THREE
Amity lined up her suitcases outside of her apartment door and checked her purse for her passport, which she thumbed through lightly. She had only one stamp—London, from that time, nearly nine years ago, when she’d journeyed with her mother. That felt like a lifetime ago: standing on the banks of the Thames, wondering at the life she would create for herself. Her mother, a child of divorce, and herself divorced from Amity’s father, had explained to her then that she must pursue her own destiny, without mixing it with the destiny of others.
“No wonder I’m so cynical,” Amity breathed, grabbing her suitcase and ensuring the door was locked once more. She had a taxi waiting for her to head to the airport, and she was already mentally saying goodbye to L.A.
She’d called her friends the evening before, explaining in ecstatic tones that she was heading off on a “near impossible” assignment in the Middle East. Her friends had seemed vaguely interested, but had soon diverted the conversation to talk of their beauty regimes and shopping habits. Amity had sat demurely, waiting for a chance to scamper from the phone and finish packing. She should have known better.
She swept into the taxi as the driver lifted her luggage into the trunk. “You’ve got a lot here. You moving away?” he asked her, winking.
“Just on assignment,” she replied, giving him a shy grin. Secretly, she was bursting with anticipation. What would meet her on the other side of the world? And would her work brain kick in immediately, despite the change of scene? Could she trust herself to focus on the task at hand?
The taxi lurched through traffic, edging this way and that, and Amity made her peace with the city she’d called home for so many years. She cracked the window and inhaled the polluted air; she caught a glimpse of the Pacific and longed to run on the sand just one more time.
But she’d done all she could do. She felt like the memory of it was running from her mind, like that same sand through her fingers. L.A. had never quite fulfilled its prophecy, and yet, she had to be okay with it. She was going to search for something else.
Amity entered the airport terminal nearly an hour later. She hated the smell of sweating bodies mixed with airport food, and she rubbed a bit of lotion on her fingers and hands, making a face.
As she reached the other side of security, she caught sight of Flora, sat cross-legged against a wall, her carry-on pressed up against her. Her blond hair swam in curls around her shoulders.
Amity lifted her fingers into a wave and crossed the room toward her assistant. Flora got to her feet and yanked a notebook out of her pocket, donning her professional face. “Miss Winters. So good to see you. I have our itinerary here—”
But Amity shook her head. “We’ll save the work for when we get there,” she said, her voice kind. “Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we?”
Flora looked relieved. She fell back to the ground and crossed her legs once more, tapping the carpet beside her. “Want to sit?”
“Sure.”
Flora popped a piece of gum in her mouth and started smacking loudly. “I told Mark I couldn’t see him,” she said then, her eyes distant. “I knew he would find someone else while I was gone, so I thought I might as well end things first. He’s kind of a jerk anyway.”
“Mark from the office?” Amity asked, not knowing what else to say.
Flora gave her a “come on” eye roll. “Of course,” she shrugged. “I mean. You see him every day, don’t you? He’s hot. Even though he’s younger than you, you have to admit that.”
“He’s actually older than me,” Amity said quietly, her eyebrows high. She’d hired Mark three years before, when she’d moved up in the company, but he hadn’t been promoted since.
But Flora just chewed on. “He wasn’t going to make it in PR anyway, and this is my dream. My dream.” She tapped her chest emphatically. “You know he just wants to be an actor. Just another one of those.”
“I see.” Again, Amity didn’t have any advice. She peered down at her fingers. “Well. I guess good riddance. You’re advancing your career while he’s—”
But at this moment, she noticed a single tear diving down Flora’s supple cheek. How wretched men were, she thought then. Toying with this girl’s heart, without any plans of keeping it.
Luckily, the plane began boarding then, the stewards calling their tickets and directing them down the long corridor to the plane itself. The interior was noisy, cramped—but their first-class seats were luxurious, offering wide cushions and a footrest. Amity collapsed into hers, having been unable to sleep the night before. Flora sat beside her and immediately buried her nose into a magazine—an article entitled “How to Get Him Back.” Amity pretended not to see.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His voice was smooth, yet powerful—trustworthy and ready to carry them across the ocean. “Welcome to Flight 345, from Los Angeles to sunny Al-Mabbar City. The time there is 11 hours ahead, meaning they’re living in the future right now, if you can believe that.”
A few of the passengers chuckled, throwing the pilot a bone. Beside Amity, Flora sighed heavily. For her part, Amity just wanted the plane to rev down that runway and disappear into the clouds. She was done with L.A.—at least for a while—and ready to escape.
Moments later, the jet engines screamed into life. Suddenly, the plane was taking that mad race down the runway, and Amity’s hands were clinging to the armrests. Her heart made a final skip before the plane erupted into the air, and then cratered into the clouds.
Amity sighed, her heart rate slowing slightly. She had to focus; in a few hours’ time, she would land in the Middle East for the first time in her life. And, despite deep knowledge of the PR world, she had next to no information about Al-Mabbar.
“Have you ever been to a different country?” Amity asked Flora about twenty minutes after takeoff.
Flora looked annoyed, turning her attention from her magazine. “Um. No. Why?”
“I’ve only been to London,” Amity answered, choosing her words carefully. “Never the Middle East. Feeling a little bit nervous about it, I have to admit.”
Flora scoffed lightly. “Sure. I knew you would be.”
Amity didn’t answer. She watched as Flora flipped her hair and turned her attention back toward the magazine. Beside her, a stewardess was asking passengers if they wanted champagne, so she lifted her finger, requesting one. She sniffed the bubbles up her nose and felt the tickle in her throat. She drank enough to relax into a deep, over-the-ocean slumber.
She awoke a while later to see sun blistering through the windows. They were still far above the clouds, and checking her watch she saw that they were still eight hours away from their destination. Amity looked toward Flora and found that she, too, had fallen asleep. A trickle of drool skidded from her mouth, but Amity resisted the urge to wake her and tell her, knowing that above all, Flora just needed her rest. Not that she would be any easier to deal with after that, she thought with a smirk.
A meal was served, although no one was quite sure if it was lunch or dinnertime. Amity took delicate bites of her sandwich, always conscious of what she put in her body. Flora gobbled hers quickly, safe from the slowing metabolism waiting for her at the end of this twenty-something line. Amity remembered those years well—though hers had centered around late nights at the office; craving a professional future.
When she was twenty-three, Amity had had a chance at love. She had been out at a bar with two girlfriends, both of whom were now married and tucked away with growing families and part-time careers. A man had approached her—a tall, broad man with dark hair and penetrating, mad eyes. He’d leaned against the bar beside her and lifted his chin, assessing her.
“I don’t suppose you want a drink?” he’d asked.
“I don’t suppose you want to buy me one?” she’d replied, surprised at how confident she sounded. She hadn’t flirted with anyone since she’d graduated from college.
The man had intr
oduced himself as Brian—a graduate from UCLA, like herself. They’d chatted together for hours. Amity had even gone so far as to send her friends home when they’d grown impatient—telling them she’d call them when she returned home. But she’d followed Brian back to his place, clinging to his hand as they marched to his car. She was tipsy, sure—but not drunk. And she’d allowed herself to go there, to feel things for this man.
But she hadn’t allowed it to go on. No. She’d woken up the next morning feeling mortified, certain that she’d mussed her future. She hadn’t been able to concentrate properly for days afterwards. She’d sat at her desk at work, tickling her fingers over the keyboard. In a meeting with her then boss, Kristina, she hadn’t made a single proposition.
In a word, she’d felt lost. Lost with the prospect of love, of marriage, of even casual dating. And so, she’d given it up.
Needless to say, Brian hadn’t called her back.