I totally don’t have the time for this, I walk back to him.
Leda follows, suddenly cooperative.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to him. My eyes well up. ‘For whoever…’ I look back at the screen. The bit of metal floating on the sea. Then I look at my watch. ‘But I’ve got to go.’
I don’t know what’s going on. With the plane. With where Blake is. But I’ve made a decision: I’ve got to get to the wedding. Whatever it takes. I have to be there for Mom and Dad and Jude. If Blake doesn’t show, I’ll find an excuse for him.
Jude needs this: her perfect wedding, getting married to Stephen.
Mom needs it.
We all do.
And if Blake doesn’t show up on time, I’ll sing the damn song.
I can’t play the guitar and my voice is totally average and I get shit scared of standing in front of even one person and performing. But I’ve been practising it with Blake ever since Jude announced she was engaged, so I know the words. Yeah, I’ll sing it. And it won’t be great. And Jude will be sulky as hell about it. But hopefully all the other wedding stuff will distract her and everything will sort of be okay.
And when Blake does turn up – like he always does – he’s going to owe me, big time. More than he’s ever owed me.
For a beat, the guy keeps staring at me, and then he says:
‘Don’t you think you should stay?’ He shifts nervously from foot to foot. ‘I mean, there could be more information. We’ve been told to wait.’ He blushes like saying even these few words to me is painful. ‘It’s better to stay together at times like this,’ he adds.
‘At times like this?’
‘Yeah.’
He makes it sound like this is the kind of situation that people find themselves in more than once in their lives. And like he’s some kind of expert.
‘I’ll keep checking my phone,’ I say – because I can’t tell him the truth: that I don’t need to stay because that bit of metal floating in the sea has nothing to do with my brother.
I feel bad for leaving him. He looks like he could do with having someone stay with him, but I’ve got to get on the road.
15.48 EST
Except, when I get to the car, it’s not there.
Blake’s car.
The mustard yellow 1973 Buick convertible that he loves like it’s a living thing.
The car which has my rehearsal dinner dress in it, and my bridesmaid’s dress and Blake’s suit and Leda’s food.
The car Dad was going to drive Jude and Stephen to the airport in after the wedding, to catch the flight to Florence for their honeymoon.
The car that was my one chance of getting to the wedding on time.
Leda barks at the empty space where I parked it, like she’s seeing a ghost.
My head spins.
I look around and then spot a parking notice taped to a post next to where I left the Buick.
I peel it off but I already know what’s happened.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It’s been impounded. Obviously, it’s been impounded – it’s what happens when you leave a car illegally parked in the pick-up zone for close to three hours. I’ve given Blake this lecture before. Blake who parks anywhere, anyhow, thinking he’ll get away with it because he’s Blake Shaw and that somehow makes him untouchable.
I put Leda down. She pees against the post where the parking notice was taped and then starts whimpering.
I feel like screaming. At the sky and the sun and all the planes flying overhead. At whoever it is who decided to land me in this shit storm of a situation.
I think of Blake’s car on the back of some horrible truck being carted to an impounding lot miles and miles from here.
I think about how much money it will cost to get it back – money I don’t have.
And I think about how long all this is going to take.
But instead of screaming, I take my telescope off my back and sit down on the sidewalk. I slump my shoulders and all the oxygen goes out of my body.
Leda lies down beside me and rests her head on my lap.
I stroke the spot she likes to have rubbed behind her ears: a soft, silky bit, the colour of gold, amongst all the rough, straggly fur.
‘What are we going to do?’ I ask her.
She looks up at me with her dark, glassy eyes like she’s asking me the exact same question.
I wrap my arms around her and close my eyes.
16.14 EST
I don’t know how long I sit there on the sidewalk, staring at the tarmac, willing my brain to work out some kind of plan to make all of this okay. But by the time I look up again, the sun’s so low, it blinds me.
Which is why I don’t notice him, not at first.
I put my hand over my brow to block out the sun, which lights up his hair – the tangled strands look like comets.
The sun reflects off his glasses too, so hard that I can’t see his eyes.
Leda gets up and runs around him, which makes him look nervous so I pat the space beside me to get her to sit down again.
For a second, I let myself believe that the fact that he’s standing there – the fact that he’s coming out of the airport – means that they’ve released new information. That the plane made it after all.
‘Is there any news?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I needed to get out of there for a bit.’
My heart slumps.
‘I thought you were leaving?’ he says.
‘So did I.’
‘You changed your mind?’
I shake my head, too tired to explain. And too pissed about the car.
He sits down beside me but keeps a space between us like he’s scared to get too close. But then he holds out his hand, which feels weirdly formal, but I take it anyway. His skin’s cool. It feels nice.
‘I’m
