You Can't Catch Me
Catherine McKenzie
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Airport Bars Are the Loneliest Bars
There’s no real time of day in airports, only morning and drinking time.
I’m sitting in an airport bar. They’re sad places, I’ve found, full of people who are waiting out flight delays or long layovers—whatever excuse they want to use to drink in the daytime.
The bar I’m sitting at looks like an Apple store, all white, glossy surfaces and molded plastic. You even have to order off an iPad, instead of from a person, though people still deliver the food. It’s in Terminal One at Newark, one of those massive terminals where you can hit your daily step goal transferring from one gate to another. Across from me are a Lacoste store and a fancy candy shop, neither of which I can see any need for in an airport. I Forgot to Pack Any Underwear—now that would be a useful store.
My flight to Puerto Vallarta doesn’t leave for three hours. I’m one of those people who arrives way too early for flights and stresses until they’re through the security line. Laugh at me if you want; I’ve never missed a plane. I might also have nothing better to do these days than to day drink.
I stare at the iPad, trying to decide if I need a food cushion for the alcohol I’m definitely having. The menu is a weird collection of dishes. Imagining eating most of the choices makes me vaguely queasy (airport sushi?), but the charcuterie plate seems safe. Cured meat and pickled vegetables are items meant to withstand shoddy hygiene. I order it with the eight-ounce glass of wine, then swipe my credit card to pay. I scroll through my Twitter feed while I wait. My notifications have calmed down. There are only four or five hundred people @-ing me today and imagining the crimes they’d commit if they could get their hands on me. Charming assault and dismemberment scenario you’ve described, @TotalMan. Your mom would be so proud.
I should delete my account, but I take perverted pleasure in how mad I’ve made so many people. As if their lives are the ones that were turned upside down, not mine.
A woman sits down next to me and starts to tap on the iPad in front of her. I glance her way—she’s thin, with thick black hair in a precision blunt cut that ends at her chin—and turn away. Women like this make me feel frumpier than I am. I’m wearing yoga pants and an oversize sweater, and my hair is in a messy top bun. I completed my “look” with a single coat of mascara. I like to travel comfortably, but still.
I turn back to my phone.
“Jessica?” the server asks.
“Yes?” my seatmate and I say together.
We turn to each other and laugh. This other Jessica has bright-red lips and small, even teeth.
The server’s confused. She’s twenty-one, if that, with a rash of acne on her chin. Her name tag says TAMMY. She looks down at the ticket in her hand.
“Jessica Williams?”
“Yes,” we both say again, then turn and stare at one another.
“Oh, wow,” the other Jessica says. I’m already thinking of her as Jessica Two.
“Does this order belong to one of you?” Tammy’s holding my charcuterie plate in one palm and a large glass of white wine in the other.
“That’s mine.” I reach for the plate as she puts down the glass of wine.
“Definitely yours,” Jessica Two says. “I don’t do sulfites.”
“Bring the other order as well,” I say as Tammy turns to leave.
“Huh?”
“When you get the other ticket for Jessica Williams,” Jessica Two says slowly, “do not throw it out.”
Tammy backs away until she disappears through a swinging door.
“You think she’ll figure it out?” I ask.
“I’m guessing no.”
I swivel my stool. Jessica Two has tucked her sheet of hair behind her ear. A discreet diamond stud winks at me. “How did this happen?” I ask.
“Our parents weren’t original in their name choices?”
“You have no idea.”
I look at her more carefully. She’s not my doppelg?nger—more like the opposite of me. Light-blue eyes, where mine are hazel. That thick black hair compared to my finer light-brown strands that curl in the heat. Clear china-doll skin where I’m freckled and tan easily.
She’s checking me out also, and grins as our eyes meet. “You’re really Jessica Williams?”
“Yep,” I say. “You?”
“Yep.”
I reach for my wine. “Do you mind?”
“Please, go ahead.”
I take a large sip. It’s fruity and not what I was expecting, but how picky can I be? It’s midday, and the airport feels desolate on this Sunday afternoon in early June. We’re the only people at the bar.
“So,” she says. “I have this thing I do whenever I meet another Jessica Williams.”
I sit up straighter. “Whenever? This happens often?”
“Often enough.”
“I’ve only ever known one.”
“I travel a lot. Maybe that explains it.”
“Could be. What is it?”
“I call it Jessica Williams Twenty Questions.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Sure it is.”