James didn’t thank me when I dropped him off at LAX to go back to his midwestern hometown for the Fourth of July weekend. It feels gross to me now that the United States Independence Day is his favorite holiday, but at the time, I found his homesickness and striped short-shorts endearing.
He stayed in the passenger seat, organizing his wallet, as I put my hazards on in the drop-off lane outside of Southwest airlines. God, of course he only flew Southwest.
I retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, and met him on the sidewalk. “Call to let me know you got there safely,” I said, handing him his bag, “and tell your mom I say hey.” I had never met his mom, but it’s one of my favorite hardly-funny bits, telling everyone to say hi to their moms for me. I don’t know why I do it; it never lands.
“Okay, sure. I’ll give you the pick up flight information, too.” James told me, taking the bag and checking his watch. I got him to the terminal at the exact time he asked me to. Much earlier than I’ve ever thought I needed to be there.
“Keep it moving,” a security guard said, waving us along out of nowhere.
“My hazards are on, I’ll just be a minute,” I said. Then I added a “sorry” and a “thank you” to show my reluctant submission. “Have a lovely flight,” I told James, wishing good things we couldn’t control into the universe.
“Will do,” he said.
I gave him a hug and hoped for one of his rare, charming moments where he drops his bag, takes my head in his hands, thumbs to my temples and his fingers steadying the back of my head, stares into my eyes, and kisses me, like a 2004 romcom.
Instead, he kept his left hand on his bag, grabbed my ass with his right hand, and said, “See ya.”
The red lights kept flashing, and I could hear the binging on the inside ringing in my ears.
# # #
Elena Ender has loved every bit of reading for and editing literary publications Tin House and Masters Review. She spends her time writing snarky fiction, listening to 2007 pop-punk, and driving around the streets of Portland, OR.
Photo: Jacqueline Day
