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.
12.40 EST
I look back at the screen to make sure I’ve got it right.
But the word’s still there:
DELAYED.
It doesn’t make any sense. Blake texted me before he got on the plane. If it had been delayed, he’d have known – and they wouldn’t have let passengers get onto the plane, not that early.
Though sometimes they get everyone on and then pull everyone off again. If there’s a technical error or something. That could have happened.
But who cares what happened? If we’re late for any of the wedding stuff, Mom’s going to kill me.
I go up to a guy wearing what I recognise as a UKFlyer uniform:
‘Excuse me—’
He spins round. His eyes are wide and kind of jumpy. UKFlyer officials have this way of looking totally calm. Like, even if the airport was on fire, every hair would stay in place. Mom says it’s a British thing. But this guy doesn’t look calm, not at all. Which is weird. Like it’s weird that everyone around me is acting so stressed out. It’s not like they’ve all got weddings to go to – or Moms like mine. Planes get delayed all the time.
‘The plane – the one that’s been delayed,’ I say to the UKFlyer guy. ‘I was meant to pick someone up.’ I pause. ‘Or I think I was. It’s complicated. Could you check the passenger list for me?’
He stares at me and blinks like I’m not speaking English.
I rephrase, trying to calm myself down enough to get the words out in the right order:
‘I need to check whether my brother was meant to be on the plane that’s been delayed.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t release that information.’
‘I’m his sister.’
‘We still can’t release that information. Not at this point.’
‘What point?’
He looks at me like I’m about two years old – or totally crazy – or both. I mean, shouldn’t I know if the person I’ve come to collect was on the plane?
