I grabbed a sandwich from a refrigerator instead and ate it even though it tasted of nothing, while sitting at a gate that wasn’t mine and staring out at the mountains. Using the time to cool down, as memories of the week pricked me and helped to put everything in perspective, I grew calm enough that I felt confident in striding back out there to grab a coffee from one of the barista carts. There was a line already forming at the closest one and I hurried a little to make it before it got too long.
At the sight of the imposing figure of the Bastard Scot marching toward the cart from the other side, I picked up my feet and almost ran toward the spot. I skittered into place behind a man in a suit, accidentally hitting his carry-on with mine. He threw me an annoyed look over his shoulder and I gave him a quick smile of apology before bestowing a you can suck it grin on the Scot as he pulled up to the line after me.
“You snooze, you lose,” I said over my shoulder, not caring how infantile I sounded.
“You’re four years old, you know that?”
“I finally beat you in line—that’s what I know.”
“Fruitcake.”
“Ignoramus.”
“Shrew.”
I scowled at the insult, which was even worse than “fruitcake.” “Dickwad.”
“You seem tae be obsessed with my dick.”
I spun around. “Excuse me?”
“Dickwad. Dickhole.”
“Those are insults.”
“With a very specific focus.”
To my horror, my eyes flew to his crotch with a mind of their own. Oh dear God! My face blazed with color and I quickly lowered my gaze down the length of his dark blue jeans to the loosely laced black leather biker boots on his feet.
Big feet.
You know what they say—Shut up! Who cares what they say?
“It’s really hurtful tae be objectified in this way.”
Sure that my cheeks were tomato red, my eyes shot to his smug face.
“Look, as fun as it is wiping the floor with you in these verbal battles, I really need a coffee.” And without further ado the Bastard Scot got out of line and walked to the front of it.
Uh, hell no!
I followed, my carry-on bumping on its wheels with my fury.
“My flight is about tae board,” I heard him say to the woman who was next in line to be served. “Would you mind if I cut in front?” He was almost charming to her.
And she definitely thought so. “Of course.” She practically swooned. “Where are you from? I love your accent.”
“Scotland,” he answered curtly, and stepped in front of her without saying thank you. This guy had no manners. But I did.
“Hey.” I smiled at her. “I’m on the same flight as him. Would you mind?”
The Scot turned slightly at the sound of my voice.
She eyed him in disappointment. “Are you two together?”
He appeared nauseated by the thought. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
The woman raised one very unimpressed eyebrow at me. “Nice try. Back of the line.”
I’d never actually wanted to claw someone’s face before, but I would definitely make an exception for the Bastard Scot.
“Your people would be ashamed,” I said to his back.
To my disbelief, his shoulders started to shake. Was he laughing? I looked at the metal espresso machine and saw in its shiny reflection a distorted image of him grinning, teeth and all.
Ugh, he was so abrasive!
Spinning around, feeling sweaty, flustered, and so far from perfect it wasn’t funny, I ignored the glares from the people in line and made my way back to the very end, which was now five people longer than it had been.
Two minutes later the Bastard Scot sauntered by me, shot me a wicked self-satisfied smile, and saluted me with his cup of coffee.
“Go to hell!” I shouted after him.
The guy in front of me gave me a wary look and stepped so close to the woman in front of him they were practically touching.
“He’s an asshole,” I tried to explain.
But the stranger’s look told me he thought I was the asshole. And the truth was, the Scot was making me into an asshole. Or my bad mood was. I didn’t know. Christ, I needed to get home, and as unfair as it was to blame an entire country for one man, I never wanted to speak to another Scottish person ever again.
Visiting Scotland was so off my bucket list.
Suddenly something in the loudspeaker announcement caught my attention. “Wait, what?” I stilled, listening.
“… Flight DL180 to Boston has been canceled. Please see the gate for alternative flight arrangements.”
Abandoning my quest for coffee (again!), I hurried down the terminal toward my gate in time to hear the gate agent from earlier explaining to the small crowd that had already gathered the reason why our flight had been canceled. Apparently, the volcano eruption and consequent ash cloud that had grounded flights in Europe had had a domino effect on domestic flights in the U.S. “The crew for this flight has been delayed because of the canceled flights in Europe. We’re currently understaffed because so many of our crew members have been grounded in Europe on international flights. This means we unfortunately do not have a crew or a plane available for the scheduled flight to Boston. Please form an orderly line so we can make other arrangements for you.”
I heard a few people complain about the late notice because “surely they knew there was no crew or plane before this.” I also heard a lot of people make arrangements to stay at the airport hotel and get the next flight out to Boston whenever it became available. As more and more decided to do that, the antsier I became.
There was no way I could stay in Phoenix another night.
Two days had been long enough.
I needed to get home. ASAP. Or I was going to lose myself in gigantic, uncontrollable sobs.
My fingers were shaking by the time I handed my ID and ticket over to the gate agent. He recognized me from earlier because his lips pinched together.
“Is there an alternative route to Boston? A flight to another airport that has a flight to Boston?”
He relaxed at my tone and offered me a sympathetic smile, seeming to hear the tremble in my voice. “There is a flight out of Chicago tomorrow morning that will get you to Boston before noon. And a flight to Chicago is leaving from here in an hour.” He checked his computer and threw me a wry smile. “There are first-class seats available on both flights.”
Relief made me slump against the counter. I didn’t even care how much it was going to cost. I just handed over my credit card. “Thank you.”
Then I stared up at the ceiling again. Thank you, Universe.
Three
I stared at my ticket, at my seat number. And then I stared at my seat.
And proceeded to glare at the person sitting in the seat next to mine in first class.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Screw you, Universe. You and I are done.
The Bastard Scot looked up from his newspaper and gave a slight shake of his head. “Please tell me you are not sitting next tae me on a three-and-a-half-hour flight?”
“I’m just as unhappy about it,” I said, opening the overhead bin. Lifting the carry-on that weighed a ton (seriously, it was a miracle I got it shut), I stumbled a little, losing my grip, and it whacked the Scot on the head. At the sound of his grunt, I smiled. “Sorry! That was a happy accident.”
“Here, let me help you.” A guy around my age in a tailored business suit stepped forward to assist but was brusquely brushed aside by the Scot as he stood up, dwarfing us both.
“I’ve got it.” He grabbed the carry-on out of my hand. “Safer I do it or I’ll land in Chicago with a concussion.”
“Well, that would be a shame.” I skirted past him so I could slide into my seat while he dealt with my luggage.
I’d already removed my e-reader from my carry-on for the plane ride and had it booting up before the Bastard Scot got back in the seat beside me. And even though there was a double arm divider between us with little cup holders in them, he still managed to make me feel overwhelmed by his size.