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“Thank you.” I wrap my arm through hers as we head toward the elevator, tugging two suitcases behind. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
She sighs as the doors open to the lobby. Howard is there, patiently waiting for my descent. “Good evening, Miss Erickson, Miss Blanchard.” He takes the bags from my hands.
“Howard, please call me Piper.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, stepping behind me and following me to the car.
“You’re not going to call me Piper, are you?” I’ve asked him to call me by my first name for years to the point that this has become our weekly banter.
“No, ma’am.” He hands my bags to the driver before opening the backdoor of the Mercedes. “Be careful, Miss Erickson.” He steps back, standing next to my bestie. Both of them look worried as the car pulls away from the curb. I stick my arm out the window and wave, hoping they’ll understand the gesture means, I’m good.
The ride to the airport is short and silent as the driver pulls into the drop-off lane. “I’ll get your bags, Miss Erickson.” He jumps out, freeing my bags from the trunk and opening my door wide. “Will you need help getting these inside?”
“No, I can handle it.” I hand him a folded bill before grabbing the two bags and heading inside. Why do airports all smell like a mixture of cleaning solution, poop, and dirt? I immediately laugh at the word poop. Emma’s right. I need to venture out a little. The airport smells like shit! I shout in my mind. I can’t hide the giggle that escapes my lips at the horrendous language flying through my brain.
After baggage check and security, I reach my gate in record time. Taking a wet wipe from my handbag, I wipe the seat completely before lowering myself into it. “Was the seat dirty?” a stranger asks from the other side of the aisle.
“What?”
“Was the seat dirty?”
“Um, maybe?” I shrug. “It's just a thing I do.” I laugh, hoping to make light of the disorder that’s haunted me my entire life.
“Do you mind if I have one?” The stranger stands, towering over me. “I don’t like dirty seats, either.” I hand him a wipe from my canister and watch as he copies my movements from earlier. He throws the wipe into a nearby trash can before sitting in his clean seat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Where are you heading?” he asks.
“Right now, or eventually?”
He laughs. “Right now is fine.”
“Atlanta. I have a layover there.”
“Me, too.” He crosses his long legs at the ankle, taking up most of the aisle between the chairs.
“Miss Erickson? Please come to the counter,” a voice calls overhead.
“That’s me. Maybe I’ll see you in Atlanta.” I smile, heading toward the gate counter.
“Maybe.” He lays his head back and closes his eyes as I approach the gate.
“Miss Erickson?” the flight attendant greets me.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid we’ve overbooked the plane.” She stares at me like I should know what that has to do with me.
“Okay. I’m not sure how you think I can help.”
One side of her mouth lifts higher than the other. Clearly, I’m amusing her. “You can help by taking the next plane. We’ll upgrade your ticket to first class for your time.”
“I’m already flying first class,” I answer.
She shuffles a few papers around on the counter. “Oh, apparently you are.” She smiles, using both sides of her mouth this time. “Let me see what we can do.”
“You can give her my seat.” I turn, finding the man who I shared a wet wipe with. He hands the young girl a card.
