Shameless Flirt (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 0.50)

And so will I.

3

Testing with Strangers

TJ

* * *

My fortune-telling was only slightly off in that the airline didn’t lose my bag. They know exactly where it is. That place just doesn’t happen to be here.

“It seems your bag, Mister Ashford, popped off the JFK flight and hopped onto the cart for the Istanbul one,” the customer service agent chirps, describing my suitcase’s gymnastics as if it were a naughty little tyke, stealing away from its family.

I’m exhausted from the flight and raring to get the hell out of here. But I’m also keenly aware of caricatures. The last thing I want is to come across like a giant American jackass, so I decide to lean into her cheery style.

You catch more flies with honey and all.

“Yes”—I glance at her name tag—“Louise. It does seem to have a mind of its own.”

“And perhaps a longing to see Turkey?” she suggests helpfully.

“Understandable,” I say, then glance behind me. The lost luggage office is empty so I keep up the convo, hoping it helps my cause. “I’ve always wanted to visit Istanbul. Can’t blame my luggage if it wants to take a spin through the Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I do apologize, and we’ll have it on its way here soon. We can send it to your hotel or your place of residence.”

“That’d be great.” I flash a friendly smile. “Any idea when?”

“Excellent question.” She peers at the monitor in front of her. “Your globe-trotting bag is . . . wait. Hold on. Apparently, it’s on its way to Brussels first, and then to Turkey. We can send it back on a direct flight from Istanbul to Heathrow tomorrow.”

“My stowaway is taking the scenic route,” I say.

“Imagine the stories it can tell when it returns.” She then slides me a piece of paper. “Here’s a voucher for a free drink on your next flight.”

“Thanks. I appreciate this,” I say, but I appreciate something else too—her storytelling. She might be the perfect audience, so I decide to float a test balloon. I clear my throat. “If I ever write a novel with a gate agent who goes above and beyond to make a traveler laugh, I’ll call her Louise.”

Whew. That felt a little weird, like speaking a new language. But it felt good too, sharing the start of something that matters to me.

She pats her name tag. “I would be honored.”

I take the drink coupon and add it to my carry-on, then head outside, where I pause to breathe in the English air.

I hail a taxi, and when the black car pulls up and I climb inside, the driver asks, “Where to, sir?”

I give him the address of the hotel where I’ll be staying before moving into my flat tomorrow. As the cab pulls away from the curb, I surreptitiously sniff my shirt. I could use a shower. A second later, a jaw-cracking yawn says a shower isn’t the only thing I need. Jet lag wallops me, and my eyes float closed.

The next thing I hear is the squeal of tires as the driver brakes then accelerates, darting through London traffic.

I rub my eyes, turning my head from side to side to stare out the windows. A red double-decker bus obscures the view to the right, but on the left, a steady stream of people files out of the Piccadilly Circus Underground Station and onto the street. I must have snoozed the whole way into the city.

A grin takes me hostage at the sights around me. This is not a tourist grin. This is not a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed smile. This is the optimism of opportunity.

A deep rightness settles over me, the sense I’m where I’m meant to be.

Ever since my visit ten years ago, I’ve wanted to return, to experience London in new ways. I want to learn its secrets, maybe even unravel some of my own. I want to sit on a park bench and stare at the gardens as words and worlds unfold in my head. Or maybe I’ll grab a seat in a coffee shop and look out the window at the rain and then the fog while I’m off somewhere else in my mind, spinning a tale.

“Looks like we’re right in the heart of London,” I say to the cabbie as the traffic slows to a crawl.

“Indeed. Almost there.” The driver turns toward the hotel, the sign above the roundabout entrance beckoning. “What brings you to London?”

That’s a simple enough question. “Work. I write for a news organization, and I’m relocating to the branch here.”

“Excellent. Make sure to check out Big Ben if you’re not working too hard,” he says. “And the London Eye.”

“Definitely,” I say as he pulls up in front of the hotel entrance.

It’s one-thirty on a Saturday. My fingers grip the handle of the cab door, ready to open it so I can climb out, but an impulse seizes me. It’s an urge to take a step further than I did with Louise, to say what I didn’t tell my brother on the way to the airport in New York.