“Milana!”
The scream isn’t appreciated at this moment, high decibels echoing inside my sore head, causing my eyes to flinch from the repeated agony. A frantic Emerson barrels through the entrance dressed in her nighty with her hair looking like a bird’s nest.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
My mouth tastes awful, laced with metallic something and incredibly dry. I clear my throat, and above a whisper, ask, “Do you have to be so loud?”
“We have to get out of here… now.”
“Why?” I move my body that seems to ache all over. I recall the sangria and the dancing. Salsa, cha-cha, and perhaps, if my memory is accurate, the tango.
“What
happened?”
“Our flight got moved forward. We need to leave in thirty minutes.”
In a state of panic, all my senses are on alert. Thirty minutes? I look at my room, an empty suitcase and clothes are strewn everywhere.
My head, my eyes—the pain intensifies.
“Thirty minutes? But I thought we had four hours?”
“No, we don’t. Now hurry.”
She runs out of the room, the same time I hurl into the bowl one more time. This will be the very last time I consume any alcohol, I swear. I want to cry. I need someone to hold me and tell me that everything will feel better soon.
An overdramatic Milana needs to shut the fuck up and get the hell out of here.
I turn the shower on, scramble to find any clothes which happen to be a pair of jeans, my Chucks, and an unironed shirt. It doesn’t matter. We will fly through the airport so quickly that no one will notice me anyway.
By the time we get to the airport, I feel slightly better having taken some Advil and Gatorade. My hair is annoying me, so I twist it into a bun, wishing I had put on some makeup since my face looks so pale and tired. The dark circles beneath my eyes make it look ten times worse.
JFK is surprisingly quiet this morning, not like the mad rush when we arrived here. Our driver unloads our bags as three security guards stand by, ready to assist us with checking in.
As soon as the automatic doors open, there’s cameras in my face flashing with bright lights, blinding and forcing my eyes to flinch, people yelling my name, loud noises, people crowding my personal space with microphones. My heart rate accelerates, and my chest tightens from the claustrophobia. I look over to Emerson in a panic. I don’t compute.
Why are they surrounding me and not her?
And then through all the noise, I hear one person shout into my face, “How long have you been in a relationship with Wesley Rich?”
Then, the others follow suit.
“Are you pregnant with Rich’s baby?”
“Is it true that you’re having an affair with Wesley and left your boyfriend?”
Amongst the hysteria, I look over to Emerson again, her expression fallen as the words resonate with her. I want to talk to her in private, but there’s an onslaught of paparazzi. Our overprotective security guards fight them off, shielding our bodies while scurrying us toward the terminal and straight to boarding the flight.
What the hell just happened?
How did they find out?
It’s only when I sit down that I notice Emerson isn’t behind me. I stand, searching, worried and confused. Hank, a younger bodyguard, answers my question before I even ask.
“She’s in a private room. They’ll board her last.”
“Oh,” I mouth, sitting down, disappointed.