“Armadillo. No, I’m okay.”
It’s the third time Xander has offered to stop so we can find a place to sleep for the night. But I’ve declined all three times. I don’t want to stop walking. I don’t want to sleep. As long as I’m walking—as long as I’m awake—it’s still today. The moment I go to sleep, then it’ll be tomorrow. Then it’ll be 10:05 a.m. The day Lottie died all over again.
And I’m not ready to live that day all over again.
I’m still trying to survive it the first time around.
So, on we go, walking in countless circles around the A terminal.
“I don’t like this category,” Xander complains.
I laugh. “Fine, pick a new one.”
“Movies. O.”
“Oliver!” I say immediately.
“You’re too good at this game. Office Space.”
“Oklahoma!”
“Are we doing musicals or movies?”
“They’re both musicals that have been made into movies.”
Xander shoots me a dubious look but ultimately chooses not to challenge me further. “Overboard.”
I yawn again. This one is so big, it slurs all my words. “Ah, tha gray ahn powafuh.”
Xander chuckles. “That’s not a movie I’m familiar with.”
My yawn keeps going. It has to be the longest yawn in history. When it finally subsides, I repeat myself more clearly, “Oz the Great and Powerful.”
“Ah, right,” Xander acknowledges. “Outbreak. And we are totally sitting down now.”
I glance around us. There are bodies in nearly every chair of nearly every gate. “No room,” I say. “Better keep walking.”
“No. Look.” Xander points to a small corner next to the security door of gate A22. The way that particular gate is shaped, the space is quiet and relatively secluded.
I scowl. “Only You. And I don’t want to sit on the floor—” but my words are cut off by another debilitating yawn.
Xander laughs. “C’mon, diva. A little floor sitting won’t kill you.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the alcove. Besides, you still haven’t seen O-cean’s Eleven,” he enunciates the movie title, laying claim to his turn. “And I find that a total travesty.”
“Good one,” I say.
“Plus, I happen to have it on my iPad.”
I allow myself to be led to the corner. “Do you carry the movie around with you at all times on the off chance you meet a girl who hasn’t seen it?”
Xander fake-sighs. “Well, now you know all my secrets.”
He lowers down, props his knees up, and pats the ground beside him. My legs scream for me to sit. My feet are aching. I finally give in and collapse next to him. I admit, it feels amazing. My whole body seems to let out a sigh of relief.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I vow.
Xander slaps a hand to his chest. “Relax. It’s just a movie. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
This makes me laugh. “I mean, I’m not falling asleep.”
He shrugs. “Good. Because if you fall asleep during Ocean’s Eleven, I will be terribly offended.”
I stretch my legs out of in front of me and lean against the wall, letting my head fall back. Xander pulls his iPad out of his messenger bag and flips open the case. It blinks to life, and he begins tapping at the screen.
“Actually,” he says, setting the tablet down to the side, “I’m gonna see if I can find us some blankets.”
“Blankets? As in, for sleeping?”
He hops up. “Also very handy in preventing one from getting cold.”
I screw my mouth to the side. “Hmmm. Sounds suspicious.”
He raises his eyebrows coyly. “What can I say? I’m a suspicious guy. Stay right here.” I watch him disappear down the corridor, then I pull out my phone and look at the time. My throat constricts. It’s 3:05 a.m. exactly. In seven hours, Lottie will have been dead for an entire year.
I stare at the message app on my home screen. The lonely red circle with the tiny number 1 stares back at me. Taunting me. Baiting me.
One unread message.
“You should probably just read my message,” Lottie whispers. She sounds tired too. Tired of trying to convince me to do things I never do. Tired of always being right. Tired of existing within the confines of my head like a genie trapped in a bottle.
I’m afraid, I admit.
And it’s the truth. I’m afraid of what it might say. I’m afraid it might be the most significant, groundbreaking, earth-shattering text she’s ever sent me.
But mostly, I’m afraid that it won’t be.
“I know,” she says, and it’s probably the gentlest voice she’s ever used with me. “You’re allowed to be afraid. You’re allowed to be sad, too.”
I close my eyes, letting her words sink in, trying to make them fit so they don’t feel like misshapen clothes that accidentally shrunk in the dryer.
“You’re allowed to miss me, Ryn,” she says, but her voice suddenly sounds different. As though it’s not coming from inside my head, but rather outside my head.
When I open my eyes again, Lottie is standing right in front of me. All five foot seven of her.
I know I’m imagining it. I’m not crazy enough to believe she’s actually there. But I’m also terrified to blink in fear that she might vanish.
She’s exactly as I remember her. Shimmering and radiant. A star. Her bright red hair falls like silky fire around her shoulders. Her smooth, creamy skin is flawless, without a single blemish. One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows is raised in a coy question mark.
I do miss you, Lottie, I whisper, but I’m not 100 percent sure I’m still talking silently in my mind, or aloud.
Lottie takes a step closer and sits down next to me. In the very spot Xander occupied. I freeze in place, scared that one move on my part might blow her away like the gust of wind that she is.
She peers over my shoulder at my phone. “Then read the message.”
I stare down at the screen. I can still see her out of the corner of my eye, still feel her presence like it never left.
I reach out and hover over the message app, hiding the red circle with my fingertip, trying to imagine what my phone will look like when it disappears.
When there are no unread messages.
When there are no unanswered questions.
When Lottie is really gone.
For good.
I click the message app. Her name glows at me from the screen.
Lottie Valentine (1)
With a trembling hand, I reach toward the message.
“This is good, Ryn,” she whispers into my ear, and I swear I can feel her breath on my cheek. “This is progress.”
My fingertip lingers millimeters away from the screen. It would be so easy. To just touch it. To just let her words flow over me, embrace me, comfort me. I wouldn’t have to erase it. I could keep it on my phone forever. Like a memory that will never fade.
I just have to read it first.
My finger inches closer. I can feel the heat of the screen against my skin. I can feel Lottie reaching out through the phone and pulling me toward her.
I turn and face her with frantic eyes. What if it’s nothing? What if you butt-texted me? What if it’s just a string of gibberish?
“It won’t be,” Lottie reassures me with a kind smile. But we both know it’s a reassurance she can’t make. We both know she doesn’t really know. She’s just as trapped in the dark as I am.
“Just read it,” she prompts. “This is no way to live.”
She’s right.
I know she’s right.
And yet I can’t do it.
I shut off the screen and toss the phone in front of me like it’s on fire. It lies by my feet, helpless and alone on the dirty airport carpet.
“Ryn Ryn,” Lottie tries.
No, I snap. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make this decision for me. You DIED!
“You can’t keep livi
ng like this.”
Yes! I shout into the depths of my mind. Yes, I can! I’d rather not know. I’d rather that message be unread forever than be let down by what it says.
There’s silence beside me. Lottie is formulating her perfect power-punch response. Per usual, she doesn’t require many words to do it.
“No, you don’t.”
No, I don’t, I echo.
A moment later Xander returns and lowers himself to the ground. I almost scream out for him to stop. Don’t move! He’s going to crush her. He’s going to sit right on top of her. But when I glance over, I see that the space next to me is vacant again.
“I could only find one, so we’ll have to share.” He inches close to me, our hips touching, and throws the blanket over us, positioning it so it covers our legs.
Then he props his iPad on its stand and rests it between us.
“You’re in for a treat, Ryn Gilbert.”
I force a smile as I glance around gate A22, searching for Lottie.
Did she vanish? Is she gone for good?
Just then, I spot her halfway across the gate, standing next to the counter. She’s far enough away that I can’t make out every detail, but close enough that I can still see the look of disappointment on her face before she turns and walks away.
One Unread Message
I’m sure Ocean’s Eleven is an excellent movie. It has an excellent opening. Unfortunately, I fall asleep after five minutes.
When I wake, natural light is streaming into the terminal. My gaze turns hopefully toward the window. The snow is still falling, but there’s something more hesitant about it. As though it’s just as tired of being here as the rest of us.
Maybe it’ll let up.
My head is resting against Xander’s shoulder, and his head is tipped back against the wall. He’s completely out. His iPad has fallen to the side of his legs. The screen is off.
I wonder how much of the movie he managed to stay awake for.
I carefully ease my head from Xander’s shoulder and stretch out my neck. I hear something pop. That can’t be good.
Can you get scoliosis from sleeping sitting up?
I instinctively reach for my phone to type in the question before realizing what a ridiculous question it is.
Obviously, I can’t get scoliosis from one night in an airport.
Instead, I check the clock.
8:15 a.m.
Less than two hours.
I click back to the home screen.
One unread message.
Careful not to wake Xander, I push myself to my feet and survey the world around us. Even though the sun is barely able to peek through the tempest outside, and even though I was here yesterday, the airport looks different in today’s daylight. More hopeful. Less ominous. More familiar. Less hectic. More certain.
There’s an end coming.
I can’t see it.
But somehow I know it’s there.
Finally, my gaze lands back on Xander. On his beautiful dark skin. On his long, curled eyelashes. On the soft sound the air makes leaving his slightly parted lips.
On his Muppet shirt.
Animal, the wildest, most destructive of all the Muppets.
I think about everything that happened yesterday. Pretending to be other people. Surfing the train car. Getting arrested by the airport police. Attending a wild New Year’s Eve party. Playing poker in an empty hotel lobby. Singing “Eternal Flame” in the middle of the food court at two in the morning.
Then I think about what my day would have been like if I hadn’t met Xander. If I hadn’t crashed into him because I’m incapable of using a moving walkway like a normal person. If we hadn’t had the same stupid phone case. If I hadn’t said yes . . .
I can imagine long hours of staring at my phone and avoiding people and obsessing over the heart wrenching agony that my soul is preparing to endure today.
Yes, today is still today.
But somehow it’s not as scary.
Maybe that’s because yesterday was hands down one of the craziest, scariest, darkest days I’ve ever had.
But it was also the most times I’ve smiled in over a year.
The thought makes me smile now.
Stuffing my phone and my wallet into the pocket of my hoodie, I leave the rest of my stuff with Xander and set off to find something to eat. The food court is already hopping with people looking to get an early start.
An early start at what? I’m not sure.
I get in line at the Caribou Coffee and stare hungrily at the pastries in the display case. When I reach the front, I order two large lattes, one nonfat, and two butter croissants.
“Names?” the girl cashier prompts robotically.
“Uh . . . ,” I begin, about to give my real name. Then, I smile and say, “Reginald and Vegina.”
She blinks in disbelief and studies me to check if I’m being serious. I turn my face to stone. We square off like that for what feels like an eternity before she finally grabs the two cups and scribbles on them with a black marker.
I tilt my head to see what she’s written and am actually pretty surprised that she managed to spell Vegina right.
Then again, I made the name up, so what the hell do I know about how it’s spelled?
With the bag of croissants tucked under one arm and a latte in either hand, I head back to gate A22. The route I took to get here is starting to fill with people, so I opt to take the long way around the shopping rotunda.
When I pass by the Tattered Cover bookstore, I spot Xander’s parents’ book on the front display again. Curiously, I head over to it.
Setting the two lattes down on a nearby stack of books, I pick up the hardcover and turn it around. There’s Xander with his parents, dressed in his preppy attire, smiling for the camera. His dark hair is cut way shorter than it is now.
He looks like an entirely different person from the boy I spent the last eighteen hours with.
I think back to all the things he told me during our poker game last night.
His girlfriend breaking up with him. His downward spiral leading to an expulsion from school. How hard it is to live with parents who devote their entire life to other people’s kids while ignoring their own.
And I suddenly realize that no one was there for him, either.
Even though he had the world’s most well equipped parents to deal with hardship, he still faced his alone.
Just like me.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and google Dr. Max and Dr. Marcia. I find the same news article that was posted late last night and read it more thoroughly.
Xander Hale, only son of renowned child psychologists and bestselling authors Dr. Max Hale and Dr. Marcia Livingston-Hale, has reportedly been expelled from the Archer Academy, an esteemed preparatory school in Malibu, California, known in the city for educating numerous children of celebrities and important media figures. The information comes from an anonymous source close to the Hale family, although the reasons for his expulsion are still undetermined.
An anonymous source . . .
I return the phone to my pocket and the book to the table, grab my lattes, and head to the back of the store. I find the title I’m looking for easily and take it to the register to pay. The sales clerk puts it in a green Tattered Cover bag that I tuck under my other arm.
Precariously balancing now two bags and two lattes, I make my way back to gate A22.
Xander is still asleep. He stirs when I approach and opens his eyes. I hand him the latte.
“Wow, what service.” He smiles up at me and gratefully takes a sip. “Do you need a job? Because I could really use you around the house.”
I kick my foot out and jab at his shin. He smirks at me and takes another sip.
“I also got you this,” I proffer the pastry bag.
He looks inside and grins. “Two croissants! How did you know?”
“Nice try. One’s for me.”
“Okay, that makes more sense.” He pul
ls one out and takes a large, flaky bite, ignoring the maddening amount of crumbs that stick to his lips.
I bend over and brush them off.
“Thanks,” he mumbles with his mouth full, managing to spray even more crumbs down his shirt.
I give up and shake my head. He takes another bite of croissant. I’m about to sit down next to him when he spots the second bag in my hand. “Wha tha?” he garbles.
“Oh,” I say, shifting my weight awkwardly. “I don’t know. I saw it in the bookstore and thought maybe it would help.”
He looks intrigued. “Well, what is it?”
I push the bag into his hands before I can second-guess myself.
Smiling and wiping his fingertips on his jeans, he reaches eagerly inside and pulls out the book I selected. The cover is different from the edition I read in school last year. It features a hand-drawn illustration of a guillotine set up in front of an eighteenth-century building and a man about to lose his head. Across the top, printed in an old-fashioned red script, is the title.
A Tale of Two Cities
Looking confused, he turns it over in his hands a few times, as if he doesn’t understand what it is.
“You said last night that your English teacher offered you an out,” I explain, feeling my stomach clench the longer he remains quiet. “You know, if you read the book and wrote the paper.”
“Yeah,” he says with an unsettling edge to his voice, “but I never actually said I wanted to take it.”
His response surprises me. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you take it? Why wouldn’t you want to fix this?”
But he doesn’t answer. He just tosses the book aside and takes another bite of his croissant.
“Wait,” I say with sudden realization. “Do you actually want to be expelled?”
The pieces are falling into place so fast, I barely have time to process them all. And his continued silence is only confirming the full picture that’s rapidly forming in my mind.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I accuse. “You sent the anonymous tip to the press. You wanted the news to get out. You wanted your parents to be exposed for the frauds that you think they are.”
Something in Xander’s expression—in his whole body—hardens. “I never come first,” he says tensely.
I pull out my phone and turn it around so he can see the article that’s still on the screen. “Their book sales are going to be affected. Their credibility might be ruined. Do you really think that’s the best way to deal with this? By making a mess of their career? By ruining their reputation?”