“I’m Scottish.”
“Do I care?”
He muttered something unintelligible and turned to the agent. “We done?”
The guy gave him a flirty smile and handed him his ticket and passport. “You’re upgraded, Mr. Scott.”
“Wait, what—?” But the Viking had already taken back his passport and ticket and was striding away.
His long legs covered more ground than mine, but I was moti- vated and I could run in my stilettos. So I did. With my carry-on bumping along on its wheels behind me.
“Wait a second!” I grabbed the man’s arm and he swung around so fast, I tottered.
Quickly, I regained balance and shrugged my suit jacket back into place as I grimaced. “You should do the right thing here and give me that seat.” I didn’t know why I was being so persistent. Maybe because I’d always been frustrated when I saw someone else endure an injustice. Or maybe I was just sick of being pushed around this week.
His expression was incredulous. “Are you kidding me with this?” I didn’t even try not to take offense. Everything about this guy offended me.
“You”—I gestured to him, saying the word slowly so his tiny brain could compute—“Stole. My. Seat.”
“You”—he pointed down at me—“Are. A. Nutjob.”
Appalled, I gasped. “One, that is not true. I am hangry. There is a difference. And two, that word is completely politically incorrect.”
He stared off into the distance above my head for a moment, seeming to gather himself. Or maybe just his patience. I think it was the latter because when he finally looked down at me with those startling eyes, he sighed. “Look, you would be almost funny if it weren’t for the fact that you’re completely unbalanced. And I’m not in the mood after having tae fly from Glasgow tae London and London tae Phoenix and Phoenix tae Boston instead of London tae Boston because my PA is a useless prat who clearly hasn’t heard of international direct flights. So do us both a favor before I say or do something I’ll regret . . . and walk. Away.”
“You don’t regret calling me a nutjob?”
His answer was to walk away.
I slumped in defeat, watching him stride off with the first-class ticket that should have been mine.
Deciding food and coffee could wait until I’d freshened up in the restroom—and by freshen up, I meant pull myself together—I wandered off to find the closest one. Staring out of the airport window at Camelback Mountain, I wished to be as far from Phoenix as possible as quickly as possible. That was really the root of my frustration, and a little mortification began to set in as I made my way into the ladies’ restroom. I’d just taken my emotional turmoil out on a Scottish stranger. Sure, the guy was terminally rude, but I’d turned it into a “situation.” Normally I would have responded by calmly asking the agent when the next flight to Boston was and if there was a first-class seat available on that flight.
But I was just so desperate to go home.
After using the facilities, I washed up and stared long and hard into the mirror. I longed to splash cold water on my face, but that would mean ruining the makeup I’d painstakingly applied that morning.
Checking myself over, I teased my fingers through the waves I’d put in my long blond hair with my straightening iron. Once I was happy with it, I turned my perusal on my outfit. The red suit was one of the nicest I owned. A double-breasted peplum jacket and a matching knee-length pencil skirt. Since the jacket looked best closed, I was only wearing a light, silk ivory camisole underneath it. I didn’t even know why I’d packed the suit, but I’d been wearing black for the last few days and the red felt like an act of defiance. Or a cry for help. Or maybe more likely an act of denial.
Although I had a well-paid job within an exclusive interior de- sign company as one of their designers, it was expensive to live in Boston. The diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist was a gift on my eighteenth birthday from an ex-boyfriend. For a while I’d stopped wearing it, but exuding an image of success to my absurdly wealthy and successful clients was important, so when I started my job, I’d dug the bracelet out of storage, had it cleaned up, and it had sat on my wrist ever since.
Lately, just looking at it cut me to the quick.
Flinching, I tore my gaze from where it winked in the light on my arm, to my right wrist, where my Gucci watch sat. It was a bonus from my boss, Stella, after my first year on the job.
As for the black suede Jimmy Choos on my feet, with their sexy stiletto and cute ankle strap, they were one of many I was in credit card debt over. If I lived anywhere but Boston, I would have been able to afford as many Choos as I wanted on my six-figure salary. But my salary went into my hefty monthly rent bill.
It was a cute, six-hundred-square-foot apartment, but it was in Beacon Hill. Mount Vernon Street to be exact, a mere few minutes’ walk from Boston Common. It also cost me just over four thousand dollars a month in rent. That didn’t include the rest of my bills. I had enough to put some savings away after the tax man took his cut too, but I couldn’t afford to indulge in the Choos I wanted.
So, yes, I’d reached the age of thirty with some credit card debt to my name.
But I guessed that made me like most of my fellow countrymen and -women, right? I stared at my immaculate reflection, ignoring the voice in my head that said some of those folks had credit card debt because of medical bills, or because they needed to feed their kids that week.
Not so they could live in a ridiculously overpriced area of Boston (no matter how much I loved it there) or wear designer shoes so their clients felt like they were dealing with someone who understood their wants better.
I bypassed the thought, not needing to mentally berate myself any more than I had since arriving back in Phoenix. I was perfectly happy with my life before I came home.
Perfectly happy with my perfect apartment, and my perfect hair, and my perfect shoes!
Perfect was good.
I straightened my jacket and grabbed hold of the handle of my carry-on.
Perfect was control.
Staring at the pretty picture I made in the mirror, I felt myself relax. If that gate agent had been into women, I so would have gotten that first-class seat.
“But forget it,” I whispered. It was done.
I was going to go back out there and get a much-needed delicious Mediterranean-style salad and sandwich from one of my favorite food stops in Phoenix, Olive & Ivy. Feeling better at the thought, I relaxed.
Once I stopped being hangry, it would all be fine.
Photo by Mark Archibald
Samantha Young is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Hart’s Boardwalk series and the On Dublin Street series, including Moonlight on Nightingale Way, Echoes of Scotland Street, Fall from India Place, Before Jamaica Lane, Down London Road, and On Dublin Street. She resides in Scotland.