Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
It might not be a curse, but we could all agree it had been yet another exceedingly bad decision on my part.
Myrtle certainly did.
“August, are you listening to me?” my sister asked sharply, leaning into the open passenger window.
Morgan, her husband and their luggage had somehow left the car without me noticing. When had that happened?
“You need to get out now.” There was a subtle hint of fraying patience in her voice. I only recognized it because I’d heard it so often growing up. “I’ve convinced the officer to give us a few minutes, since the tow truck is already on its way. But he and the nice gentleman he called in to help want to do a quick search of the car for security reasons. They had an incident earlier this week, and they’re taking more precautions.”
Get out of the car? A tow truck? Was she already speaking the Italian she’d been practicing on her Duolingo app?
She couldn’t really be asking me to walk around in public like this. She might look airport-runway ready in her heather-blue cotton lounge set, with its matching boho-style head wrap to contain her tight black-and-silver curls for the flight, but I definitely did not.
My early-morning ensemble included a wrinkled sleep shirt that said Namaste-In Tonight, bleach-stained sweat shorts and floppy old slippers. And don’t get me started on the frizzy, dirty tangle on the top of my head that, at the moment, could only loosely be described as hair.
I wasn’t a morning person on a good day, and this was pre-morning on a bad one.
Not that it mattered. I could have driven here from the spa in a new outfit after ten hours of sleep, and she’d still have the edge in the looks department. She took after her dad, who’d been an Idris Elba-style head-turner in the seventies. It explained why she was born with an eternally sun-kissed tan and could have appeared in the dictionary next to “statuesque.” Meanwhile I, like my very Irish paternal relatives before me, was practically allergic to the sun and had a natural propensity for baked goods and pants with elastic waistbands.
People were always surprised to find out we were sisters.
“Any day now, August.”
She wants you to get out of the car.
I got that. The problem was, I didn’t think I could physically get my hands to unclench from the steering wheel.
“Is that legal? And if so, can’t they search with me in it?” My voice was still raspy from too little sleep and a fresh new flood of anxiety.
“Gene, will you get the bags checked without me?” she asked over her shoulder. “August Retta, I want you to exit this vehicle right now, before they think you’re on drugs and we all end up in airport prison.”
That worked. It was all in the delivery, and hers had that no-nonsense ring to it that could stop all bad-seed adolescents in their tracks. “Yes, Principal Bryant.”
I let go of the wheel, my fingers tingling back to life when I wrapped them around my travel mug full of coffee. Then I opened my door and slipper-shuffled across the pavement to join her beside a dirty concrete column. The planes rumbling through the dark sky overhead, the constant stream of cars and the acrid scent of exhaust were like bony fingers plucking at the over-tight strings of my anxiety.
So was the flashing No Parking sign glaring at me like an accusation.
“I didn’t think it would be busy at this hour.”
“It’s Houston International. It’s always busy,” she said absently. “Give me a second. I need to answer this text from Ann to tell her where Tilly’s morning meds are. I know I wrote it down.”
“Take your time.” She could text her dog sitter, and I’d stand here like the Before picture to her After, drinking my coffee and people watching while my car had her privacy invaded.
Apart from my melodramatic entrance, it seemed like a fairly routine morning. You could use it as the B-roll for any movie with air travel. Most of the early-bird fliers were rushing toward the doors, staring at their phones as they dragged their rolling suitcases behind them. Some hugged each other goodbye, while others waved flippantly at the person who’d dropped them off and driven away without worrying whether or not they’d ever see them again. One mother tried to soothe her sleepy, crying child as a gray-haired couple looked on, sniffling and waving.
I quickly looked away from that emotional moment, my attention latching onto a man who was on his knees, repacking a long black bag that carried an easily visible snowboard. That, I could appreciate. This very intelligent individual was wisely abandoning the oppressive summer heat for cooler pastures.
“Lucky you,” I muttered, tempted to follow him. But even if I wanted to, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not while I was still chained to my money pit of a house and suffering through a record-breaking case of writer’s block. Oh, and potentially a broken car now. Good times.