Page 7 of The Maine Event

I clutch the ticket like a lifeline, my brain scrambling to piece together what the hell had just happened. How did I not notice this? How did I let this happen? I’m always so meticulous, so organized—I double-check everything, triple-check, even.

I feel lightheaded. I look around, as if someone might pop up and tell me it’s all a joke, that I haven’t just flown to the wrong damn side of the country—it’s just a hidden camera, YouTube prank channel. But there’s no one to laugh with me, no friendly face to reassure me it’s not as catastrophic as it seems.

Frantically, I pull out my phone and scroll to the confirmation email from Emily. There it is, plain as day—Portland, ME. My stomach lurches. How did I miss that? Howdid neither of us catch it? I thumb through the flight information again, as if somehow the words will change, but they’re still the same damning coordinates pointing to Vacationland instead of the West Coast.

My knees go weak, and I stumble toward a bench, collapsing onto it. The gravity of my mistake hits me like a freight train. I’m in Maine. I’m supposed to be in Oregon. I’m supposed to be pitching to one of the biggest potential clients of my career tomorrow morning.

I can’t breathe. I press my palm to my forehead, trying to calm down, but it’s no use. The reality is suffocating me, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.

“Oh, my good God.” The words escape my lips, disbelief and panic rising simultaneously in my chest. “What have I done?”

Frantically, I rush to the airline’s service desk, my mind reeling with the gravity of my mistake. The line seems to stretch on forever, and every passing second feels like an eternity. I tap my foot impatiently, my eyes darting to the departure boards, hoping against hope that there’s a flight that can get me to Oregon in time.

As I wait, the TVs above the desk flash with breaking news. The anchor’s grave tone fills the air. “The ash cloud from the eruption of the Alaskan volcano is rapidly spreading across Canada and the Northern United States, causing unprecedented disruptions to air travel. Experts predict massive delays and cancellations in the coming hours.”

My stomach churns as I watch the departure board flicker, the word “DELAYED” morphing into “CANCELED” next to flight after flight. The reality of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave. I’m stranded, and there’s no way I’ll be flying to the pitch.

With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and start searching for alternative routes. Train schedules, bus timetables, anythingthat could get me to Portland, Oregon. But deep down, I know it’s futile. The distance is too vast, the time too short.

I step out of the line, my legs feeling like lead. The bustling airport seems to fade away as the weight of my failure settles on my shoulders. I find a quiet corner and sink into a chair, burying my face in my hands.

“Think, Rachel, think,” I mutter to myself, desperately trying to come up with a solution. But the more I rack my brain, the more apparent it becomes that there’s no way out of this mess.

The disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but I know I have to accept the reality of the situation. The pitch, the partnership, the future I’ve worked so hard for—it’s all slipping through my fingers, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

With a heavy heart, I pull out my phone again, my fingers hovering over Helen’s number. I hesitate, dreading the conversation that’s about to unfold. But I know I can’t put it off any longer.

As the call connects, I steel myself for the inevitable fallout. “Helen, it’s Rachel. I have some bad news…”

While I explain I’m in Maine, she mostly remains calm, although it would be fair to say her choice of language is zesty. However, the magical solution I was hoping she could conjure from thin air isn’t forthcoming.

“TSA is shutting down all flights. There’s no way you’re getting to Oregon.”

My heart sinks. “But the pitch?—”

“Don’t worry about it. Given the circumstances, Zoe will handle the presentation instead. She can drive from Seattle.”

“Zoe?” I feel a surge of frustration. “But I’ve been working on this for months, Helen. GreenShoots ismyclient.”

“Not yet, they’re not, Rachel. I don’t have a choice. The pitch is happening tomorrow, we have to be in the room.”

I pace, my mind racing. “What if I use my influence with GreenShoots to change the pitch day? I’m sure they’ll understand, given the situation.”

“No, Rachel,” Helen says firmly. “They’ve set the date, and we have to comply. We’re sending Zoe.”

“But Zoe doesn’t have mygreencredentials,” I argue, desperation creeping into my voice. “She primarily works on Big Oil accounts, for God’s sake. And she drives a 5-liter Mustang GT. Wouldn’t it be better to Zoom into the meeting, to reduce our carbon footprint?”

My arguments fall on deaf ears. “Rachel, this is not up for discussion,” Helen says, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Zoe is the next-best closer in the company, and GreenShoots is a must-win client for Channing Gabriel.”

I feel my anger rising, but I try to keep it in check. “So, if Zoe closes the deal, does that mean she’ll get the partnership?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Rachel, I suggest you enjoy your two-week vacation in Maine and forget about work for a while.”

“But Helen?—”

“That’s an order, Rachel. Send your presentation and notes to Zoe. Now.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at my phone, seething with frustration. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve worked so hard, and now Zoe is swooping in to steal my thunder.

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