Page 2 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I should walk away.
“Do you always talk like you swallowed Webster’s Unabridged when you’re having a meltdown, or am I just yourlucky verbal punching bag?” Red flags wave in my mind while my mouth stages a full-blown rebellion.
My phone buzzes against my hip, saving me from a potentially lethal dose of pompousness. I turn away and pull it out. Mom’s annual Christmas Eve guilt-trip-a-thon.
A precisely timed where-are-you-and-why-are-you-putting-me-through-this-again inquisition. I silence it without looking.
The suitcase pops free with a satisfying thunk, thanks to my sneaky push from the other side while he was busy ranting about proper etiquette or whatever.
He doesn’t notice my help. They never do. Just another invisible good deed from your friendly neighborhood pilot, who’s going to miss her mom’s famous roasted potatoes at this rate.
Through the windows of the Fairbanks terminal, fat snowflakes dance down harder by the minute, the storm front moving faster than predicted. Great. Just what I need when I’m trying to get home in time for Christmas Eve tomorrow. I promised Mom:this year will be different.
“Look what you’ve done!” He points at a scratch on his precious suitcase like it’s evidence in a murder trial. “This is a genuine Italian brand!”
My brain-to-mouth filter fails. “Oh no, your overpriced suitcase got a boo-boo. Should we call a doctor? Maybe designer band-aids exist in your tax bracket?”
His jaw clenches so tight that his teeth crack audibly. “Do you have any concept of the value?—”
“Of what? That status symbol on wheels?” The words pour out now. “It still holds the same amount of stuff as my Target special. But hey, at least yours matches your whole...” I wave my hand at his general...everything, “...vibe.”
He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up justenough to make it look better. For a breath, something real flashes across his face. The same look Mom gave me when I told her I’d taken the Christmas Eve flight. The resignation of someone who expects disappointment.
“This is completely unprofessional. I demand to speak with your supervisor.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Oh my God, you actually said it. The Karen battle cry.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t work here, Mr. Dictionary. Just a good Samaritan with apparently terrible judgment.” I tap my pilot’s wings pin. “But sure, go ahead, report me to the luggage carousel police.”
His face does this fascinating thing where it can’t decide between embarrassment and anger. “You... You’re a pilot?”
“No, I just wear this for fashion. Goes great with my jacket, don’t you think?”
For a moment, his face does something fascinating, like it’s trying to decide between mortified and furious. He adjusts the handle on his suitcase, shoulders stiff, and strides away without another word.
Good riddance.
I drift over to the weather radar display to see storm clouds clustering ominously over the region. Getting out of here later looks doubtful, the realization settling in my stomach like a stone.
Christmas Eve dinner at home slips further away with each snowflake. Mom’s going to give me that stare—the “my daughter chose planes over family again” look that could melt steel.
My fingers hover over my phone. I should call her now, prep her for another empty seat. Three Christmases in a row.
No.I might still make it.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since that sad protein bar a few hours ago. I head toward the one open cafe in the terminal, only to find the line stretching halfway to the baggage claim. Of course, Mr. Dictionary stands in front of me, scrolling through his phone with manicured fingers.
“Next!” The barista waves us forward. “What can I get for you two?”
“We’re not together,” we say in perfect unison.
The barista’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry. You were standing so close, and you kept looking at each other. Thought you were having a lovers’ quarrel.”
“I would sooner date my aircraft’s fuel tank,” I mutter.
“I don’t want to date you,” Mr. Perfect says, then stops. His shoulders drop. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—” He clears his throat. “That was uncalled for.”
