Page 18 of Every Step She Takes
If I’m ever going to locate my connecting flight to Porto, I need brain fuel, especially since I slept through the breakfast they served on the plane.
I wander through the overstimulating airport, trying to find something edible that doesn’t cost twenty pounds, because my wine-soaked brain can’t handle exchange rates. I eventually stumble upon a cafeteria that looks promising, but as soon as I grab a tray, I spot Window Seat at a nearby table.
Mal. My bad-luck charm.
She’s wearing her giant headphones, and she’s talking animatedly between gulps of coffee. She doesn’t see me, but my stomach drops anyway at the sight of those expressive eyebrows, that bowed mouth, those star tattoos behind her ear.
And it hits me like a solid oak armoire falling down a flight of stairs: Icame outto this woman. That wasn’t a Xanax-induced hallucination. After years of dismissing every suspicion, ignoring every impulse, and repressing every damn feeling, I told the first ostensibly queer woman I saw that I’m a lesbian because three glasses of wine and a Xanax convinced me I was dying.
Probably. I’mprobablya lesbian.
Or…maybea lesbian?
Maybe I’m queer, or maybe I’m just having a nervous breakdown.
Except what did Mal say?In my experience, not many straight people feel the need to come out in the midst of a near-death experience.
Another flush of embarrassment sweeps over me.
I told a beautifully handsome, effortlessly confident stranger that I’ve never had sex. She must’ve thought I was ridiculous.
The funny thing is, Mal didn’t make me feel ridiculous at all. She treated every misguided word that came flying out of my mouth, no matter how absurd, like it was important.
Across the cafeteria, Mal glances up from her coffee, and I instinctively duck behind the partition to avoid being seen. Like a child.
When I stand up again, I catch a glimpse of her hazel eyes. The V of her lips is curled into an easy, amused smile as she talks to the person on her phone. Mal isn’t merely Beautiful/Handsome; she has the air of someone who is completely at home in her own body. She moves her lean frame and her slender limbs with purpose, with intention. I bet she’s never apologized for taking up space in the world.
I can’t believe I told her I’m a lesbian.
And based on my picture-perfect memory of her mouth, I can’t believeIdidn’t suspect I might be a lesbian a long-ass time ago.
As soon as I take my phone out of airplane mode, I’m flooded with messages from Vi. I find a bathroom with weirdly podlike stalls and rummage through my pack for my toiletries. In front of the mirror, I assess the severe damage.
I look as disoriented as I feel. Heathrow is a timeless vortex, and I don’t know if it’s morning or evening, if I’m hungry or just hungover. If I even exist at all. I do know that my skin looks both dry and greasy somehow, that my eyes are puffy and red, and that I’m sticky everywhere.
I’ve never been this brand of tired before, not even after a twelve-hour day on my feet at the store. I force myself to brush my teeth, freshen my makeup, and redo my hair. Then I find the one place in the terminal that has natural light and take a selfie.
HAPPY NOW?I text Vi once the introductory post is uploaded.
ARE YOU HAPPY?She texts back.YOU LOOK LIKE SOMEONE JUST PUT A GLASS ON YOUR GEORGIAN COFFEE TABLE WITHOUT A COASTER.
IT’S CALLED A BUTLER’S TABLE AND IT’S MAHOGANY, YOU PLEBE.
It’s a three-hour flight from London to Porto, and by the time we land, I’ve been reduced to a hungover, jet-lagged, food-deprived zombie who can barely function. The utter hell of the customs line doesn’t even register until I’m at the counter and a buff Portuguese man looks up from my passport and asks, “Business or pleasure?”
He’s speaking English, but I blink at him uncomprehendingly. “Are you here for work or leisure travel?” he rephrases.
“Pleasure. Uh, I mean, leisure,” I manage, and he firmly stamps my passport.
I’m back on autopilot, sleepwalking to baggage claim, getting swept up in the crowds of people moving toward the exit. I somehow put one foot in front of the other until I can see windows, sunshine, and the outside world. The Porto Airport is nothing like Heathrow. There’s not a Coach store next to a Burberry, there’s no overwhelming perfume smell, and no one runs into me without apologizing. The central atrium is compact and relatively empty when I come through the final security doors.
“Ms. Wells!”
My brain doesn’t register my own name until it’s said three times at increasing volumes. “Ms. Sadie Wells!” A hand on my shoulder. “Hello, Ms. Wells!”
Some foggy instinct tells me that I’m supposed to turn toward the voice, and I spot a woman wearing a tie-dyed Beatrix Tours T-shirt and high-waisted linen pants. “Wow! You look exactly like your sister! I recognized you immediately!” She throws her arms into the air like she’s either praising Jesus or celebrating a tequila shot. “Welcome to Portugal!”
“Hi,” I say, half-dazed, stretching a hand toward this woman. “I’m Sadie.”
