3.
Becca
The second the door closes behind me, the bathroom mercifully empty, the tears really begin to fall. The world swimming, I stumble into a stall and lock the door. Closing the lid of the toilet, I drop down onto it. I bury my face in my arms as silent sobs wrack my body. For ten or fifteen minutes the waterworks continue. At first, all I’m thinking about are the various heartbreaks of my life—my dead mother, my shattered career, my heartless ex-boyfriend. But soon, as with all misery, the power of my personal problems exhausts itself. Not yet ready to pull myself together, my tears too delicious, I begin to think of other terrible things—famine and death and despair and wars and avarice and every other way we humans had of hurting one another. I picture starving children in Africa and drowning families in Bangladesh; I imagine the lonely, dying elderly in nursing homes and the depressed, suicidal teens with no one to turn to.
Soon enough, even these threads of sadness have run their course; now I’m sitting with my head leaned back against the tiled wall, a wad of toilet paper in one hand. Wiping away the last of my tears, I hiccup and draw in a deep, shaky breath. There, much better. Nothing quite like a good cry.
After another five minutes having dripped away, I get up, flush the toilet out of habit, and go to the line of sinks along the opposite wall to wash my face. While I’m busy splashing cold water on myself, the bathroom door opens and in waltzes one of the women in hula skirt and coconut bra. She greets me with a cheerful smile, though her eyes narrow suspiciously as she takes in my reddened cheeks and puffy eyes.
“Everything okay?” she asks, pausing with her hand on a stall door.
“Oh, everything is fine,” I respond, doing my best to match her cheeriness. “Just allergies. Hopefully the clean air of Hawaii will clear it right up.”
Satisfied, she wishes me well and disappears into the stall. The second her door locks, I hurry out of the restroom, not wanting to chance anyone else finding me.
The terminal is practically empty now. Across the way, a man in a grey jumpsuit is emptying a trash can, a scowl permanently etched onto his face. Aside from him, there is only other person, another of the women in hula skirt and coconut bra. She’s leaned up against the wall, absentmindedly tapping at her phone as she sips a soda. Keeping my head down, I walk quickly towards baggage claim.
The bags have already come out, every bag but mine claimed by the time I arrive. I just miss grabbing it off the conveyor and have to wait several minutes for it to come around again. While I wait, I check my phone. I have a plethora of texts, most from Sophia, my best friend back in Portland. I don’t have to open any of them to know exactly what they contain: How are you feeling, dear? Are you feeling better? Don’t worry, you’ll find a much better job! Forget that jerk. You can do so much better than Rob. I always thought he looked funny anyways. Her messages were a good reminder of something I would do well never to forget: that no matter what happened, there would always be people who still cared about you. Darkness was never truly total.
I navigate to my inbox and open up my reservation for The Sandy. At the bottom of the email are details on how to get to the resort. A bus, it reads. A bus would pick me up near Exit 7.
I look up and down the terminal, finally spotting a flowery ‘7’ above one of the exits just as my suitcase comes back around. Grabbing it, I walk over. Sure enough, below this ‘7’, half-hidden by a glowing exit sign, is a sign for The Sandy.
Outside, no bus is in sight. I find the nearest bench and settle in to wait. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and hold it, for the first time since landing the knowledge of where I am seeping in. The weather is absolutely perfect, the day just about at its peak. The gentle breeze smells strongly of the ocean, the air tickling with its warmth. Somewhere not too far away, some tropical bird is crying out.
Everything is going to be just fine, Becca. Not too much longer and I’d finally be able to relax and forget about everything I’d left behind. Already I could taste the fruity drink I’d have upon my arrival, already I could feel the warm sand between my toes.
Twenty minutes pass and still no bus appears. In fact, the entire airport looks to be empty. I check the message again. Exit 7. This was definitely Exit 7. So where, then, was the bus?
After a while, I get up and begin to wander up and down the pick-up area. Another fifteen minutes pass. Just as I’m about to head inside to find someone to ask, a large Hawaiian man in an airport uniform walks up.
“Excuse me,” he says, his belly jiggling with his every word. “Are you lost?”
“Well…”
“What you looking for, love?”
“The Sandy Resort. The email says I’m supposed to take a bus near Exit 7.”
“Mmm…” Smiling, the man nods sagely. “Yep, I know the bus you need. It left.”
“It left?”
“It left. About forty-five minutes ago. It normally leaves right after everyone gets their baggage. How come you missed it?”
“I had to use the restroom.”
The man chuckles, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Long flight, huh? I remember the time I flew to the mainland. I just about exploded.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Not for another two hours or so. Not until the next plane lands.”
“Are there any taxis around?”
“Doubtful. They too only show up when flights are about to land. Not many of those today.”
“Dammit…” My throat is growing tight again as sadness begins to swell inside of me. Should’ve known. If it wasn’t one damn thing, it was another. The universe had an endless supply of tricks.
I go to thank the man but am interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, Becca,” says a familiar voice behind me.
I turn slowly, already knowing who it is I’m about to see. Sure enough, Rich is standing there, his duffel bag still hanging over his shoulder, the same smirk from earlier still on his face.
“Hi,” I mumble.
“Having trouble finding your bus?”
I don’t say anything. Rich’s smirk grows into a grin. The big Hawaiian man is looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Would you like a ride?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” I blurt out without thinking. Even if technically I did need a ride, the last thing I wanted at the moment was a handsome man like Rich taking pity on me.
But Rich can see right through me. He stands there, saying nothing, and waits.
“Fine,” I finally concede with a sigh. “I suppose I could use a ride. I missed the bus.”
“Well, lucky for us, I have a car waiting. Come on, I’ll drop you off.”
And before I can say another word, Rich takes my suitcase from my hand and marches off down the side of the terminal. Thanking the large Hawaiian man, I follow reluctantly after.
At the far end of the terminal, a car is indeed waiting. Only it’s not a car, it’s the longest limousine I’ve ever seen. As we approach, the driver door opens and out pops another friendly looking Hawaiian man, though this one is much skinnier than the airport employee. He greets Rich warmly and takes the suitcases from his hands. As he rolls them the half-mile down to the trunk, Rich and I fall in step behind him.
“After you,” Rich says, pulling open the back passenger door, sounding as unperturbed as can be. Naturally, I’m anything but. Who is this man?
The shock I’m feeling must be quite obvious. Chuckling, Rich waves me toward him.
“Never been in one before?” he asks, stepping to the side. Shaking my head, I slide past him into the backseat. He climbs in after me and pulls the door shut behind us. “Well, just wait until you see all the fun things it has…”