Page 8 of The Christmas Yes List

Hence the deadline. I have seven days to make progress, or I’m terrified I’ll lose my traction and never get back on the proverbial road again.

“Here”—the businessman who so reluctantly offered to help clears his throat, and I’m brought back to the present—“you go.”

After I so reluctantly accepted his offer, he so reluctantly got my suitcases, and now he has returned. “Also this . . . came off,” he says, somewhat apologetically but mostly suspicious of the person who chose to own a musty-smelling suitcase with a handle that breaks off at the least resistance. He hands over the beige handle with its two-foot-long telescoping tubes, then waves a hand at the mystifying bag. “I couldn’t get it to go back in.”

“Oh, that’s because it’s a little like a dance. You gotta waltz it in,” I say.

With a mix of mild humor and mild distrust, he watches as I dance the ancient suitcase back and forth and work the handle in.

“See?” I say with a smile and wave my hand at it like I’ve just done something really special. For the record, I see how clearly I have not. And I feel like I’m watching myself from a bird’s-eye view, living the ultimate low.

This is my life now. Jobless. Homeless. And showing off my stupid suitcase handle tricks.

“Right,” I say, leaning back on my heels. “Well. Thank you so much again. Have a . . . good trip.”

The tiniest furrow creases his brow, and his green eyes for a moment look even sharper as he watches me. Thoughtful. Hesitant. Indecisive. But all he says is “Thank you” at last.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

And with that, we move our separate ways.

What an odd meeting, I think as I remove myself from the carousel line and make my way toward the large sliding exit doors.

Today has been chock-full of odd experiences.

The world outside looks uncommonly blizzardy, even to someone accustomed to harsh Seattle winters. The parking lot of the modest Webber–McGee Airport is already coated in a layer of white, with no sign from the sky above that its heavy unloading of snow will stop anytime soon. My phone has dinged half a dozen times with weather notifications in bold red, as if I don’t have eyes to see plainly what’s before me, and people are slipping and sliding their way toward their cars like first-time ice skaters on a rink. Nobody, it seems, was prepared for the temperature to suddenly drop twenty degrees and turn the town into a shaken snow globe.

Except me, of course, who’s generally prepared for the worst at all times. One tiny benefit of being a negatively driven overthinker, I guess. If ever my car careens off the cliff of a mountain that suddenly drops into the ocean after a thousand years of existence, you won’t find me saying Oh! What a terrible, horrible surprise!

I pause momentarily outside the doors and zip up my parka.

As I do so, I see the businessman is about to catch up with me from the other side of the doors (woefully underdressed, I might add). He’s not interested in me—I’ve seen that look often and recognize it immediately. I’m just a part of the scenery to him. As important and interesting as a tree in a parking lot. His focus is on something else, and as he steps through the doors his eyes pierce the landscape around him, looking no doubt for some taxi or Uber to get him out of here and take him where he needs to go.

And that’s when the idea strikes.

A formidable, necessary idea.

Oh, I loathe the idea.

And need it.

It’s both terrible and imperative.

I can snap up a rejection from him right now. I’m already kicking myself for losing all those hard-earned points in one stupid people-pleasing slip with him today. Here’s my chance to earn some points back. Just one point. Anything.

Something quick. In and out and you’ll never see him again, I tell myself. I realize I’m bouncing on my toes and shrugging my shoulders. Hyping myself up. Like a footballer before the big game.

The doors slide shut behind him, and without so much as a glance my way he begins to walk toward the right. Away from me.

Hurry. Pick a question.

Something.

ANYTHING!

My breath starts to come in quick, short spasms, like I’m trekking up a mountain in the wilderness instead of just standing here, using approximately zero calories, staring at the stranger’s back as he walks away.