The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(9)

“You know, have to sleep in the woods or in a train station or something.”

Train station . . . seriously?

“Do you sell mini mattresses, something that folds up like the towel?” I ask.

The salesman throws his head back and laughs out loud. “You’re hilarious, man.”

It wasn’t a joke.

“We’ll take a sleeping bag. This kind here.” Elliot taps the display.

“Yellow or black?”

“Are you color blind?” I stare at him deadpan. “The fuck is wrong with you? Nobody wants a yellow sleeping bag.”

The assistant begins to take our things to the cashier station. He piles all our purchases onto the counter. “Will that be all?”

“Yes.”

He begins to ring them up.

Elliot eyes the pile of things on the counter, and I can see something running through his mind.

“What?” I ask.

“How is all that going to fit into that pissant bag?”

Hmm, he does have a point.

“I mean, where do your clothes go?”

“That’s a very good question,” I mutter.

“You travel light,” the salesman says.

“How light?” I frown.

“Just the essentials, like one or two pairs of pants, two pairs of shorts, like three T-shirts, and one jumper. The shoes you are wearing.”

I stare at him as horror begins to fuck me up the ass . . . “I can’t . . .”

“You can,” he says.

My eyes meet Elliot, and he shrugs. “I don’t know?”

How the hell can you live in five things?

Five hours later

“What fucking bullshit is this?” I cry.

Elliot scratches his head, completely perplexed. “We shouldn’t have taken it out of the case.”

“Oh. Great idea, Einstein,” I bark. “Because finding this out in a crowded hostel would be so much fucking better.”

“I just don’t get it.” Elliot spins the directions around as he reads them. “It doesn’t say anything here about this. Is there a button or something you push?”

I search and search. “There is no button, and there is definitely no way this is happening.”

“Jameson went camping. He will know.” Elliot calls the boys while I struggle some more.

“Hey.” I hear Jameson’s voice.

“Hi there,” says Tristan.

“We’re in all sorts here,” Elliot replies as he sets his phone up so they can see us. “I think the guy in the store pranked us.”

“What’s happening?” Jameson asks.

“How is this”—I hold up the giant, huge-ass sleeping bag—“supposed to fit into this”—I hold up the tiny sleeping bag cover. I begin to try to stuff it in again.

Jameson laughs out loud.

“You idiot. You roll it up.”

“It’s impossible,” I cry. “It’s like an elephant trying to fuck a cockroach.” I struggle some more. “There is no way this is fitting into that.”

“Have you heard of lube?” Tristan laughs.

“Obviously not,” Jameson replies. “Have you seen the women he likes?”

“Fuck off. I’m not in the mood for your shit,” I yell in frustration. “This is a complete disaster. I’m supposed to be on a vacation. I don’t have a spare nine hours every day to fight with a disobedient sleeping bag.”

“Lay it out flat.”

“What?”

“Lay it out flat,” Jameson snaps.

I lay it out flat.

“Now fold it in half and then in half again, and then roll.”

“Roll?” Elliot frowns.

“Roll . . . you idiot.”

“Why didn’t that half-wit tell us this in the shop?” I grunt.

Elliot and I get on our hands and knees and try to follow the instructions. We huff and we puff and moan and use all our strength, and to the sounds of Jameson and Tristan laughing out loud in the background, after twenty minutes we finally get it in.

“Now, fuck off.” I pick up the sleeping bag in its cover and kick it up the hall as hard as I can. “You’re not coming with me after pulling that bullshit. I never want to see you again.”

“You have to take it,” Elliot snaps.

“No way. It’s a four-man job, and I’m not a magician. I’ll happily freeze.”

Four days later

The plane touches down on the runway, and I blow out a long hard breath.

This is it.

In a moment, I will leave my comfortable first-class seat to find an Uber and travel out into the unknown with no money.

I don’t know what to expect other than the knowledge that my accommodation costs eighteen euros a night, I have nowhere near enough clothes, and I hate my sleeping bag with a passion.



Forty minutes later I walk out to the taxi stand feeling very pleased with myself.

Collected my luggage without a hiccup, and all is good in the world.

“Hello,” I say to the driver.

“Hello.” He smiles.

“Can you take me here, please?” I show him the address on my phone.

“Sí.”