Читать книгу As Far as the Stars - Virginia Macgregor - Страница 11
Оглавление12.25 EST Dulles International Airport, Washington DC
Even before I step into the arrivals lounge I see the chaos.
People push in and out of the sliding doors, their cells clamped to their ears.
Cars crowd the pick-up zone.
Everyone’s walking too fast.
I knew it would be busy: it’s the end of the summer and people are flying in for the solar eclipse. But this is insane.
As we get closer to the airport building, Leda lets out a long whine like someone’s stepped on her tail. Ever since we turned off the highway, she hasn’t let up: barking and yelping and doing that high-pitched whimpering thing.
Leda’s my brother’s dog. A small, scrappy, caramel-coloured mongrel with shiny black eyes and stiff, worn fur. She looks more like an old-fashioned teddy bear than a dog.
She’s cowering in the footwell like something’s spooked her.
And I can’t shake the feeling either: something’s wrong.
But I push the feeling down to the pit of my stomach. I can’t go there, not now. I have to focus.
Leda whines again.
‘Pipe down,’ I call back to her. ‘You’ll see him in a second.’
Leda’s been missing Blake all summer. I told Blake he should take her with him to London but he said Leda would be better off with me. Which is probably true. Just because Blake loves her, it doesn’t mean he remembers to feed her or walk her or let her out to pee.
I park the car a bit too close to the main walkway but it’s so busy it’s the only space I can find. And who’s going to moan about stumbling over a 1973 mustard yellow Buick convertible, right? I should charge a viewing fee.
Leda jumps up and down on the back seat, her ears flapping.
‘Okay, okay.’
I lift her out and then throw my telescope over my shoulder – it’s the only thing I’d mind being stolen from the car. In fact, I’d be delighted if someone stole the two dresses spread out across the back bench. One’s for the rehearsal dinner (yellow), one’s for the wedding (sky blue): both sewn by Mom. They’re the kind of dresses I wouldn’t be caught dead in, not in real life, but my big sister, Jude, is getting married, and that’s a big deal, so I gave in.
For the past year and a half, everything’s been about my sister, Jude’s, wedding. At least all this will be over soon and we’ll be able to go back to our normal lives.
As I walk to the terminal entrance I get out my cell and text Blake:
Hurry. You can smoke in the car.
I hate it when Blake smokes when he’s driving, but if we wait for him to have a smoke outside he’ll end up talking to someone and then he’ll want to take down their cell number (Blake’s got more friends than any sane person can remember), and then he’ll notice the colour of the sky or a sad-looking piece of trash on the sidewalk and feel inspired to write down some lyrics. And then he’ll find a reason to have a second cigarette and he’ll suggest we take a detour somewhere, for the hell of it, and before we know it, we’ll have missed the whole wedding.
And, besides Jude and Stephen, the bride and groom, if there’s one person this wedding can’t go ahead without, it’s Blake. He’s singing the song. The song.
When I step into the arrivals lounge, things look even worse.
The people clutching the flowers and Welcome Home banners don’t look like they’re meant to look: bouncy with excitement about seeing whoever it is they came to collect. They look stressed out.
A red-faced man has one of the airport staff by his shirt collar and is yelling into his face.
The something’s wrong feeling pushes back up my oesophagus and I get that biley taste at the back of my throat.
It has nothing to do with you, I tell myself. Just focus on finding Blake.
I breathe slowly in and out until I feel better.
I check my phone again and read Blake’s last message:
ETA: 10.15am.
Followed by another message a few minutes later:
See you at Dulles.
Dulles! As in Dulles International Airport in Washington DC.
DC is where we live. And Dulles is the airport Blake’s flown in and out of a million times. I’ve lost track of the number of Heathrow-Dulles flights I’ve booked for him. I joke that I’m the one who always brings Blake home, to our small apartment in Washington, to our family. You’re my guiding star, Air, he jokes. Only it’s not a joke: if it weren’t for me, God knows where Blake would end up.
Which might be the reason he got confused – maybe he thought he was just flying into Dulles, coming home, as usual, and that I’d pick him up and that we’d drive to the wedding together.
But that wasn’t the plan. And I’d told him the plan a million times:
Mum, Dad and Jude were driving down to Nashville a week ahead to make preparations for the wedding.
I’d follow a few days later.
And I’d pick him up at Nashville airport and bring him to the hotel.
Book a flight to Nashville, I’d told him, over and over, knowing it would take a while to sink in.
Nashville is where the wedding is taking place. It’s the city where Dad grew up and took us for every holiday when we were kids. And it’s the city Blake loves more than anywhere in the world.
It made sense for him to fly straight into Nashville: it allowed him to squeeze in a few extra gigs in London before the wedding. He’d already complained about having to cut his UK tour short.
I look at my phone again. I still can’t believe that he flew into Dulles. Seriously? The airports are 700 miles apart, in totally different states – in different time zones for Christ’s sake. It’s not like they’re easy to mix-up.
Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Blake is mess-up central.
Two days ago, I got this random voicemail from him. It wasn’t even from his phone – which is why I didn’t pick up. He explained that he’d lost his cell and that he was borrowing a phone. There was so much noise in the background that he was shouting. He was probably at a gig.
Then he landed the bombshell:
Can you book the return flight for me? Run out of cash. Thanks sis, got to go. Love you.
Casual. Totally casual.
Blake only ever books one-way tickets. His plans are constantly changing, so it doesn’t make sense to book more than a few days ahead. And he’s always short of cash. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Only, this was different: it was forty-eight hours before our sister’s wedding.
And I’d reminded him – like a thousand times – that he had to book a return flight well in advance.
But had he listened to any of my very clear instructions about the wedding? About where it was taking place and when and at what time and which airport he had to fly into?
No. Obviously, no.
And, two nights ago, when he left that message, saying that he hadn’t booked his flight yet – like it was nothing – did I bail him out, again?
Yes. Obviously, yes.
So, even though it was three in the morning and I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, I got out the debit card Mom and Dad set up for me, and booked the flight from Heathrow to Nashville, as planned.
Jude, Blake and I all have a card with separate accounts set up in our names. It’s Mom and Dad’s way of teaching us to be responsible with money. Only Blake keeps maxing his out and then I have to bail him out with my card. The thing is, Mom gets alerts when any of us spend more than $50 so I texted her, explaining that Blake had forgotten to book a return ticket and that he didn’t have any money but that she didn’t need to worry, I was on it. Everything was going to be fine. Blake messing up is a scenario she’s familiar with. She answered with: OK. Just get him here.
Mom never blames Blake for anything. She never even blames him for maxing out his debit card. She’s got this massive blind spot where he’s concerned. Being pissed off at how Mom is totally soft when it comes to Blake is one of the few things Jude and I bond over.
Then I sent a text message to the phone he’d called from with the flight details for the totally overpriced last-minute ticket. That I’d meet him at Nashville airport and take him to the hotel.
I sent him a few other texts too, not caring what stranger would read them first, telling him how pissed I was that he’d woken me up and how expensive the flight was and that he’d better be on time.
He never answered any of my texts.
I don’t really believe in praying: I don’t think anyone out there is listening. Except, perhaps, some life form on a planet we haven’t discovered yet. But not a God-like figure. Not someone who directs our lives. That night, though, I found myself begging that if there was some force out there who decided whether things work out or get fucked up, that Blake would get my messages. That whoever he’d borrowed a phone from would pass them on. That he wasn’t some random guy off the street that Blake would never see again.
I guess I begged – or prayed, or whatever – because I knew that this time Blake had to get his shit together. That he had to make it back for the wedding.
The next time I heard from him was the text he sent me when I was halfway to Nashville saying that he was landing in Dulles. The text was from a different number, probably another phone he borrowed.
You mean Nashville!
I’d texted back.
No. Dulles. See you soon, sis.
And then nothing.
Had he not received any of my messages when I booked his flight? Did he end up booking a flight on his own? He was always borrowing money off people; maybe he’d found a way to pay the airfare. And then he’d got it wrong: he thought we were meant to meet up in Dulles and drive down to Nashville together. But that had never been the plan. I’d explained it to him.
But then Blake’s not good at listening. Not when it comes to practical, everyday stuff.
So, this was another typical Blake fuck-up. Only worse: a fuck-up on top of a fuck-up.
I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms.
Focus, I think. Just focus on finding Blake.
I’m really late. Two hours late. So, I guess all these stressed-out looking people, they’ve been here for a while already.
There’s a toddler screaming. But besides him and the red-faced yelling guy, everything’s a weird kind of quiet, people walking around with wide, glazed eyes like they’ve lost something.
I’ve been to this airport more times than I can remember – I’m Blake’s personal taxi service – and it’s never felt like this. And when I see how lost those people look, I feel bad – like I should be asking them if I can help or something – but I don’t have time to be helpful in other people’s lives right now: I’ve got to find Blake, get him into the car and start driving.
That’s if he’s even here. Knowing Blake, he’s probably got on a plane to Hawaii or Iceland or bloody Timbuktu.
I check my phone again.
No. Dulles. See you soon, sis.
Though, in the grand-Blake scheme of things, his message doesn’t really mean much. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s told me where he’s planning to go, only to find out that he’s ended up somewhere else altogether.
Maybe his brain went into autopilot; maybe he thought he was coming home to DC, like he usually does. Or maybe his brain was tired or hungover or in its general state of Blake-like distraction and he texted Dulles because that was what he was used to texting.
Maybe, at this exact moment, he’s standing at the arrivals gate of Nashville International Airport – like he was meant to all along.
God, I shouldn’t have turned the car round. I should have gone to Nashville as planned, assumed that he was on the plane I’d booked for him, ignored his random text.
If you made me drive all the way to Dulles for nothing, I’m not doing anything for you ever again, I say to him in my head. And this time, I mean it.
Dulles. Nashville. Dulles. Nashville. The words crash around in my brain.
Where the hell are you, Blake?
He should have some kind of electronic tag.
I take a breath.
I’ve got to concentrate on one thing at a time. Assume he’s here. Then work out from there. A clear, logical method.
I search the area around the arrivals gate. Blake’s hard to miss. He’s really tall and skinny and has this crazy black hair that stands up a mile with all the gel he puts in it – it’s longer than mine. It’s a bit of a family joke – how Blake’s hair is longer than mine, and how many products he has in the bathroom, and how long he takes grooming himself.
When we tease him, he says it’s part of his brand.
Blake’s been honing his brand since he was five years old when this music teacher at school told him he had a talent – and that he was cute, which, she explained, was a winning combination.
When I can’t find him, I scan the arrivals screen for his flight. Within a few seconds, I’ve found it:
10.15 UKFlyer0217 From London Heathrow:
DELAYED.
