Good For You

I give him half a smile. “What’s the matter, John? You wanna break up with me?”

He laughs and shakes his hair out of his eyes. “No man, the bromance is stil hot as ever.” He eyes me for a moment. “Oh, no way. It’s that Dori chick, isn’t it? You never screwed her, did you?”

My gaze narrows, fingers digging into my leg. “Don’t go there, man.”

He sits up and points at me, grinning. “That’s it! The last time we talked about her, you were just gonna do her and get over it. Don’t tel me you grew a conscience because of her little do-gooding act.”

I can’t believe we ever had that conversation, that I ever said something like that to John about Dori, but I know I probably did. I’m sure I was drunk and talking shit—a lifetime ago. Before I kissed her. Before I stopped being a complete prick long enough to know her at al . “I’m serious, John. Shut up.”

He takes a drag from his cigarette and I think he’s going to comply. No such luck. “I’m just saying, dude—you’ve got a couple more days in LA. Look her up, throw a bag over her head or whatever, and screw her respectable brains out so you can get back to normal.”

The combination of John being hammered and me being the farthest thing from it curbs my temper just enough not to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, but it doesn’t stop me from yanking him up by his shirtfront and slamming him back into his chair so hard his head snaps back. “Don’t ever f**king talk about her like that again. I mean it, John.

Don’t.”

“Okay, man, okay. Shit. Chil . I’m s-sorry,” he stutters, eyes wide and startled, hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry.

Shit, Reid. I get it.”

I straighten, shaking, run a hand through my hair as I turn away from him. He’s right about one thing. I’m not myself.

*** *** ***

Dori

My flight was delayed half an hour because of a freakishly torrential but fast-moving rainstorm, but I’m not worried about missing my connection because the layover wil stil be over two hours. Plenty of time to get through customs in Miami and make the flight to LA—I hope. By 9:00 tonight I’l be home.

The past three weeks have been chal enging, but not in the usual way. I final y hit my stride this time, from speaking understandable Spanish to the locals to making concrete changes in the lives of the kids there. We persuaded a few parents to let their children attend school this fal instead of wasting their days soliciting change from tourists for shoe shines that blacken their hands with polish and offer them no hope for a future. And then there are the girls I tutored, who swore they’d email and keep me updated on their progress.

The biggest chal enge has been banishing Reid from my thoughts. There were times during that last week when I was so busy and focused that I didn’t think of him al day, but that changed the moment I fel into my bunk and burrowed under the blankets at night. There was nothing I could do to keep him out of my head when I shut my eyes. I know I’l get past missing him. His teasing and our tongue-in-cheek debates became a habit, that’s al —an exasperating, stimulating, and infuriatingly enjoyable habit. I don’t know what his motivation was for kissing me, beyond the fact that he seems to do the same with a lot of girls. I don’t think he meant to be cruel, though kissing him revived a long-buried hunger in me.

When we land, there’s an announcement, and I think I hear my name inside a flurry of instructions, but the words are inaudible because everyone is talking and unbuckling and there’s a baby crying in the row ahead of me. She’s teething, so she cried most of the trip. I’ve never been so ready to get off of a flight. I’l be home in—ugh—seven hours.

From my place in the next-to-last row, it takes forever to deplane. Before I exit, I stop to ask a flight attendant,

“Excuse me, I think I heard my name during the announcement? I’m not sure. I was near the baby.” She gives me a rueful smile. “I understand.” She asks another flight attendant about the announcement, and he turns to me.

“Ms. Cantrel ?”

I get a creeping sensation when it occurs to me that having a message delivered at the end of a flight probably isn’t a good thing. “Yes…?”

He smiles reassuringly. “As you exit the jet bridge, there wil be an agent waiting for you, wearing a plaid jacket.

Please speak with her.”

“Um, okay. Should I be worried?”

The helpful expression on his face never changes. “I’m afraid we aren’t privy to that information—you’l need to ask her.”

I’m the last passenger off of the plane. The agent is waiting for me as promised, her expression identical to the flight attendant’s. I don’t feel reassured. The creeping sensation has become a slow, stomach-churning fear.

“Dorcas Cantrel ?” she asks.

“Yes?” My breath’s gone shal ow.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Cantrel , I’m Lucia. Your family contacted the airline this morning while you were en route.

There’s been an emergency of some kind, and we need to reroute you to Indianapolis, instead of Los Angeles. I assume this is acceptable to you?”

I nod. The bottom has dropped out of my stomach.

“What emergency?” Indianapolis. Deb.

The agent takes the handle of my wheeled bag and motions for me to fol ow. “Let’s walk while we talk, because we need to get you through customs as quickly as possible.

First things first—there are no direct flights to Indianapolis from Miami this evening, but we can connect you through Dal as and get you there by 10:30. Is this acceptable, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow morning, and fly direct?”