I take a deep breath. “It was … it was a whole lot of things. Way too many responsibilities, insane stress levels that she kept hidden from almost everyone, and parents who were too distracted by their own work to notice any of it. My dad’s an overworked high school teacher and my mom runs a lab at a biotech company. I mean, they’re good parents, but they get really busy and then they miss a lot of stuff. So when this thing happened right after Julia’s finals, I think something inside her just … snapped. So she left.”
I look up to see if Aiden gets what I’m trying to say. I know it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of my sister, but for some reason, I care what he thinks.
“How did you two end up close then?” he asks. “I assume you’re close, since you just spent three weeks with her and you didn’t want to leave.”
“I kept sending her emails after she left. Eventually she started responding. I think she liked that I wrote about random stuff. Everyone else wanted to know why she left and where exactly she was and when she was planning to come home. I figured she didn’t want to talk about that, so I didn’t ask. Anyway, somehow I ended up feeling closer to her after she left than I ever did when she lived at home. So in a weird sort of way, I’m glad she ran away.”
Aiden nods. “I used to be close to my sister like that.”
“But not anymore?”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t elaborate.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Here I am rambling on about my family, and I haven’t asked you anything about yours.”
“There isn’t much to say. It’s just me, my mum, and my sister.”
“And all the relatives you’re meeting up with in South Africa.”
“And all of them.”
I notice he doesn’t say anything about his father. Should I ask? Would it be rude to ask? Would it be rude not to ask? Ugh, how did I become so socially inept?
“Tell me about your other sister, Sophie,” Aiden says, changing the subject.
So I tell him about Sophie’s paintings and her digital art and her beautifully detailed doodles, and before I know it, we’re beginning our descent. My stomach drops along with the plane. Aiden becomes more anxious on the outside—fingers tapping, knees bouncing—and I become more anxious on the inside. The ground grows closer. Closer. Closer.
Touchdown.
It smells like home. It feels like home. The air isn’t just warmer, it’s almost … thicker. Fuller. Heavy with moisture. The moment my feet touch the runway surface, I pull off my jersey. No doubt I’ll be complaining about the heat and humidity soon enough, but for now I relish the feel of late afternoon sun on my skin. I imagine drawing the moisture-filled air closer around me like an old, comforting blanket.
And I try not to think about Matt.
Inside the airport, we’re directed towards passport control. South African passengers on one side; foreign passengers on the other. As Aiden separates from my side to join the rest of the foreigners, the terrifying thought that I may never see him again paralyzes me for a moment.
“See you on the other side,” he says cheerfully, squeezing my arm before stepping away from me. “Look out for my suitcase. It has a bright pink ribbon on it.”
Relieved, I start laughing. “You joke,” I say, “but my suitcase actually does have a pink ribbon tied to it.”
I wait for what feels like forever in the South African queue, watching the short foreigner queue rapidly getting shorter. After Aiden disappears on the other side of the passport counter, I grow more and more agitated. If his suitcase comes through before mine, what reason does he have to wait for me? If the person fetching him sends a message to say they’re waiting, he’d have to leave, wouldn’t he? And he’d have no way to let me know. He’d disappear into the crowded airport and I’d never see him again. Of course, I’ll probably never see him again after today anyway, but I still want to say goodbye.
When I’ve finally had my passport checked by a thoroughly disinterested woman, I hurry through to the baggage claim area, dragging my carry-on suitcase behind me. I get myself a trolley, lift my small bag onto it, and push it towards the correct carousel as quickly as I can. Of course, I managed to pick the trolley that has wonky wheels that keep trying to make me turn left, so it takes longer than it should.
After scanning the crowd for a while, I find Aiden lifting a dark blue duffel bag off the carousel. I steer my rebellious trolley towards him. “Oh, hey, you made it,” he says when he looks up and sees me. “There’s a plain black suitcase with a pink-and-white striped ribbon that’s done a few rounds on the carousel. Might that be yours?”
“Yes, that’s mine.”
We wait for it to come around again, and Aiden hoists it onto my trolley. We steer our way through the people still waiting for their luggage and head towards the sliding doors, and even though these are my last few minutes with Aiden, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence between us, “my loving aunt sent me a message just now to say she’ll be at the pick-up area in twenty minutes, and that if I’m not there waiting for her, she’ll leave without me.”
“How welcoming of her.”
“Indeed. Do you want to wait with me, or is someone coming inside for you?”
Yes, I want to wait with you!
We pass through the sliding doors and enter the sea of people waiting eagerly for their loved ones. I look down so I don’t have to meet anyone’s gaze. I hate how people stare hungrily every time those doors open. They’re all watching, waiting, hoping. I don’t want to see their disappointment when they realise I’m not the one they’re waiting for.
“Um, sorry,” I say to Aiden, remembering he asked me a question, “but my mom has this theory that the drop-off area is never as busy as the pick-up area, so she told me to wait up there for her.”
“Okay.” Is it my imagination, or does Aiden sound a little sad that I won’t be waiting with him? “Is her theory correct?” he asks.
I shrug as we reach a quieter area next to an elevator and bring our trolleys to a halt. “Maybe. Probably.”
“Moms know best, right?” he says with a wink.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.”
“Uh huh.” I match his smile and try to figure out a way to casually say something like, ‘Hey, we should stay in contact. What’s your number?’ or ‘Hey, are you on Facebook? We should connect,’ without sounding like a needy stalker creep. But since I’ve never asked a guy for his number before, I’m not sure how to do it. How does everyone else do it? Do they just ask? Isn’t that weird? Maybe I’m just weird.
“Sarah?” he says.
“Yeah?” I force myself to look up into his eyes.
“Why were you crying?”
My heart leaps up into my throat. “W-what?”
He watches me carefully. “When I first sat down on the plane, you were crying.”
“I …” I swallow, trying to think of something to say. A joke. Denial. A way to lighten the suddenly serious atmosphere between us. But the look in his eyes is so genuine, so caring, that there’s no way I can lie to him. I look down at my shoes. “I didn’t want to come home,” I say. “My life feels kind of messed up at the moment, and I didn’t want to have to deal with … the people here.”
I close my eyes. Fabulous. I can’t very well ask him if he wants to stay in contact after admitting I’m a messed up freak. He’ll probably nod slowly, write down a fake number, and back away as quickly as he can.
The next thing I feel is a pair of arms around me. Strong, yet gentle. Comforting. “Don’t worry,” Aiden says into my ear. “Everyone’s life gets messed up sometimes. Look at me: I’m still figuring out how to be an aeroplane passenger without curling into the foetal position and rocking slowly while muttering ‘Please don’t explode’ over and over.” He withdraws his arms and steps away while I try to act naturally, as if guys I barely know hug me all the time and I’m totally cool with it.
“Enjoy what holiday you still have left,” he says, “and keep writing that book. The one you almost missed a flight for. I bet it’ll be a bestseller one day.”
He gives me one last grin, turns away, and heads towards the door that’ll take him outside to the pick-up area. And I fight the urge to run after him screaming ‘Please come back!’ like a mad woman.
I watch him until he’s gone. Then I take a deep breath, pull my phone out of my bag, unlock the screen, and stare at the picture of Jules and me. The phone is still on aeroplane mode, the way it’s been for the entire time I was away. I wanted to use it for the camera and my music, but I didn’t want to risk having any messages come through. I used Julia’s computer to check email and Facebook a few times, and if Mom wanted to get hold of me, she contacted Julia. All my friends knew I was away, so they didn’t expect me to reply to texts. The only person I really did want to hear from was also the person I really didn’t want to hear from, which is the main reason my phone is still in non-communication mode.
Matt.
But I can’t avoid him any longer. Plus I need to let my mother know I’ve landed and need a lift home.
I navigate to my phone settings and turn off aeroplane mode. Then I switch my phone to silent so I don’t have to listen to all the dings and beeps and trills as my phone receives every email, text, Facebook notification, tweet and every other kind of message it missed over the last three weeks.
I grip my phone tightly in my hand and cross my arms. I watch the people around me as I let myself think about Matt for the first time since I left.
My boyfriend?
My ex-boyfriend?
How did I get to the point where I don’t even know if Matt and I are still together? Worse still, how did I get to the point where I don’t even know if I want to be with him anymore? If he stood in front of me right now and said, ‘It’s up to you, Sarah. Should we end this, or should we stay together?’ I’d have no idea what to say.
I take another deep breath and force myself to look at my phone. I scroll through all the unread messages, my eyes searching for Matt’s name.
Nothing. Not a single message.
I swallow, blink, and look around. I guess it really is over between us. I suppose it couldn’t be any other way, not after the things we said to each other the night before I left. I try to figure out how I feel about our break-up—the end of a two-year relationship—but I can’t feel much besides tiredness and a hint of nausea and that unmistakable aloneness.
I quickly type a message to my mom, then press the elevator button. I slip the phone back into my handbag.
“Hey, you’re still here.”
Startled, I turn and find Aiden right beside me. “Hey. Yeah.”
“I remembered I still have your book,” he says, handing over the offensively pink novel. “I’d hate for you never to find out how it ends.”
With my heart pounding in a way that makes my voice sound oddly breathless, I take hold of the book. “I’ve already predicted the ending, remember?”
His dimple shows up as he smiles. “But you still need to get to the end to make sure your predictions are correct.”
“Of course.”
I try to take the book from him, but he doesn’t let go. He leans closer to me, tilting his head to the side a little.
Wait. What’s happening? Is he—
His lips press firmly against mine.
And my brain blanks out yet again.
As if I have no control over my body, my eyes slide shut and my hand slips away from the trolley and finds Aiden’s arm. My grip tightens—one hand on the book and the other fisted around his sleeve—and I pull myself closer to him, willing him never to let go, willing everyone around us to disappear, willing time itself to stand still.
All too soon, Aiden detaches himself from me and steps back. He smiles a smile I don’t understand, turns, and hurries away. I sway a little and grab onto my trolley for support. Why is he leaving? Why didn’t he say anything? And where are his bags? He didn’t leave them outside unattended, did he?
Without having decided to, I find myself pushing my trolley forwards. Faster and faster, wiggling from side to side as I fight with that STUPID wheel that wants me to turn left. I skid through the open doors and yank my trolley to a halt. My eyes flick across the waiting cars and travellers, barely seeing anything as I search for that one person with the dark hair and the tan jacket and—
I see him. Climbing into a car. Pulling the door shut.
The car moves forwards. Away. Around the corner.
Gone.
I let out a long breath, deflating like a popped balloon. This makes NO sense. Who kisses someone like that and then doesn’t say anything? What am I supposed to do now? What did it mean? Unless … unless it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Unless it was just a crazy goodbye.
I look down and find I’m still holding the pink book in one hand—probably one of the reasons I was struggling to push the trolley straight. I slide it inside my handbag and turn the trolley around. I head slowly back inside and wait by the elevator until the doors glide open. The elevator carries me upward while I play that kiss over and over in my mind. I can barely believe I did that. It took me three dates before I worked up the courage to let Matt close enough for a kiss, yet there I was not only letting a guy I hardly know kiss me, but kissing him back. Pulling him closer. Not wanting it to end.
I push my trolley out of the elevator, across the airport floor, and out to the drop-off area. Cars come and go, but—as usual—Mom was right. It isn’t that busy up here. I look for her blue Polo but don’t see it, which means I’m alone with my thoughts for another few minutes.
Great. Now would be a good time for my mind to go blank.
Don’t think about the guy who seems to no longer be your boyfriend.
Don’t think about the guy you just kissed and will never see again.
Don’t think about the sister you miss so much it makes you want to cry.
I open my handbag and pull out my book. I flip absentmindedly through it, trying to remember which page I was on. Reading is usually an excellent distraction, but the problem with this book is that I can no longer look at it without thinking of Aiden. I snap it shut as someone walks up to me.
I drop the book as my stomach falls through my toes and leaves my body entirely.
“Surprise!” says Matt.
Surprise?
What the …
I don’t …
Is he kidding me?
Matt, looking perfectly groomed in a shirt and jeans, steps around the side of my trolley and gives me a peck on the cheek. He bends and picks up my fallen book, then says, “How was your flight?”
“I … um …” Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’m still asleep on the plane and everything that’s happened since we landed has just been a ridiculous dream. “I … I thought my mom was—”
“Oh, yeah, your mom and I thought it would be a nice surprise if I came to fetch you instead.” Matt runs a hand through his neat, sandy coloured hair before pushing my trolley towards his car—which, it appears, managed to pull up in front of me without my noticing.
“I’m so confused right now,” I mumble, but Matt doesn’t seem to hear me as he loads my luggage into the boot. I get into the front passenger seat and put my seatbelt on, but still I don’t wake up. I’m forced to face the horrifying fact that all of this is, indeed, happening.
“So tell me all about your holiday,” Matt says as he turns his key in the ignition and pulls his car out of the parking space. I stare at him. We haven’t exchanged a word since the night before I left, and now he’s sitting next to me pretending it never happened? “Did you manage to get to all the places on your Top Tourist Destinations in London list?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to my state of shock and confusion.
Since there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do, I haltingly tell Matt about the places Julia and I visited. Before long, he starts filling in my silent gaps with stories
of his own visits to London, leaving me to watch the sugar cane fields rushing past and occasionally adding ‘Uh huh’ or ‘Oh yeah, I saw that too’ or some other appropriate comment.
As we turn off the highway and head through the streets that lead to my home, I imagine how different this drive would be if Aiden were beside me, seeing all of this for the first time. What would he think of the casino ‘kingdom’ in the middle of the sugar cane? What would he think of the minibus taxis blasting their music as they swerve around us and screech away at double the speed limit? Would he comment on how early the sun goes down compared to an English summer? The humidity? The space? And—as we turn into Girvan Avenue—what would he think of the fact that I live opposite an old, rundown cemetery? Would he think it’s creepy? Cool? Not important at all? Would he be commenting on how large everyone’s gardens are compared to the tiny backyards in London?
“… more books than I’ve ever seen in one place,” Matt says at he parks in front of the gate to my house. “I knew you’d love it. You did go there, didn’t you?”
“Hmm? Sorry?” I pull my gaze from the window and focus on Matt.
“Foyles. That giant bookstore in Charing Cross Road.”
“Oh, yes. It was one of the first places Jules took me to.”
The gate starts rolling open—Mom must have been on the lookout for us—as Matt jumps out the car and goes to the boot to fetch my luggage. I undo my seatbelt and climb out slowly. I breathe deeply and remind myself not to do anything weird, like start crying.
“Hey, are you feeling okay?” Matt asks. He slams the boot shut and wheels both suitcases to my side. “You’ve been very quiet. Did you get any sleep on the plane?”
“Uh, some.” I rub my eyes and follow him up the driveway. “But, yeah, I’m quite tired.”
Mom runs down the path from the front door, past Matt, and wraps me in a tight hug. “Welcome home!” she sings in my ear.
I hug her back and say, “You know I was only gone for three weeks, right?”
“Yes, yes,” she steps back and examines me—for what? Could I really change that much in three weeks? “But you know I miss my chickens when they’re not home.” She gives me another quick hug, then pulls me up the path. “Aunt Maggie and Uncle Tom are coming for dinner, and I cooked Mexican. Your favourite. Will you be joining us, Matt?” she asks as we step through the front door to where Matt is leaning my suitcases against the wall.
The Trouble with Flying Page 5