestant, pulling everything off the conveyor belt and putting it back into my bags or onto my body, then I’m off again, racing through the terminal to my gate. I arrive just as they are about to shut the door to the jetway.
“Wait!” I shout. “That’s my flight!”
I think I see one attendant roll her eyes at the other. But, they wait. The eye-rolling stewardess scans my boarding pass and I jog through the doorway and onto the plane, greeting the flight attendant through ragged breaths. I finally check my boarding pass to see where I’m sitting. Of course. I’m in row forty-two. Back of the plane. I make my way down the aisle, saying, “Excuse me. Pardon me,” as my bag bobs behind me, occasionally, and unfortunately bumping a seated passenger. When I reach my row, I look down. “That’s my … Oh!” It’s him. The sad, grouchy stranger and his adorable daughter.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Jayme. I think that’s my seat.”
“It either is or it isn’t,” Mister McGrumperson says.
His voice is warmer than his tone. Manly and focused. He doesn’t look me in the eye this time. But, his daughter does.
“Daddy,” she scolds him with one word.
He humphs at her. Then he unbuckles, stands, and steps aside so I can make my way past him. I stand still in the aisle, and our arms brush as he steps past me. I have this weird tingly reaction on the spot where we touched. Huh.
I’d sit, but I have to put my bag into the overhead compartment. I start to heft it up, but I’m only five foot two, and, as you know, I don’t lift weights. I get the carry on about as high as my chest, and I have to lower it to the armrest of the seat to recalibrate. If I had a step stool or a forklift, we’d be in business.
Captain Cranky scrunches his eyebrows together, looking down at me, but somehow it’s more like he’s looking through me. I raise my one eyebrow. It’s a talent I have. I’ve got an eyebrow, and I know how to use it. Take that Sir Grumpypants.
The stewardess announces, “Would all passengers please take their seats and buckle while the seatbelt sign is lit. We are ready to prepare for take off.”
I look back up at the overhead bin. It’s as likely that I’ll get this bag up into the bin as it is that I will be lifting the airplane off the ground with my bare hands. For a moment I ponder the viability of standing on the armrest. If I did, I could hoist the bag up while clinging to the side of the bin …
“Dad,” his daughter says with a commanding tone.
“Hmm?” he asks.
“A little help?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure.”
He looks at her with a measure of kindness in his eyes. It’s almost miraculous how his face appears like it belongs to someone else. The uncharacteristic softness contrasts so starkly to the other expressions he’s had so far today. But, the tenderness passes as quickly as it came, and he’s back to scowling. Not a mean scowl, but one that seems to be his resting face.
Without addressing me at all, he sweeps my luggage off the armrest and out of my grasp, and plops it in the overhead bin as if it weighs less than a pound. He extends his hand toward the seats, indicating for me to sit.
