by Katia Rose
“That’s sweet,” she says, to my relief, “but you better get a move on. I’ll need your passport to start with. I hope you spontaneously decided to bring that as well.”
I swear under my breath. Despite how many people have told me it’s unsafe and stupid, I keep my passport in the glove compartment of my car, the car that is currently sitting at the opposite end of the Parking Lot that Stretches Off Into Eternity.
“I’ll be right back!” I call over my shoulder, already booking it out of the airport after glancing at the clock.
I make the sprint of my life across the asphalt and barely even slow down as I yank the passenger side door open and pull my passport out. I’m panting and red-faced by the time I make it back into the lobby, and so out of breath all I can do is slam the passport down on the counter and lean forward to brace my hands on my thighs as the check-in lady gets to work.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me. “I held your seat. There were several other desperate boyfriends chasing after their Portuguese girlfriends that came in while you were gone, but I turned them all away.”
I force out a laugh between my heaving breaths.
“Okay, I’ll just need your method of payment now, Mr. Penn.”
She tells me what the price is and I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me all over again. I’m going to be paying this off for months. I almost consider giving up and walking away, but then I shake my head. Whatever pushed me to get this far isn’t going to just stop and let me go now.
“Well,” I wheeze, as I hand over my credit card, “I sure hope she’s happy to see me.”
A few minutes later I’m careening down to the security check, boarding pass in hand. The corral of barricades is as swamped as ever and I stand at the very back, tapping my foot and trying to keep from staring at the giant clock on the wall. I’ve made about two inches of progress in line when a voice crackles onto the airport loudspeaker.
“All passengers heading to Lisbon on flight AC17, please make your way to gate six. We’ll be preparing to board soon.”
I crane my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the metal detectors and bag check, but the line seems to go on forever. I won’t make it in time.
“Excuse me!” I shout, to the room at large. A few heads turn towards me and then look away. I clear my throat and try again. “EXCUSE ME!”
I get a bit more attention with that.
“The, um, the woman I probably love a lot is getting on that flight,” I continue, my voice raised enough to echo, “and right now she hates me and I don’t know when I’ll see her again. I know this is a weird and selfish thing to ask, but I’m not going to make it to her in time. I need to get to the front of this line.”
I stare into a crowd of blank faces. Everyone seems either too stunned or too uncomfortable to do anything. Then someone I can’t see shouts “OI!” and people start shuffling around as a person farther up in the line makes their way back towards me.
“Part like the red sea, you wankers! This man needs to speak with the love of his life!”
The voice is husky like a smoker’s, with a thick cockney accent. Whoever it is keeps shouting and bulldozing their way through the line until I’m face to face with a tiny punk rock chick who’s barely tall enough to stand level with my chest. She’s wearing plaid pants under a ripped Misfits t-shirt, and I don’t know what’s more noteworthy about her head: how many piercings she has in it, or the spiked green Mohawk that stands up straight from her skull like some kind of fin.
“Come on, mate!” she shouts, and I’m shocked that someone so small can make that much noise. “We’re getting you to the front of this line.”
Before I have time to react, she takes hold of my arm in a vice-like grip and starts dragging me through the crowd.
“Step aside, plebs. This man’s on a right divine mission for the gods of amore. You heard me, chaps. DIVINE MISSION! Now move your arse.”
She ploughs through a group of businessmen who looked like they were about to offer some kind of resistance before she charged right through them without a second glance. I’m pulled along behind her, stumbling a bit as I try to keep up.
This is officially the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Make way! Make way! Make way if you believe in love!”
Somehow she manages to get us all the way up to the security check point before we’re stopped by a very large guy in a very official looking vest. He steps in front of us, holding up both hands.
“Excuse me miss, but you can’t cut through the line like this.”
“I don’t think you understand, bruv,” answers the punk girl. “The love of his life’s about to fly off to god knows where, and all this man wants to do is tell her how he feels. Are you really gonna stop him? What’s the world even come to?” She lets go of my arm and starts waving her hands around in the air.
“I’m going to need you to calm down miss, and you’ll both need to head to the back of the line or I’ll have you removed.”
Punk girl puts her hands on her hips. “We’re already at the front. All these people want to see this man succeed. The will of the people stands behind him. Don’t it, mates?”
She turns to stare at the family in line behind us and glares until they give a few sheepish nods.
The guard sighs and shakes his head. “Next time you wait like everyone else. If I see you doing any other disruptive things, you’re out of this airport, understand?”
He steps aside and then I’m being tugged along by the arm again.
“Uh, thanks,” I manage to say, as the tiny punk hoists a tattered backpack onto the conveyor belt leading to the nearest bag scanner. “That was very nice of you. Very unexpected and weird, but also very nice.”
She shrugs. “I was just late for my flight, mate, but good luck with the girl.”
I was so wrapped up in the weirdness of the past few minutes I almost forgot why I’m here. I rush through the remainder of the security check and finally make it out to the gates.
Six. Number six.
I scan the signs indicating where I should go and take off running down the crowded corridor. A guard shouts at me to slow down and I force myself to speed-walk for a few moments before breaking out into a sprint again the second he’s out of sight.
Why are the smallest gate numbers farthest away? That doesn’t even make sense.
I pass under a huge overhead board with all the upcoming flight information. A quick glance tells me the Lisbon flight is boarding now. I run faster.
When I get to gate six, everyone is already in line to get on the plane. I slow to a walk and scan the dozens of people clutching boarding passes, searching for her telltale mass of hair. I spot her standing just three people from the front. One of her hands clutches the handle of a small, navy blue suitcase. She has her back to me, but I know it’s her.
“Christina!” I shout.
She turns and I watch her look around in confusion before her eyes land on me. Her mouth falls open.
“Christina!” I call again. My feet feel frozen to the spot and I don’t think I can move any closer.
She steps out of the line and heads towards me, suitcase wheeling along behind her. There’s nothing in her expression but confusion.
“Aaron?” she asks, when she’s close enough that she doesn’t need to shout. “I don’t...What are you...”
She trails off, looking me up and down and then glancing behind me, as if she’s trying to determine whether or not I’m really here.
“I needed—” I have to stop and swallow down the lump in my throat. “I needed to see you.”
“How did you know I was here?” Her eyes are wide. “How did you even get in here? What did—”
I cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. Look, Christina, I know you don’t want to listen to me. I didn’t come here to make you listen. I just want you to look.”
I’m still holding the folder of photos, miraculously intact after all the running around an
d battling through crowds. I hold it out and she takes it in her hands.
“What is this?”
“Just look.”
She opens the folder and I keep my eyes fixed on her face, waiting for a reaction as she stares at the first image. Her features don’t give anything away and I hold my breath as she shifts to the next photo, lifting the folder higher and leaning forwards so that her hair blocks whatever expression she now wears from my view.
She shuffles through each of the images, and by the time she’s done her hands have started to shake, but without seeing her face I can’t tell if she’s trembling with anger or something else.
“Aaron,” she says in a soft voice, without lifting her head up, “these are—”
“The truth,” I tell her firmly. “Whatever you see in those photos, it’s the truth. That’s how I feel about you. I can’t lie when I’m behind a camera.”
She finally straightens up and shakes her hair out of the way. Tears cloud her eyes, but I stare past them, pinning her gaze with mine.
“Christina,” I begin, thankful my voice somehow isn’t shaking, “I’m going to tell you something, something I’ve told very few people about. That girl in the photos you saw, her name was Tiffany. Tiff. She died just over a year ago.”
Christina’s hand flies to cover her mouth. “Oh god, Aaron,” she murmurs, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry. You deserved to know, before I let things between you and I go so far. You were right, you know. Whether or not she was alive, I wasn’t ready to move on. You...You made me want to be, though. You made me feel like I could be.”
Christina just nods, her hand still clamped over her mouth.
“It messed me up, losing her. I’m still pretty messed up about it. I’m sorry I ended up hurting you because of it. I don’t expect you to want to deal with all that. That’s not what I’m here to ask you to do. I just wanted you to know. I just wanted you to see”— I gesture to the pictures she still has clutched in one hand— “that I do care about you, and admire you, and...like you. A lot.”
“Aaron...”
She drops her hand from her mouth and closes the folder, offering it back to me. My chest starts to cave in when I realize she doesn’t want them. I turn my head to the side, staring down at the dark blue airport carpeting.
“They’re yours,” I tell her, my voice hollow. “You can throw them out of you want, but they’re yours.”
She lets out an exasperated huff. “Take the god damn pictures, Aaron. I’m about to climb you like a tree and I don’t want them to get wrecked.”
I look back at her and find that she’s crying and smiling at the same time. I’m too stunned to move, and she rolls her eyes before setting the folder down on her suitcase and closing the gap between us. She throws her arms around my neck and before I can even process what’s going on, her lips find mine.
My eyes close and the pressure of her mouth, the shape of it as it moulds with mine, is so sweet and familiar that it jolts my brain into responding. I grip her hips with both my hands, bunching up the fabric of her shirt. When she leans harder into me and shifts herself up onto the balls of her feet, I take the queue to grab hold of her thighs and lift her up so she can wrap her legs around me.
I forget that we’re in an airport. I forget that there’s a line of passengers standing only a few feet away from us. I forget that Christina’s about to get on a plane and that I just blew a quarter of all my savings away so I could reach her. All I’m aware of is the heat of her body, the taste of her tongue as I tease it with mine, and the thumping bass of my heartbeat as it pounds out the happiness I feel coursing through all of my veins.
She feels so right in my arms, like she fills up spaces I didn’t even know were empty. The fact that I almost lost this, almost forfeited the chance to ever feel this again, makes me hold her even tighter against me.
We break apart, panting for air, as a voice announces the last boarding call for Christina’s flight. Turning towards the gate, I see that the line has disappeared. The attendant who made the announcement is giving us a pointed stare. Christina just laughs and lets her feet slide back down to the ground, though her arms stay wrapped around my neck.
“I have to get on that flight,” she says, giving me a dazed grin, “but now I kind of don’t want to.”
I reach up and lift her arms away, stepping back so I have room to dig around in my pocket. I fish out my boarding pass and hand it to her.
“Does this change how you feel?”
Her eyes scan the details on the ticket and she gasps. “How did you...How?”
I shrug, trying to play it casual. “How? I’m Aaron Penn, Peaches. That’s how.”
She throws her hands up in the air and lets out a string of vehement sounding Portuguese words, then reaches over and punches me in the arm.
“Hey!” I shout. “I told you, that hurts like a bitch.”
“Good,” she grunts, giving me a second punch.
I’m saved from earning myself any permanent injuries when another announcement comes on. “This is the final boarding call for flight AC17 to Lisbon.”
We both look to find the attendant gripping his microphone, shooting daggers at us.
“Come on,” says Christina, grabbing the handle of her suitcase. “Wait, where’s your bag?”
“I uh, don’t have one,” I answer. “I wasn’t actually planning to get on a plane.”
We start walking over to the gate. The attendant scans our passes and waves us through. The wheels of Christina’s suitcase echo as we head through the tunnel that leads to the plane.
“You are going to have to fill me in on how you got here,” she tells me.
“It’s a thrilling tale.” I bound a few steps ahead of her and start walking backwards, not wanting to take my eyes off her for a second. “I had to fight through security with the help of my punk rock spirit guide. We took out a few guards along the way. I’m actually on the airport’s most wanted list now, so we better hope this plane leaves before they catch up with me.”
Christina shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”
I stop in the middle of the tunnel and block her from going any farther. Hooking my finger under her chin, I tilt her head back and press my mouth to hers for just a second.
“For you,” I tell her, “yeah, I am.”
18
Meu Idiota
“So on a scale of one to I-Literally-Wish-I-Was-Anywhere-But-Here, how awkward is this going to be?”
Christina purses her lips and pretends to be doing some sort of calculation in the air with her finger.
“Maybe an eight,” she says finally. “If you’re lucky, a seven point five.”
We’re inside the Lisbon airport, trudging along with the crowd of people making their way to customs.
The cancellation meant the two other seats in my row on the plane were empty, so Christina and I had it all to ourselves. She spent most of the flight curled up under my arm as we filled each other in on everything that’s happened since we last spoke. I didn’t admit it to her, but hearing what went on at P&T didn’t surprise me at all. I still felt the urge to give all the jackasses a Christina-Strength-Level punch when she told me they used her like that, though.
I wanted to talk to her more about Tiff, and I could tell from some of the hesitancy she still had that the issue wasn’t completely solved, but an airplane filled with strangers didn’t seem like the place to do it and she seemed to understand.
Instead, I got her to tell me more about Portugal and her family, as the reality that I was about to show up as an unexpected and potentially unwelcome addition to their airport reunion sunk in.
“Your dad’s not going to want to...duel me or anything, is he?” I ask. “You said he’s pretty traditional when it comes to you and guys.”
“Duel you?” scoffs Christina. “This is Portugal, not the middle ages. They’re just going to be surprised for a bit, and then Mamãe will
probably try to start stuffing you with pastel de nata.”
“That sounds painful.”
She lets out a laugh as we pass through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ aisle. “They’re pastries, dumbass. My mom makes the best ones in Portugal.”
We’re about to walk out into the arrivals area when Christina stops and grips my arm. She’s practically vibrating with an excitement that’s been growing since we first got on the plane. Until she started talking to me about her family’s hometown and the summers she used to spend there, I hadn’t really considered how important this country is to her, but now it’s written in all of her features. She seems almost nervous to go through the door.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she tells me. “Really, I am. It’s just that this is my...my safe place, you know? This is where I can let my guard down. It’s just kind of nerve wracking to let someone else in.”
“Christina.” I place my hands on either side of her head, my thumbs resting in the hollows of her temples. “No one understands that more than me. I just trusted you with something really close to me. I want you to feel like you can do the same with me.”
She closes her eyes and nods. I let go of her and she loops her arm through mine. We walk through the door.
“Amorzinho!”
We barely make it two steps into the arrivals area before Christina is pulled away from me and engulfed in a mass of arms stretching out to hug her and pat her on the back. I only expected her parents to be here, but she’s now encircled by about six different people, all with wild brown hair that matches hers. Everyone is shouting inPortuguese and I step to the side, glad that I’ve somehow gone unnoticed so far.
Christina eventually swats everyone away and turns to me, her face flushed and her smile stretched wide.
“Everyone,” she announces in English, “this is Aaron. He’s my...”
“Seu boyfriend, Chrissy?” giggles a girl of about twelve, who must be one of the cousins Christina told me about.
At the question, Christina flashes me a nervous glance. I shrug in response. We still have some stuff to figure out, but calling me her boyfriend seems like the easiest way to explain my presence here to everyone else.