by Mia Carter
And my sister, Eleni, is waiting for me to spill the tea.
“So…” I say, “a billionaire I talked to for approximately ten minutes just bought me a plane ticket to Finland.”
Silence. The sound of a wind chime, or possibly a Peruvian flute of some kind—Eleni must be in her office. “Honey, are you high right now?”
I laugh. “No. I’m not. I don’t think they let you on the plane if you’re—”
“Wait, are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I laugh. “One of my rides left his keys and a thumb drive in my car, and when he contacted me, he offered to fly me out to hand-deliver them. So, I decided, what the hell, I’ve always wanted to see the world—”
“Okay but, hold on, hold on, you’re actually letting a guy you just met buy you a plane ticket and fly you out to…where now?”
“Helsinki,” I say, more calmly than I feel. “It’s the capital of Finland. And the northernmost capital of any EU member state, did you know that?”
“Chloe, no,” Eleni says, as I fidget with the strap of my bag. “You have got to be shitting me. Do you know how insane this sounds?”
“I know exactly how insane this sounds, as a matter of fact. I’ve had this exact same conversation with myself, in my head, since the ticket showed up in my email.”
“You aren’t going. You can’t seriously think this is safe, going off with a stranger—”
“He’s not technically a stranger.”
“You just said he—”
“I mean, he’s not… You would know who he is,” I clarify, shifting my weight from side to side, flexing my toes in my lucky yellow Toms. “Look, you can’t tell anyone, I mean anyone, about this. The guy who dropped the keys was Logan Weiss.”
A moment of breathless silence. “No shit. The computer guy?”
“Yeah, shit,” I say. “So if my body ends up somewhere in a…fjord, you know who’s responsible.”
“I don’t think Finland has fjords,” Eleni says, oh so easily distracted by anything resembling an opportunity to beat me at Trivial Pursuit. “Lakes, I think.”
“I didn’t get below the fold on the Wikipedia page for Helsinki, so you’ll forgive me for making a minor geographical error.” I shove a loose bit of hair back behind my ear and look up at the departures board again. My flight is there still. Same gate, same time, no changes. “I’m taking a risk. Isn’t that what you keep telling me I need to do more often? You know, take chances, live a little?”
“Yeah, I said that when you bailed on me at the last minute when we were supposed to go get matching tattoos,” Eleni exclaims. “Be more adventurous is like going up to a cute guy at a bar, letting him buy you a drink. Maybe dancing with him. Making out in the corner. It doesn’t really apply to things like this!”
“I had a cold! You’re not supposed to get tattoos when you— And how is this not adventurous?” I counter. “He bought me an international plane ticket, how is that not better than a drink? Worst-case scenario, I get there, meet the guy, hand him back his keys, I go home. Boom. I don’t even have to leave the airport. If he needs the drive as much as he says he does, why would he shoot the messenger? How would that benefit him?”
“And here I always thought you were imaginative,” Eleni replies. “That’s so not the worst-case scenario.”
“Lanie, c’mon.”
“Give me a second,” she says, and I can hear the change in her tone.
I wait. My sister sighs, but I can hear her typing on her computer. I can almost picture her office in my mind as she types, the clean white walls, the wide, reclaimed-wood beams overhead, the concrete floors, all merging together in a classy, new-urban mix of industrial and Pacific Northwest. I’m pretty sure her office has both a shower and a kombucha tap.
And then she sighs again. “There is a big technical conference in Helsinki this weekend,” she says. “And Logan Weiss is down as one of the guest speakers.”
“Ha! See?”
“All that proves is that he’s going there,” she says. “That doesn’t prove he isn’t going to murder you!”
“Eleni, trust me,” I say. “I never push myself, I never go the distance. I don’t do crazy things like this. If you really think I’m going to get murdered, I will leave right now, because I trust you. But my gut is telling me that this might be the chance of a lifetime.”
And we had a connection, I want to say, but don’t. What does that even mean? He had nice eyes and a cute butt, which definitely means he’s safe?
No, I’m not saying that, either.
A pre-recorded safety announcement comes on over the loudspeakers about unattended baggage, staying alert, minding all of your luggage at all times. Not for the first time, I am reassured that, for the safety and heath of all travelers, this is a non-smoking airport.
And now my sister knows that I’m at the airport. Which means she knows she isn’t likely to talk me out of this.
“Be safe,” she says with a sigh when the message finishes. “Call me as soon as you get in, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if anything is weird…”
“I know,” I say. “I love you, too.”
First class.
The tickets he’s bought for me are first class. I’m a little giddy as I read them, tickets still warm in my hands from the printer, walking on cloud nine out to the gate.
Who sends their kidney-theft victims first class?
Logan Weiss might. But at least my kidneys will have traveled in comfort. What a way to go.
As I wait for a boarding announcement down at the gate, I dig out my phone from my bag and shoot my billionaire benefactor a quick text: Holy shit, how rich are you? First class???
A few moments later, his reply pops up on my screen: Hope everything’s to your liking.
To my liking? I can’t help but grin at this. It’s amazing.
They’ll take good care of you, he texts back. Have a safe flight. And thanks again.
What it must be like to have that kind of ease and comfort. To have so much money, things like first-class tickets and international travel are of no consequence. You could just snap your fingers and have it appear. I can’t even fathom it—Logan Weiss might as well live on another planet, our worlds are so different.
Boarding is called, and I get on the flight.
I don’t expect to be able to sleep on the way over—I can’t sleep in cars, so my hopes aren’t high for a flight—but at the very least, there’s abundant leg room, not-so-bad food, and drinks, so I think I’ll survive.
But, after the hours pass, all of the comfort and wonderful pampering of the first-class amenities slowly degrades until I’m an exhausted, weary mess of a human. I had no idea how much just sitting still in one place could take out of me, and I’ve certainly had my share of late-night study sessions and parties, but this? This takes the cake.
The one good thing about being trapped in a pressurized metal tube at 40,000 feet, hurtling toward the unknown, is that my creative output apparently flourishes under duress.
Because I can’t get up and walk the aisles the whole time, I push all of my emotions into my pen and let it come out into my sketchbook, mostly in the form of content for my little online comic.
Based around the idea of the princess in a tower who actually wants to be there, because the outside world is shit and men are disappointing and dragons are awesome, Knights in White Satin had been my outlet during art school when this professor or that one forced me to concentrate on doing things the “right” way, instead of just having fun and expressing myself. And, okay, maybe it had been a tiny bit autobiographical. The princess in question, Lady Heroine, has a best friend who’s a dragon, and both of them lament about the sorry state of knights in the kingdom. The two of them strike up a friendship.
“I just want someone to take me away from here,” Lady Heroine says, as I ink her words into the first panel with my favorite Stabilo fine-point black pen. “Not forever, but may
be for a little while.”
“Let’s go, then,” her dragon friend replies.
As we cross the windswept, raw beauty of Nunavut, the Northwestern Passages, and Greenland, I work my three-panel sketches, drawing Lady Heroine’s long braid blowing in the wind behind her, the dragon’s unfurled wings carrying both of them into the sky.
If I cannot sleep, then let me at least be productive.
Two hours. Then, one hour, fifty-nine minutes. I stare at the screen embedded in the bulkhead in front of me, focusing on the tracking of our tiny little plane as it sails around the world. It has become my only constant amid the riot currently taking place in my stomach. The food had been fine, and perhaps—merely a hypothetical, here—I had availed myself of slightly more alcohol than I should have.
But how could I have known that this bumpy patch of turbulence was going to happen? Or that I might beg for the sweet release of death, or the ability to throw up properly—either works, I’m not super picky.
My creative burst ended with the first unexpected bump of the plane. Now, I try not to grip the armrests tight enough to dent the metal as the plane does another bump-swoop-dive, and my stomach answers with a lurch.
I am not going to throw up on the plane.
Even if it’s starting to feel like the better option right now. Better out than in, right?
No.
I lift the little plastic cup of plain club soda to my lips, chancing a sip of it. Its cool effervescence slips down my throat, helping a little.
Then the plane bumps again, and half of it ends up on my shirt.
Crap.
I’m so freaking tired. My ass hurts, my hips hurt, my head hurts. I feel like someone’s gone to the fairy realm and exchanged normal me for changeling me who has been crafted purely from whining, but I can’t help it. I just want to be on the ground.
One hour, fifty-eight minutes.
Oh, come on.
When the plane finally, finally lands, I’m in no better shape at all, despite my sheer gratitude for being back on my favorite blue marble.
Worse, I’m totally out of it. Woozy and disoriented, ready to lay down on the nearest horizontal surface that’s vaguely shaped like a bed.
The floor looks kinda nice.
I shuffle through passport control. Nothing to declare, and no luggage to recover, I just need to find my way to the area where taxis pick up and then figure out where Mr. Weiss is waiting to get the keys…
Oh, right. I should probably… Yeah, he sent me a text. C’mon brain, catch up with me, here.
I wander off to the side of the airport hallway I’ve found myself in, after being disgorged from the one-way security doors. People hurry by in both directions, so I tuck myself up against the wall and pull my phone out of my bag.
Looks like your flight’s about to land, the first text from him reads, about twenty or so minutes ago. I’ll be waiting for you near the taxi pickup area. There should be signs, but call me if you don’t see it.
He’s here?
Something warm and fond and not at all related to my nausea brightens in my chest. He actually came to get me? That’s—
It’s practical, I remind myself, looking up and finding the signs along the ceiling, pointing the way to where I think he means. It’s just practical, because he flew me out here to get his keys, so it makes sense that he would want them right away.
I shoot back a quick text to him. Just got out. I think I’m heading your way.
Okay, he replies. See you soon.
Oh no.
He’s going to see me like this.
I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that I look like a drowned rat that’s been pulled through a knothole backward by the tail. My hair feels greasy and lank, my face feels either green or gray or some beautiful merger of the two colors, and I really want to shower and change clothes before I’m forced to interact with someone handsome.
But a deal is a deal, and a ride is a ride.
Besides, it’s not like I’m here to impress him or something. That would be futile, even under the best of conditions.
There. I see him.
Passing through the automatic sliding doors and into the bracingly cold and refreshing air, I step out into the shadowed waiting area where a line of taxis is parked.
Mr. Weiss is there, clad in the same suit from this morning—was it only this morning? I got on the plane just after ten at night, Portland-time, but now, after eight hours, it’s maybe around four in the afternoon. Or later… I’m so confused.
And oh, how I wish I was less confused and more able to appreciate how absolutely delicious he looks in that suit.
He looks up and notices me when I’m just a few yards away. He smiles.
Oh no. Conceal, don’t feel.
“Hey, you made it.”
I nod. “Mm-hmm yes, yes, I am here now.”
His brows furrow a little at this. Am I slurring? I feel like I’m slurring. His chest looks so wide and soft, I wonder if he’d let me just drape my entire useless body across him like he’s a sturdy boulder.
“Oh!” I say, dragging my bag off of my shoulder and handing it to him. “Hold this for a sec—”
He takes the massive bag easily in his two hands, looking down at me curiously as I tug at the zipper.
“What—?”
“Your keys,” I say. “They’re in here. I put them with my deodorant because then I wouldn’t forget to bring that, too.”
Oh my God. Some self-aware portion of my consciousness is watching this, as if from afar, and screaming at me right now. What a picture we must make: the Most Handsome Man in the World, wearing a beautiful suit and holding a floral-print bag as an Actual Literal Opossum digs out items from inside of it.
But: success!
“Here the little bastards are!” I dangle the keys off of one finger and then reach over, possibly intending to put them into the pocket of his jacket.
I’m so fucking tired.
“Are you—” he starts to ask, before looking me up and down. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I nod. Somehow, the rational portion of my brain grabs ahold of whatever part is controlling my deliriously tired mouth and absolutely does not let me wax philosophical about anything related to him and beds. My stomach clenches and for one brief but hellish moment, I am genuinely convinced that I am going to desecrate the front of his suit with first-class dining, round two.
But then it passes. Thank the maker.
Logan takes my bag, zips it back up, and helps me into the back of the taxi. He shuts the door behind me, and I get myself buckled in as he walks around the back of the car to slide in beside me.
The moment the door is closed, I lean my face against the glass and close my eyes. That’s nice. I wonder when we’re going to start driving—
“Chloe?” Mr. Weiss’s voice comes from far away. Maybe Sweden. That’s near Finland, right? Is that the one with the fjords?
“Chloe?” he says again. “I have to open the door, and you’re going to fall out.”
“What?”
“We’re here.”
Where’s here?
I open my eyes and look up into the sunlight. We’ve arrived, already, at what must be a hotel. I straighten back up, and Mr. Weiss opens the door for me. My legs are a little shaky, head still spinning as I stand up, and I feel a rush of embarrassment that I’m too tired to acknowledge as I lean on him to keep from falling over.
“Whoa,” he says, scooping me up, one arm behind my back, his other hand carrying my bag. “I was going to take you out to dinner, but let’s get you inside. You need to lie down.”
I nod at this.
“Thanks,” I say.
And inside, buried deep beneath the airsickness and the exhaustion and the disorientation, I can’t help but think, He’s a good one. I’d like to keep this one.
I smile to myself at this as he leads me inside the hotel.
Chapter Four
Logan
Chloe looks dead on her feet. Or just dead. It’s a toss-up.
And I can’t imagine leaving her alone right now, so I bypass the check-in desk entirely and take her up to my room. I can call them later, explain about her room, get her situated there when she’s feeling better. But for now?
Already half asleep as the elevator doors close, she sags a little in my arms, nuzzling against my chest. It’s absurd how not-cute this whole situation is, but a primal part of me feels a woman in my arms and knows that I can help her, provide for her. The handful of women I’ve dated casually in the past had been very clear about their boundaries, their space, what was expected. Cuddling and nuzzling hadn’t been on the menu. Not that we’re dating. Regardless, I’m certainly not going to hurt her. She can sleep it off in my bed—I’ll happily take the couch—and when she wakes, we’ll get it all sorted out.
She’s safe with me.
Upstairs, I hold her up while also negotiating my keycard out of my pocket. I get her inside. The lights are still off, and in response to the darkness, Chloe groans faintly.
“Headache?” I ask.
She nods, clearly not completely awake. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just sleep.”
She nods once more, and as soon as I get her over to the freshly turned-down bed, she curls up on it with a grateful sigh.
Moments later, she’s out.
I stand there, looking down at her, reassuring myself that I haven’t just made a very critical error and opened myself up for kidnapping charges. This was the right decision, wasn’t it? I couldn’t just leave her alone.
She’s quite pretty—perhaps not at her best at the moment—and she seems to be sleeping deeply and without distress. Well. I’m not waking her up now, anyway. I guess I’ll just have to deal with whatever happens when it happens.