Sort of. It’s a long story. I think I got it wrong. Or he got it wrong. Anyway, he’s not here.’
‘Right.’
I hand him the parking notice. ‘They took the car.’
‘From the car park?’
I shake my head. ‘From here.’
‘Here?’
I nod.
‘Right here?’
‘I was in a hurry – we were already late.’ My throat goes thick. ‘I know it was a stupid thing to do but I texted Blake to come straight out; I thought it would only take a few minutes before we’d be back in the car.’ Tears prick the back of my eyes; I blink hard to make them go away. ‘I didn’t know all this would happen.’
‘Are you okay?’ asks Christopher.
And then it all comes out.
‘My sister’s getting married on Monday, during the eclipse, on this amazing rooftop terrace in a hotel in Nashville. And I should be there already but I thought Blake got on the wrong plane so I came back to collect him and now he’s not here and he’s not answering my texts and I don’t know how to tell my family – and now I don’t have a car anymore.’ I gulp. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ My words tumble over each other so quick I’m pretty sure I don’t make any sense. ‘So no, nothing’s even close to okay.’
I shut my eyes to push the tears back in.
‘Can I help?’ Two perfect pink circles form at the top of his cheeks.
It’s a weird thing to ask. But it’s kind of nice too – to have someone helping me out for a change.
‘Help?’ I ask.
‘To get your car back,’ he says.
He makes it sound so simple. And it makes me feel better – that there’s one thing I might be able to sort out in this whole tangled mess I’m in.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘I’d like to help.’
‘You would?’
He gives a quick nod. ‘Take my mind off things for a bit – you know?’
It hits me again. That someone he knows – someone he cares about – is on the plane that’s gone missing.
His brow is scrunched up and he’s squinting into the sun and I get it, that he needs this.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.
He studies the parking notice and then says, ‘Have you called the number yet?’
I shake my head.
‘The tow truck might not have got very far. We could explain.’
‘Explain?’
‘What’s going on,’ he says. ‘That these are special circumstances.’
Our eyes catch his and, for a beat, we don’t say anything.
‘You think that would work?’
In my experience, traffic enforcement doesn’t do special circumstances, especially for people our age.
‘We could try,’ he says.
Leda gives out a small bark and thumps her tail against the sidewalk, like she’s agreeing with him.
I bite the side of my thumbnail and notice that my sky-blue nail varnish is chipped. I went to have a manicure before I left DC – on instruction from Mom. To match the bridesmaid’s dress I’m meant to wear tomorrow.
Then I get out my phone and dial the number.
16.45 EST
I watch Christopher grab a sheet from an old in-flight magazine from his backpack and start folding. I don’t even know what he’s making but I can tell that he’s enjoying it, the feel of the skin of the paper as he rubs it between his fingers. He looks relaxed like he did when he was stroking Leda.
I snatch glances at him through the corner of my eye, hoping that he doesn’t realise that I’m staring. It takes my mind off things, looking at this weird English guy who’s got nothing to do with my life or what’s going on in Nashville or with Blake. How he’s sitting here, folding that bit of paper, as though it’s another ordinary day.
It’s weird that he’s this calm, because as bad as I’ve got it with Blake and the wedding and everything, Christopher has it way worse. Someone he knows was on the plane that’s crashed. God, I haven’t even asked him who he came to meet or why he was here. I’ve been so busy thinking about myself. And he’s the one who must be going through hell. And yet he’s sitting here, like he’s got some special information that no one else does. As if that floating piece of metal doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to the rest of us: that the crash was bad. Really bad. As in, it’s unlikely anyone survived.
Leda puts her muzzle on Christopher’s lap and keeps slobbering on him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
‘I didn’t ask you…’ I stutter.
‘Sorry?’
‘I never asked you, who you came to meet.’ My voice breaks a bit. ‘I mean, who you were collecting at the airport.’
‘Oh.’ He goes quiet for a bit. ‘Dad. I came to collect my dad.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He doesn’t answer. I guess it’s all too much to take in right now. That’s probably why he came out here, so he could get away from thinking about his dad being on that plane.
‘So, what brought you to DC?’ I ask.
‘I came to do research for a school project. The future of American politics.’ He puts quote marks round his words with his fingers. ‘Dad’s been working for the last week and he knew he was flying into DC so he thought it would make sense for me to come earlier – to do some work – and for him to join me afterwards.’
‘You came all the way to DC for a school project?’
‘Dad gets cheap flights. And he said it would make my project stand out – to do on-the-ground research.’
‘Wow, that’s commitment.’
‘Dad believes in doing things properly.’
‘Sounds like my mom.’
He makes another fold in his paper.
‘You really study American politics in the UK?’
He
