Page 8 of Holiday Unscripted
She types away on her keyboard. “Okay, what size and shape is it?
“It’s black and it’s a suitcase.”
“Black.” Her face makes a grimace. “For the future, never go with black.”
“Noted.”
“What is inside of it? A list of things in case”—she looks at me and is almost afraid to say the words—“the bag opened somewhere and things are out.”
I put my hands on my cheeks, sort of like Kevin McAlister did in Home Alone, right before he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Things are out?”
“Sometimes zippers break and by accident there are items that come out. Of course, not at the fault of anyone. These things just happen.”
I look up at the ceiling and try to calm myself down. “Well, there were clothes, a pair of high-heel shoes, Louboutins, size seven.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’m here for my brother’s wedding.”
“Yikes,” she squeaks. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know, really. I know I brought a couple of pairs of jeans. A couple shirts,” I tell her and she nods at me.
“Okay,” she says, “I’m going to need a contact number.”
“Great,” I reply and give her my phone number.
“Here is your ticket number.” She hands me the white ticket. “Also, this is a little something to tide you over.” She hands me a little bag. “It has some toiletries in there.”
“Thank you,” I say, shaking my head, “but I won’t be needing that. My parents have things at their house.”
“Well then, you have a great day.” She smiles. “Happy holidays.”
I pick up my bag and head toward the exit, my phone in my hand as I brace for the cold. The wind whips my hair to the side as I walk toward the taxi line. I’m waiting in line, going from one foot to the other as I wait for my turn. I’m literally shivering when the SUV stops at the curb and I get into the back seat.
“No luggage?” he asks me as I rub my hands together.
“Santa Claus won’t make me happy with a toy on Christmas Day” blares out of the radio.
“No, they lost my luggage.”
He hisses, “That’s not good.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” I grouse and give him the address to my parents’ house.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, he’s pulling into the end of the driveway since it’s packed with cars. All the lights in the house are on. He stops the vehicle, and I take my credit card out and pay the fee before grabbing my bag and rushing to the front door.
I turn and push open the door but the door is locked. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble and then ring the fucking doorbell.
“I’ve got it,” I hear my father yelling and then he comes to the door and swings it open. “Oh my gosh, Elizabeth.” He reaches for me and pulls me to him. “You’re here.” He hugs me and the warmth of the house hits me. “We’ve been calling and calling you and it’s going straight to voicemail.”
“That would happen,” I snap and put my hands on my hips, “when you’ve been flying for twenty-four hours and your phone dies.”
“Why didn’t you charge it on the plane?” He shuts the door behind me.
“Yeah, why didn’t I do that?” I throw up my hands. “I should have done that,” I say sarcastically, kicking off my sneakers. “I don’t know why it didn’t dawn on me to do this before.”
“I’m sensing sarcasm,” he replies, smiling at me. Even though he retired from hockey a long time ago, he’s stayed fit.
“You would be sensing right,” I retort and then I hear my mother shrieking when she runs into the room.
“My baby,” she wails, running to me. “My baby is home.”
