Page 79 of Mistletoe and Mayday
The agent glances at the growing line behind me. “Sir, I?—”
“I met someone.” The words tumble out, unstoppable now. “Her name is Bailey. We were in a plane crash in Alaska, and she saved my life. Not just from the crash—from everything. From the emptiness I didn’t even know was killing me.”
The agent’s professional smile falters. Around us, passengers slow their movements, listening.
“She showed me what really matters, and when we gotback, I didn’t fight for her. I let my family push me back into my old life, back toward a woman who’d betrayed me. I stood there and said nothing.” My voice cracks. “And now she won’t answer my calls. Sixteen calls. Sixteen messages. Nothing.”
The growing crowd has fallen silent. Even the overhead announcements seem to have paused.
“I’ll take anything—a jump seat, standing room, the cargo hold. I’ll fly strapped to the wing if that’s what it takes.” I run my hand through my hair. “I need to tell her I’ve left it all behind. That I stood up to my parents. That I love her.”
Something shifts in the gate agent’s expression. “Sir, I wish I could help, but?—”
“I know.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, fighting for control. “I know it’s against policy. But I’m begging you. I can’t lose her. Not again.”
A woman in the boarding line steps forward—mid-sixties, practical cardigan, kind eyes behind sensible glasses. “Young man, this Bailey sounds like quite a woman.”
I turn, startled to find her so close. “She is. She’s extraordinary.”
“Take my seat.” She holds out her boarding pass. “14C.”
The gate agent intervenes. “Ma’am, we can’t allow ticket transfers for security reasons?—”
“Then put him on standby and give him my seat when it opens up.” The woman smiles. “I can catch the next flight.”
“Ma’am—”
“Young man,” she interrupts, turning back to me, “is she worth missing this flight for?”
“Worth missing every flight for the rest of my life,” I answer without hesitation.
The woman nods. “I thought so. You have the same look my Henry had fifty-three years ago when he chasedme down at the bus station.” She turns to the agent. “I’m suddenly feeling unwell. I’ll need to take a later flight.”
The agent sighs, recognizing defeat. “I’ll need to process this as a medical cancellation.”
Five minutes of paperwork later, I have a ticket in my hand. I turn to the woman, overwhelmed with gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Be happy,” she says. “That’s thanks enough.”
I pull out my wallet. “Please, let me at least cover your ticket and the inconvenience.”
“That’s not necessary?—”
I’m already writing a check for an amount that makes her eyes widen. “For your next anniversary trip with Henry,” I say, pressing it into her hand. “Please take it. You’ve given me something priceless.”
She looks at the check, then back at me. “Young man, your Bailey is a lucky woman.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I say, boarding pass clutched in my hand like the treasure it is. “I just hope I get the chance to prove it to her.”
The cargo terminal crawls with workers who all give me suspicious glances. My designer coat and polished shoes mark me as an outsider—a corporate intruder in their practical domain. I don’t care anymore. I’ve shed so many versions of myself in the last twenty-four hours that one more transformation barely registers.
“Excuse me.” I approach yet another employee, this one sorting packages on a metal table. “I’m looking for Bailey Monroe?”
The woman barely glances up, her weathered hands never pausing their work. “Not allowed to give out personnel information.”
“Please, it’s important?—”
“So’s this shipment.” She shoulders past me, clipboard clutched against her chest. “Security’s that way if you’ve got a complaint.”
