When the Heart Falls(7)

I squeal and hug her again. "That would be so awesome. I can't wait."

Daring, my cousin who's more like a sister, is next, a small package in her hand. “I have a going away present for you.”

I open the silver box and smile, pulling out the charm necklace. It’s just like hers, the one I’ve admired for years, with a tiny Eiffel Tower, a silver envelope, a foreign coin and beads. The only thing it’s missing is the key.

As if reading my mind, she pulls hers out of her shirt and holds it up. “My key was my mother’s, before she died. I didn’t put one on yours because you need to find your own. One that means something special to you, that reminds you who you really are.”

I nod and slip it over my head, then hug her. “This is the best gift. Thank you.”

She smiles and tweaks my nose, something she hasn’t done since we were kids. "I have a feeling this summer's going to change your life."

My mom kisses my cheek, tears in her eyes. "We're going to miss you. Write us, call us and be careful."

Autumn and Mom stand together, their auburn hair and green eyes twins of each other.

I'm more like my father with the pale skin and ice blue eyes. His are watery as he takes me into one of his trademark bear hugs. "Be good, kid. And have fun." He shoves a stack of cash into my hand, and it's not American bills but Euros, which look like Monopoly money to me. I raise my eyebrow.

He smiles. "I have my ways. Figured you should have some cash, in addition to your debit card, just in case. Don't lose it."

I shove the wad into my purse. "Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it."

Another round of hugs, with my own tears spilling over as my heart wars within itself, torn between excitement and sadness, and I'm in the customs line waiting to be interrogated. Irrational fears overtake me, my imagination plagued with absurd scenarios where I'm arrested for suspicion of being a terrorist or accused of smuggling drugs. The scenes unfold in my mind, complete with dialogue, until my body reacts viscerally to this made-up tragedy. By the time it's my turn to show my passport, I'm convinced my guilt will show on me like a tattoo on my face.

The man behind the counter, without a hint of a smile, asks me for my passport. With sweaty palms, I hand it to him, counting to ten in my mind and trying to calm my heart rate lest he hears its frantic beating.

"Where do you live?" He looks up as he asks this, holding my passport to compare to my face.

My passport picture is horrible. I was sick that day and looked jaundiced. Will he think it's not me? That it's fake? And what does he mean by where do I live? Like my home address or city, county, state? Country? Though I'd think country would be obvious by my passport. I don't really want this creepy dude knowing my home address, so I start with the broadest classification I can get away with. "I live in the United States." My voice shakes when I say this, and his eyes narrow in.

"Full address, ma'am." His hand slips under the counter, and I wonder if he's hitting a silent buzzer to notify security that he has a potential criminal on his hands.

"3211 Primrose Avenue, Bronxville, New York." My mouth is dry, my tongue feels swollen to twice its size.

"Where are you going?"

I show him my ticket. "Paris, France. I'm studying at the Sorbonne."

"What is the purpose of your travels?"

Didn't I already answer this part? "To study," I say slowly, in case he's having a hard time understanding. "At the Sorbonne."

"When do you plan on returning?"

Well, now, that's a much trickier question. "It depends. I'm going to be there at least the summer, but if things go well, I could be there the whole year."

Placing my paperwork on the counter, I point to my student visa and acceptance letter. "See?"

He proceeds to ask me a series of questions about my luggage. If I'm taking any perishables with me? Is this a huge criminal problem, I wonder? Is the smuggling of a pineapple really an international emergency? Once I answer everything to his satisfaction, he hands me my passport back and I exhale in relief.

He points to another line. "You may go."

He didn't stamp my passport. It's a silly thing, maybe, but that stamp is symbolic of my journey and I really want it, but don't want to draw more attention to myself. I hesitate, pivoting back and forth on my feet in indecision.

"Ma'am, please move along."

Summoning my boldness, I place the passport on the counter. "Would you mind stamping this? It's sentimental."

He rolls his eyes, but stamps it as asked, and I nearly skip off to the next line, relieved that the worst of my first airport experience is over.

Daring helped me pack, so I don't break a sweat at this next part, and already have my shoes, belt and jacket off, laptop pulled out, and my travel size toothpaste and hair products in their baggies and sitting on the top of my luggage by the time it's my turn to place my belongings on the belt for it to be scanned in the X-ray machine. No buzzers go off as I walk through the metal detector, which, since I'm practically naked now, is not a big surprise, but my bag doesn't pop out the other side like everyone else's.

In fact, they stop the belt and pull my bag, like it might be a bomb or something.

Luggage backs up, causing one bag to fall off the machine. Angry travelers glare at me, as if I've made it my mission in life to make them late. Only one person doesn't make me feel like a total jerk. He looks like a cowboy with his wide-brimmed brown leather hat, pointy boots and belt buckle. I suck in a breath when we make eye contact, his blue eyes two shades darker than mine. This is the kind of man writers dedicate romance novels to. Broad chested with ropes of muscles under his shirt, strength earned from real work not a gym, skin sun-kissed and glowing. He smiles at me and my knees go weak.