Page 11 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Chapter 5
Thanks entirely to Jacklyn packing for me, I make my self-imposed goal of arrival at JFK by six forty-fivep.m.Now do I have the slightest idea what occupies the large suitcase I lug behind me in addition to my carry-on duffel bag and daily tote? Not even a little bit. However, planted there in the teeny-tiny overlapping sliver on the Venn diagram of mine and Jacklyn’s shared attributes is our propensity for extreme thoroughness and razor-sharp attention to detail. (Come to think of it, maybe her bedroom skills aren’t that big of a mystery after all.) Not thatI’mdisplaying either of those qualities today. But they’re there; I swear it. Regardless, I have the utmost confidence that Jacklyn packed my belongings competently.
Thirty minutes later, after checking my bag and making it through the uncharacteristically short—yet always anxiety-producing—security checks, I move down the crowded terminal toward my gate, considering if there’s anything worse than the high-stakes pressure of standing in sock feet to collect yourbelongings while a New York TSA agent rushes you along. I’ve never developed the skill of sliding my sneakers on without having to retie the laces, and no matter how many friendly smiles or self-deprecating looks of apology I send their way, the TSA agents never seem to have anything for me in return other than a look of judgment and a nerve-rackingMove along, please.
Sometimes I even have airport nightmares. Ones where I’m about to miss my flight because I’m stuck in the security line while one agent gruffly insists I place my duffel in a plastic bin, but another demands it go directly on the conveyor belt. I’m frozen in carry-on purgatory while both agents stare at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. I usually wake drenched in sweat.
Blowing a calming breath through pursed lips, I pass by a Dunkin’ Donuts and try to collect myself. At the very least, I should have an hour minimum before Ben’s arrival.
Ben.
As his image pixilates in my head, the absurd reality of the situation hits me with such force I stop in my tracks. Which is the exact wrong move for a busy airport terminal, and an elderly woman collides with my shoulder and knocks my tote bag to the ground. Letting out a string of curses, the older woman continues on her way while I bend to collect my bag and the items that have spilled onto the floor.
“So sorry,” I call in her direction. Despite my sincerity, my apology earns me only her middle finger in response. God, I love this city.
Flustered and sweaty, I arrive at my gate—or what will eventually be my gate once it’s remotely close to boarding time. Placing my belongings in one of the numerous empty chairs, I roll myhead from side to side to release the coiled-up tension in my neck and shoulders. The best thing I can do right now is regain some semblance of control, and to do that, I need to sit down, open my laptop, and finally do some much-needed research on the enigmatic locale of Iceland. As a last-minute replacement, the itinerary and accommodations have all been hand-selected by Suki. Adventurous, up-for-anything Suki. Which means I desperately need to figure out what I’ve gotten myself into.
Research would likely be easier to accomplish in one of the swanky lounges I learned the Internationals atAround the Globehave unlimited priority access to thanks to Suki’s email. Yet another perk us Locals aren’t given. (Jacklyn wassopissed when I told her.) However, I am not the kind of loosey-goosey person who can relax with my eyes off the gate a mere two hours and twenty-seven minutes before departure. What if I got distracted by the free stuff and forgot about my flight? Not to mention, I’ve never had lounge privileges before (thanks,Cal), so I’m not entirely sure how to access it, and I certainly wasn’t going to embarrass myself by following up with Suki about something probably everyone knows. I mean, is there a list to get in that’s monitored by an airport bouncer? Would I need to show proof of my employer? Should I have brought a pay stub? No, thank you. I don’t need this added worry in my life.
Glancing around for the nearest charging station, my eyes skitter across the terminal, only to come to an abrupt halt on a familiar set of shoulders covered in the same charcoal gray utility jacket he wore outside my parents’ house Friday night.
Ben sits hunched over a well-polished bar with his hand curled around a crystal tumbler of amber liquid.
Well, fuck.
I could ignore him, but that would signify that I’m bothered enough to ignore him. And I amnotbothered. At least not that he knows anyway. If we’re going to get through this trip together, and if I stand any chance of recruiting him toAround the Globe, then I need to be the friendly, affable, people-pleasing version of myself who Calvin thinks I am. I manage to pull it off every day at work, so how hard can it be with Ben?
With a huffy sigh, I gather my tote and duffel over my shoulder once more and make my way to the low-lit, classy-for-an-airport bar. No sports memorabilia or cable news stations in sight, only gleaming teak countertops, leather-upholstered stools, and bartenders in white button-ups manhandling shiny glass bottles as they mix alcohol-laced concoctions. Several customers are scattered about, including a rowdy group of bloodshot-eyed men in business attire who are absolutely plastered and undoubtedly up to no good. The seat to Ben’s right is open, so I slide onto the barstool and clear my throat.
Casting a side glance my way, Ben registers my appearance, and my pulse ramps up as he regards me with a clear jolt of surprise. Posture lengthening, he pushes away the tumbler of what I presume to be straight whiskey.
“Mona,” he says, “you’re early.”
“Not early.” I hang my tote on the back of my barstool, tucking my duffel under the bar with my sneaker. “Prompt. I like to be prompt.”
“I remember.”
A bartender approaches, brow raised in question.
Ben’s comments shouldn’t irk me the way they do, pricklingunderneath my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. The fact is, he did know me for a very,verylong time. But the bitterness over the way things ended is still a tough pill to swallow. Maybe if he’d given me some explanation,anyexplanation, I wouldn’t feel this hostility toward him fourteen years after the fact. Because that’s all these feelings are: hostility, resentment, disappointment. For one more person in my life who decided I wasn’t that special after all. I know I shouldn’t hold a grudge all these years later, but whoever saidTime heals all woundswas a goddamn liar.
I reply to the bartender’s unspoken question with a petty, “Nothing for me, thanks. I don’t drink on the job.”
So much for affable Mona.
The bartender gestures at Ben’s almost-empty glass. “Another?”
“I’ll just have water,” he says, properly chastised.
We sit in silence until the bartender returns and places a tall glass of ice water on a napkin in front of us.
“So,” Ben ventures, breaking the awkward stalemate between us, “are you ready for this?”
The question of all questions. Short answer: no. Perhaps that’s another reason I’m so defensive right now. I’ve been unfocused all weekend. Hell, if it wasn’t for Jacklyn, I’d probably be standing here with random belongings shoved in a Hefty trash bag. The staggering departure from my overly planned, thoroughly researched self is unsettling at best, truly disturbing when I consider the fact that I’m not sure I showered today.
I can’t blame Ben entirely though. While he has undoubtedly been occupying a large portion of my mind, there are numerous items fighting for equal attention. The result: My brain is bouncing from topic to topic like an overstimulating game of Ping-Pong.Iceland. Memories from my past. Calvin’s expectation of me to recruit Ben to the company. Writing the best goddamn article of my life.
All the noise overwhelms me, leaving me unable to focus on any single item.
