Remarkably Bright Creatures(34)

Speaking of which, where is his bag? The class ring is in his pocket, but the rest of the jewelry is tucked in his duffel. The conveyer is still spitting out suitcases but sporadically now. He pictures the workers in their orange vests piling the last of the luggage from the plane’s hold onto one of those carts to be driven across the tarmac. What a terrible system. A million inefficiencies, too many handling points. A zillion opportunities for shit to go sideways.

“Figures, right?”

A guy about his age wearing rimless glasses plops down the other end of the bench and unwraps a sub sandwich, jamming one end in his mouth, which he doesn’t bother to close as he chews. The steady release of spiced pastrami turns Cameron’s stomach. Who eats pastrami at eight in the morning?

“I’m sure they’ll come out,” Cameron says.

“Not a frequent JoyJet flier, are you?” Spiced Pastrami barks out a laugh. Pickles and lettuce tumble around in his mouth. “Trust me, they’re notorious for it. We’ve got better odds in Vegas than of our suitcases coming down that belt right now.”

Cameron inhales, preparing to explain that a top-tier equity firm just bought in at a multibillion-dollar valuation for JoyJet and investors are giddy at rumors of an IPO, and even when you’re an ultra-budget airline you don’t get there by habitually losing customer property. But then the carousel grinds to a halt.

“Shit,” Cameron mutters.

That bag of jewelry. Why hadn’t he kept it on him? Now it’s somewhere between Sacramento and Seattle, or, more likely, shoved away in some baggage worker’s locker. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

“See? I called it,” Spiced Pastrami says with a nod at the conveyer, which is still as a dead snake. “Well, let’s go file claims.”

Cameron eyes the line forming outside of a tiny office on the far side of the baggage area. Of course, the fine print on the back of the baggage ticket states that they won’t pay for valuables in checked luggage. He’d skimmed it as they hauled off his duffel after the agent insisted it wouldn’t fit in the overhead bin. But he’d shrugged off any possibility these disclaimers could apply to him. They’re meant for other people. Cameron Cassmore doesn’t have valuables.

By the time he gets to the baggage office, the line is twenty people deep. Spiced Pastrami leans on the wall beside him, still gnawing on his sandwich. It just keeps coming.

“I’m Elliot, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.” Cameron tries to look like he’s concentrating hard on his phone, as if there’s some Very Important Business happening there.

“Well, we didn’t meet, technically. I told you my name, but you didn’t tell me yours.”

Doesn’t this guy have anything better to do? “Cameron.”

“Cameron. Nice to meet you.” He holds up his insufferable sandwich. “Hungry? Happy to share.”

“No thanks. Not really a pastrami fan.”

Elliot’s eyes widen. “Oh, this isn’t pastrami! It’s a Yamwich.”

“A what?

“A Yamwich! You know, vegan? From that one place on Capitol Hill? They opened a kiosk here at the airport last year.”

Cameron stares at the oily hoagie, loaded with thinly shaved slices of . . . something. “You’re telling me that’s made from yam?”

“Yep! Their reuben kicks ass. You sure you don’t want some?”

“Pass.” Cameron suppresses a scoff. Seattle hipsters, living up to their stereotype.

“Are you sure? I’ve got a whole ’nother half here, haven’t touched it . . .”

“Fine,” Cameron agrees, mostly to end the conversation, but also to appease the nagging voice in the back of his brain reminding him he’s in no position to turn down free meals.

Elliot grins. “You’ll love it.”

As Cameron bites into the sandwich, he returns to scrolling his phone. Katie has posted a selfie with her dog. Hashtag SingleDogLady. He scowls, but it’s softened by the pleasant crunch happening in his mouth. Yam? Really? It’s actually . . . not bad.

He nods at Elliot. “Thanks, bro. This is decent.”

“Wait until you try their French dip.”

The line moves at a creep. Finally, Elliot wads up the greasy wrapper and tosses it at a nearby trash can, landing the shot without even hitting the rim, which annoys Cameron more than it should.

Elliot turns to him. “So, seems like you’re not from around here? Here for work? Vacation?”

“Family visit.”

“Oh, nice. Me, I’m coming home. Was down in Cali for my grandmother’s funeral.”

A dead grandma. Figures. Cameron mutters, “Sorry for your loss.”

“To tell the truth, she was kind of mean, but she loved us grandkids,” Elliot says, his voice surprisingly soft. “Spoiled us rotten in only the way a grandparent can, you know?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Cameron says, tossing his own wrapper into the trash. Of course, he never had a grandparent of his own. Elizabeth’s grandfather used to pinch his cheeks and give him caramel candies when he happened to drop by Elizabeth’s house while Cameron was over. The candies were too sticky, too sweet, and the pinching kind of hurt, and he always smelled like weird old man, like stale pee mixed with arthritis cream. Elizabeth said the old folks’ home where he lived was practically a morgue.