“What the hell, asshole!” I smash my foot onto the brake of my Mini Cooper as the BMW that just cut me off swerves and then rights itself. The traffic is heavy as all get-out, and I’m already late for my flight.
“Not today, Satan,” I grumble with a glance at the large red-eyed statue of a stallion that greets me as I approach the Denver airport. That thing has always given me the creeps. I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to greet travelers with a demonic horse on their way in and out of our city, but whoever it was is in desperate need of PR training.
The douchebag in the black BMW holds up their hand for the universal courtesy wave of apology. I’m not having it. I’m already late for my flight. A flight I really don’t want to be on in the first place.
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” I growl and flip the bird at the car in front of me. It’s not like they see me anyways. Traffic is hectic, and they aren’t looking. But the BMW taps its brakes twice and pulls back into the lane next to mine and slows down, hard.
"Oh, shit."
I look to my right and see a man's profile. He turns his head as his window comes down, and he holds his hand out, middle finger aloft. In the span of a moment I register dark hair, a straight nose, the shadow of a beard, and a cocky grin.
I shrink in my seat as a spike of fear shoots through me. He really wasn't supposed to see that.
Alright, no time to lose. I jump out of my car and haul my suitcase out of the trunk. It barely fit in there. It's way too big. I'm only going to be gone for a week, but I'm equipped for at least a month. Some people overpack. I pack like there might be some sort of a natural disaster and I'll have to stay forever.
After hauling my monstrosity behind me and catching the bus to the airport terminal, I go through the ridiculously complicated check-in process. All those automated machines are supposed to make things faster, but I can never get them to do what I want them to, and it ends up taking me twice as long. The terminal is packed today. It's Thursday, the very beginning of Labor Day weekend, and everyone, I mean everyone, has someplace to be.
The line stretches, zigzagging across the white linoleum floor. Harried travelers stare at their phones, leaning on one foot, then the other, sighing with impatience. Dammit. I might really miss my flight. Which might not be a bad thing. If I miss it, I won't have to go. I shouldn't be going, as Cara has told me repeatedly over the last several months.
As if she's reading my thoughts, my phone pings, and I see a text from my best friend:
Are you at the airport? I'm so so soooo sorry I couldn't make it! I'm there with you in spirit! You can do this!
I smile at the screen. Cara was supposed to be here with me as moral support, but her grandmother got sick and is in the hospital with pneumonia. So, when Cara showed up at my apartment apologizing profusely, I gave her a hug and told her that she should go be with her family and not to give it a moment's thought.
The line inches along. I crane my head, up on the toes of my sensible airport ballet flats. Easy to get on, easy to take off. I double-check that my computer is ready to place in a bin, and my phone is already in my hand, slippery with sweat from my nervous fingers. I tap out a quick message:
I'm here. Security is a nightmare. If I miss my flight, I'm not doing it.
The phone immediately pings in response:
In that case, I hope you miss your flight!