The Wedding Veil(18)

My heart racing, I unzipped the main compartment of the bag enough so I could see inside. I gasped. I could make out a rolled-up needlepoint belt, a pair of loafers, and a dopp kit, none of which belonged to me. And, ew, I had just touched a stranger’s underwear!

As panicked as I was, I briefly considered staying to get my Chick-fil-A, but remembering I didn’t have any money, I turned to race back to the gate. My heart pounded as I formulated a plan. Fortunately, I had zipped my license into the inside pocket of the jacket I was wearing, so I could get my furious parents to wire me money to get home if I needed it. But how did one even get wired money? It was a phrase that had no actual application to my life. Were there money-wiring places? And, if so, would there be one in an airport? And, furthermore, after I had run out on my wedding, would my parents even send me money?

Before I could catastrophize further, I realized that I was only in Charlotte. Sarah could come pick me up in like two hours if, worst-case scenario, my bag really was gone.

As I raced down the hallway, swerving among the throngs of people, I made a mental list: My glasses were in that bag. My expensive new bikini. My computer with the CAD files of my final project drawings from architecture school. Well, I certainly never wanted to see those again. If they were lost, that would be the silver lining. But I wanted everything else back. And maybe, just maybe, the person who took my bag had realized the mistake.

I was like the desperate lover in a Hallmark movie: out of breath, chest burning and hair disheveled. And I realized two things as I reached my last gate. One, if I was this winded from what couldn’t have been more than a half-mile run, I needed to seriously examine my fitness level. Two, my bag! The handle was up and a man was leaning casually against it in front of the gate agent’s counter. Well, he was pretending to, at least. If he had actually leaned on it, the four spinner wheels that worked so incredibly well would most certainly have slid out from underneath him. He grinned at me. That was when I noticed something I hadn’t noticed about a man—at least a man who wasn’t Hayes—in a long, long time: He was kind of cute. Actually, he was more than kind of cute. He was seriously, amazingly cute, with a head of short, dark hair. His shirttail hung loosely over a pair of jeans that were fitted but not so tight that they looked forced.

“My bag!” I exclaimed, so relieved I could have melted into a puddle on the floor. As I reached the man and unzipped the top pocket, I pulled out my wallet and hugged it.

“I figured you’d come back for the bomb you have in there,” he said, grinning.

I gasped. “You can’t say bomb in an airport,” I whispered.

“You’re right,” he whispered back. “And I’m glad you came back, because I have a kilo of cocaine in my bag.”

Now I rolled my eyes. “Can you even fit a kilo of cocaine in a carry-on bag?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always been a little sketchy on the finer points of pounds versus kilograms.”

I nodded. “Same.”

I finally remembered that we weren’t out for drinks. He had my bag and I had a plane to catch for, depressingly, my honeymoon.

My suitcase buddy exhaled deeply. “I was almost hoping my bag was lost.”

I needed to go but now I was intrigued. “Why in the world would you want your bag to be lost?”

“It has my shitty CAD drawings in it.”

I felt my chest go tight. “Are you an architect?” I asked hesitantly.

“That’s kind of debatable. I mean, technically, yeah. In the way that I did all the school and graduated and stuff. But do I deserve the title? Don’t know.”

I could certainly relate. Been there, failed that. “Okay, well, thanks again. I’ve got to get to Terminal C.”

I scooted his suitcase to him, but strangely, he didn’t return the gesture. Instead, he started walking, pulling them both behind him. “I’m going to Terminal C too,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Well, you’re going to get our bags mixed up again,” I huffed.

He stopped and looked at me, amused. “Oh, I am, huh? So this is all my fault?”

I smiled, remembering how anxious I had been to grab that bag before it had even touched the ground. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all his fault.

He started walking again. “You know what, you’re right. I didn’t take your bag on purpose last time, but I might very well do it on purpose this time.”

I squinted at him.

“So I can see you again,” he said slowly, emphasizing each syllable.

God, was I this out of practice? I was, I knew. I hadn’t even considered that another man could be interested in me in so many years that I didn’t recognize his flirting.

“Well,” he said, as we reached the huge sign for Terminal C, “this is where I leave you.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “Off to St. Thomas.”

He laughed. “You’re going to St.Thomas? I’m going to St. Thomas. Well, no. Not St. Thomas. The BVIs by way of St. Thomas.”

“Me too!” Suddenly things were looking up. But then I remembered. “I’m going on my honeymoon.”

He looked around. Then, understanding, said, “Oh, no…”

I nodded.

“You can’t fly to your honeymoon alone.” He walked to the desk at our gate, and I followed him for a reason I couldn’t explain.