When my parents got divorced, I used to drive to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. There, at least, I could see the good side of love.
I’m here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I’m the one arriving. And there’s no one here to great me. No dad, no sister. No one but me.
After being in a plane for nearly six hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too small space, and I probably stink. It’s hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big, moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we are, until people are picked off one by one as open arms embraced them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don’t see one.
Too soon it becomes obvious that I’ve been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of passengers to be cleared through customs.
Clutching the handles of my massive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.
“Fuck,” I mutter, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to wonder why my dad or sister isn’t here, but if I do, I might cry. And I’m not crying here.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie’s daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in iron-clad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there’s almost never an empty moment left for me. But you’d think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubs him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.
They’re just late. They were tied up in traffic. You’ve been gone for a year; they wouldn’t miss your homecoming.
In a minute I’ll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone, and then call Dad. Right now, I don’t want to move. I’ve sat for hours and I’m suddenly too weak do anything but slump in a chair. Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I’m intentionally sitting on my own. I can’t scroll through my screen, check FaceBook while pretending it’s important business. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.
Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brusque, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.
Idly, I watch him come. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.
He’s closer now, close enough to take note of his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the glints in his blond hair as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate glass windows.
All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart rate kicks up. A smile pulls at my face as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe. But he isn’t looking at me. His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.
God, but he moves like water over stones, smooth, efficient, energetic. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Perfectly proportioned, massive and muscled, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.