Page 26 of Things I Overshared
“Okay,” I breathe. I’m stupidly nervous.
“No men. No flings. No hookups. No dating, whatsoever.”
“Absolutely. You don’t have to remind me this time.”
“You’re about to be surrounded by men with sexy accents, I do need to remind you.” She has a fierce tone that sounds angry but actually saysI love youunderneath, if you know her.
“Okaaay, no men whatsoever.”
“Sadie and Nicole will be there for convention, so they’ll make sure you’re still on the straight and narrow.”
“Psh, Nicole wants me to start a love-letter romance with Chase from accounting.”
“What! Nicole is a dead woman. Seriously, it’s time for you to focus on you. Take careof you. Have fun for yourself, k?”
I nod.
“No crap?” The question always makes me smile.
“No crap,” I say before I hug each of them again. I use all my strength to wheel the luggage cart inside to the counter. I see my grumpy travel partner waiting outside the line.
He looks stunning.
And I’m mad about it.
Again, if a man is an absolute butthole, he needs to at least look like a massive turd, and Emerson never, ever does. We’re about to be on a seven-hour overnight flight—why is he wearing a crisp white dress shirt rolled at the sleeves with charcoal-gray dress slacks? He couldn’t just wear jeans? Now I’m going to be distracted by his thick, exposed forearms until my sleeping meds kick in!No, I’m not! He is a terrible human . . . with a girlfriend!
I’m glad I went with one of my cuter traveling outfits as he looks up and spots me. He looks away quickly, another strange expression on his face. I think about my outfit, which is my best black leggings and a black-and-white T-shirt with a huge Stories of Loya graphic, a gift from Skye. She has given me many franchise tees: Harry Potter, Star Wars, OU, I Heart NY, T-Swift, and of course some of Sadie’s movie merch too—anything that may spark conversation with strangers who are also fans of my favorite things.
On top of my shirt, a glaring bright pink sweater is hanging open. The sweater matches the pink in my Adidas sneakers perfectly, and my hair is up in an unoffensive topknot. I can’t see why Mr. Stuffy would be offended by this outfit—the pink is only an accent. But I’m a little too anxious to think more about it as the time for takeoff draws near.
“Miss Canton,” he says as a way of greeting. I start to scold him for not using my name but then notice his bags, or lack thereof.
“Where are your bags?”
“These are my bags.” He motions to his one normal-size suitcase and the small messenger briefcase bag on his arm. The messenger bag hardly counts.
“One bag for the whole trip!” I almost yell. He winces, and I give him an apologetic look as I switch to a loud whisper. “Seriously, you fit everything for over a month in there?”
He looks at my bags. “And good for our plane that I did, by the looks of it.”
I glare at him, unsure if he’s teasing, trying to joke around, or scolding. I guess that it’s the latter and squint at him.
He takes my cart without asking, pushing it with ease, and goes to the counter. He gives the gate agent both of our names and stretches out a hand for my passport. He’s . . . such an adult. I mean, I am too, obviously. But other than Dad, I’ve never seen a man swoop in and just take charge. I hand him my passport without a word.Maybe this won’t be totally terrible.
Wrong.
Because as we get up to the conveyor belts inside airport security, I notice a mother traveling along with three small children ahead of us. Everyone notices them, really. One baby is crying, and the two older toddlers, twins, are not listening to their mother at all, whining about the process like all of us adults secretly wish we could do. The poor mom is trying to wrangle her stroller, diaper bag, luggage. It’s a disaster. I cut the line, rush to her side, and help with her bags.
“Oh, thank you.” She is almost crying. Which makes me almost cry becausewhat the hell is wrong with people?How am I the only decent human who has offered to help?
“Hey, look, guys! We get to go through a magic door! Wow, can you believe it?” I say to the twins, my voice too loud and my facial expressions completely crazy.
I look back to Emerson to help the situation, as there are more bags to load and he simply stands there, frozen. I can’t tell if he’s angry or irritated, but he’s definitely clenching his jaw. I just motion at my bags, which he will have to take care of, if he’s not going to help me.
“No, no, don’t touch anything, or the magic in the door won’t work,” I call to the twins, who are reaching with their hands. I know that look in their eyes—they’re about to go into destructo mode on the fabric straps that make a temporary partition.
“Wassit do?” the boy twin asks me. He’s adorable.
