Page 64 of Dear Adam
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I catch her staring at my midsection, growing more uncomfortable when her gaze lingers too long. I’m waiting for laser beams to shoot from her eyes and burn off my shirt, and several people behind me sigh impatiently. “I think we should probably…wrap this up,” I tell her through a strained smile.
“No worries,” she says with a wink. “I’ll be on the flight, and we can chat then.” She blows me an air kiss and I’m so surprised, I trip over my own feet. She reaches out and grabs my bicep, giving it a tight squeeze before letting go. “See you soon,” she says with a little wiggle of her eyebrows.
“I am so uncomfortable right now,” I mutter to no one as I walk down the jet bridge and onto the plane. After I find my seat, thankfully between a middle aged man and an older lady, I sit down and crack open my book. I’ve barely made it into the first chapter when I hear, “There you are!” and I look up and find the same flight attendant, who apparently doesn’t know what personal space is.
“So how come you didn’t answer my message?” she asks, as if there aren’t two other people in this row.
“Your message?” I ask, my eyes darting around for help. Where do those oxygen masks come from again? Maybe I can fake a panic attack. Maybe this lady’s crazy eyes will send me into one, and I won’t need to pretend.
“Yeah. My message. I asked you out on a date, and you read it but didn’t reply.” Her tone changes from sweet and a little too high pitched to accusing and full of ice.
“I guess I didn’t see it,” I say.
“You read it,” she repeats. “And didn’t reply.” She fishes out her phone and scrolls for a few seconds before shoving the phone into my face. I take a second to read the message and my face burns bright red at her choice of words. No wonder Aly ignored it.
“I don’t operate my Instagram,” I tell her, wondering if that’s the correct way to say it. “Someone posts for me.”
“Oh, so you’re a fake,” she says. “Does someone do your contracting work for you, too?”
“No, that’s all me,” I say. I’m blessedly saved by a voice over the speakers, asking us to take our seats.
The flight attendant shoots me a smug look and whispers, “You missed out,” before returning to the front of the plane.
“I’m glad I’m not you right now,” the man beside me grumbles and flips the page of his newspaper. I pick up my book again but set it down after reading the same paragraph ten times. I close my eyes, lean against the headrest, and think of a plan to get Aly Bloomington back.
My last flight lands with a thud and screech against the tarmac, and I wait as patiently as I can while the other passengers slowly deplane. Finally, it’s my turn, and I grab my carry on and hurry up the aisle, keeping my head lowered to avoid crazy pants.
I’ve got a girl to find, apologize to, and profess my undying love for. Time is of the essence.
I hail a cab outside the airport and when I slide in, he looks at me expectantly.
“Where to?” he asks, and it hits me that I’m not exactly sure where this gala is.
“To the gala?” I reply, hoping that’s enough. How many galas are happening in Charleston tonight?
“Address or get out. We gotta keep things movin’ man.”
“Take me to King Street, then,” I say.
As we cruise away from the airport, my brain buzzes. If I were hosting a fancy, rich-people gala, where would it be?
In no time, the cab pulls up to King Street and I hop out.
“Thanks,” I hastily say before he peels off. I jog down to Bloomie’s and of course, the sign says closed early for an event.But where?
I’m pacing in front of the shop when my phone buzzes in my pocket. “Did you make it?” Glenda asks when I answer.
“Yes, but I don’t really have time to talk right now,” I tell her, frantically searching for any sign of where Aly might be.
“I made it to my stop for the night, thanks for asking,” Glenda huffs. “And your dog is fine, too, in case you were wondering.”
“Glenda, do you by any chance know where this gala is?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice. What if I don’t find her in time and my whole plan is ruined?
“I do. But until you learn some manners, I’m not telling you,” she says, then murmurs to Hank, “Do you want to tell your hateful hooman hi?”
I take a deep breath and massage my temple with my free hand. “Glenda, how was your drive?”
“It was great! Thanks for asking,” she replies cheerily.
