Look Again

1

JOEY

There are people who love plane rides, right? People for whom air travel holds mystery and romance? Who are those people?

Not one of them was on this flight.

Not the lady sitting next to me, eyes squeezed shut and gripping both hand-rests for the entire forty-minute flight from Boston, plus preflight and for every minute until she stood up to deboard.

Certainly not the toddler sitting on his dad’s lap in the seat behind me.

Not a happy flier. Active. Strong legs. Steady beat. But not happy.

And none of the people currently waiting for the bags to arrive. I clutch my purse and look up again to read the message board above the luggage return. Nothing has changed. It still says the Boston/Logan arrival and the JFK arrival will be served “momentarily.” That’s a long word for such a small screen. A long word, and clearly a subjective one. Many, many moments have passed. Almost an hour’s worth.

My head is splitting. I need water, but I have to take a shuttle to the location of my new job, and I know that as soon as those shuttle doors close, the curse of itty-bitty bladder will rear its ugly head and I’ll need to pee. Water will have to wait.

When I close my eyes to block out the horrible flicker of fluorescent bulbs that must have been lighting this tiny regional airport since the seventies, I hear the mutter of discontent from the annoyed, frustrated passengers.

I wish I had someone to mutter to. Not that I believe complaining makes things better. I know it doesn’t. Just less lonely.

Beneath the grumbles, I hear a laugh. A deep, musical, rolling laugh. Not loud. Not booming. Flowing like an undertow. Headache forgotten, I open my eyes and look for the source. I want to capture the face making that sound. I want to photograph that laughter. Or at least the laugher.

A second later, my attention is refocused as the ancient warning alarm sounds to alert us the conveyor is about to start moving. The whole crowd surges the step and a half forward, as if it will help any of us reach our bags sooner.

All I can see is shoulders. Curse of the four-foot-eleven. I’m in a crowd staring at someone’s back. I turn sideways and push through the line until I’m standing where I can see the first bags rolling up and then off the little luggage cliff.

I take it as an excellent sign that my bag rolls off fourth, after a sparkly purple hardcase and a ratty duffle that has seen, it appears, many trips.

I lean over and reach for the bag, but an arm slips in front of me and pulls the suitcase off the belt. I feel my face furrow in annoyance. I may be shorter than most middle school students, but I can lift my own bag. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t have packed it. But I make an effort to replace my scowl with a look of gratitude as I take the case from the guy who decided I couldn’t manage it.

I reach for the handle.

And look up.

Into a delicious face. I mean, delicious. A tumble of dark hair perfectly frames deep brown eyes under what have to be professionally sculpted brows. The face ticks all the boxes.

Slight scruff from a day of travel? Check.

Jawline that someone, somewhere has surely written poetry about? Check.

Slowly building smile, growing from one side of the face to the other, showing dentist-ad teeth? Check.

But as I grip the handle and decide to be the most gracious damsel this little airport has ever seen, he glances away from me and wraps his hand around my bag’s grip.

“Hang on,” I say, hating the squeak that comes from my parched throat. “This is mine.”

He glances down and sees my hand beside his. As if he hadn’t noticed it there.

The smile disappears. Quickly and completely. “It’s not.” He turns to walk away, pulling the suitcase out of my grip.

“Wait,” I say. He doesn’t keep walking, but his back is stiff enough that I know he’s annoyed.

“Not your bag, kid,” he says, not even looking over his shoulder.

“Not a kid,” I shoot back, enough venom in my voice to poison the whole crowd.

He turns now, looks me over. A tiny change in his expression suggests that he noticed I’m an actual adult. His shoulders give a little shrug. “My mistake,” he says.