Page 2 of Jingle Bell Jilt
I grab my suitcase handle. I’ll just have to figure out how to strap all my bags together and get them out to my rental car. I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need no stinkin’ cart. My lip curls slightly, as if affirming I am indeed, a bad A.
I think about muscling my way to the front, but it’s the airplane disembarking all over again. What’s the rush? It’s not like the luggage self-destructs if it makes a third trip around the carousel without being claimed. I glance to the ceiling and grin as I envision red lasers rotating and honing in on unclaimed baggage.
Maybe I’ll put that into my next book. Middle-grade kids would find it hysterical and way cool.
I type out a quick text to my mom, telling her I’ve arrived safely. I think she’s concerned I may be too emotionally damaged to travel alone. She nearly came on the trip with me, but thankfully I averted that. Not that I don’t love her and like being with her, but I don’t need her overabundance of positivity right now. I just need time to wallow in self-pity without being reminded of the bright side.
I lean against the pillar and drop my head back. My foot taps impatiently. I can’t wait to get to my rental. I’m exhausted. In fact, I had better grab some dinner on the way because once I get to the house, I don’t plan to leave again until I have to use my Disney World tickets. And that’s not for another two days. Two days of sleeping, watching romance movies, and crying. Merry freaking Christmas to me.
I sniff back the tears. This was supposed to be the best Christmas ever. But no. Not only did Nathan ruin my wedding, but he’s ruining my Christmas too.
Maybe instead of stopping to get take-out for dinner, I should stop at the grocery store. I’m going to need ice cream. LOTS of ice cream.
All the bags must be out because the crowd around the carousel has thinned. Finally, I can grab my stuff and be on my way.
It shouldn’t be too hard to find my bags. Apart from being some of the few left on the belt, I also tied a pretty pink ribbon on the handles so they would be easy to spot. I read that tip on a Pinterest pin from a travel blog. In hindsight, I feel a little stupid not to have come up with that little nugget on my own. But hey, if it was on a travel blog, I’m probably not the only person who hadn’t thought about it.
I glance at all the suitcases but I don’t see any pretty pink ribbons. Where are my pink ribbons? I start to panic. Oh for the love of Pete. Please don’t tell me my suitcases are on a more exotic vacation than I am.
I feel the tears pricking at my eyes again, but then I notice a small frayed piece of ribbon, not very pink and not very pretty, attached to a black suitcase just like mine. I release a huge breath and reach down to grab it, but the handle comes off in my hand. I just blink down at it as my suitcase moves past me and starts another lap.
I shove the handle in my back pocket as I lean over and grab my second bag. I tentatively test the handle, but it seems secure as I stand there waiting for my other suitcase to come back around.
I lift the limp, dirty, frayed ribbon barely clinging to the handle of my suitcase. What the crap happened to it? It looks like it was chewed by an angry beaver.
“You tied a ribbon on your handle to distinguish your bags from everyone else’s?” A voice asks to the side of me.
I turn. “Yeah. I read about it on a travel blog.”
The lady, probably about ten years older than me, shrugs. “Yeah, a lot of people read it. It’s not a terrible idea.” Her face says the opposite. “But some people leave the ribbons way too long and then they get stuck in the conveyor belts.”
Who is this woman, a rep with the baggage handlers union or something?
“I don’t think I left them very long.” I lift the shreds of ribbon. “But I guess maybe I did.”
The woman shrugs again. “My husband works in baggage. It’s a huge pet peeve of his.” She motions to my bag. “You’re lucky it didn’t rip your handles off.”
I place a hand over my back pocket, subconsciously trying to hide the evidence. But just then my other suitcase comes around again and I have to use two hands to lift it off the belt. I don’t have to look to know the woman is giving me an I-told-you-so look.
I straighten as she walks away. “You’re lucky it didn’t rip your handles off,” I say in a low snarky voice. And I may have stuck out my tongue. It seems four-year-old Shay has come out to play.
Why did I decide to come to Florida? Why? Who goes on their honeymoon without the groom?
Once BW (short for baggage wife) is out of sight, I push the handle of my carry-on down with more force than is necessary. But my ankle still hurts, and I can’t help but give it a little piece of me.
I lay my carry-on on its side on top of my largest suitcase, leaning it against the extendable handle. Then I grasp both bags and pull them along behind me.
I want to give the Universe a little ‘take that’ flick of my chin. It thought it had given me more than I could take, but it was wrong. The only thing standing between me and my rental car is a sliding glass door. And I can totally take it.
My bags bump over the door jams and my carry-on suitcase clatters to the floor. I shake my head and release a deep, heavy sigh. Universe, 3; Shay, 0.
How close is the grocery store?
CHAPTERTWO
SHAY
Iget my suitcases rearranged and head where the rental car sign directs me. Just a little farther and I will be on my way to the house.
