“And you’re asking me because…?”
“Because that’s what family does, Dennis. They help each other.”
Her voice sharpened with irritation.
“Besides, let’s be honest here. You’re not my rival. You’re too weak to be my rival. So just get in your truck and pick them up.”
There it was, the final insult wrapped in a command.
“What airline?” I asked quietly.
“Alaska Air Flight 447. They’ll be at baggage claim carousel 3. And, Dennis, they’re expecting someone who can handle their luggage properly. Don’t embarrass us.”
I could hear her nails tapping against something hard. Probably her granite countertop, the one I’d paid for when she decided laminate wasn’t suitable for her dinner parties.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good. And wear something decent. Maybe that blue shirt you wore to Michael’s graduation. They notice things like that.”
The line went dead.
She hadn’t even said thank you.
I sat back in my chair, looking at my phone’s blank screen.
2:00, Flight 447, baggage claim, carousel 3.
I glanced at the wall clock above my sink.
10:52 a.m.
Plenty of time.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, added an extra spoonful of sugar, and opened yesterday’s newspaper to the crossword puzzle I hadn’t finished.
Seven across. Delayed gratification. Twelve letters.
The answer would come to me eventually.
Part six, the airport trap.
At 2:15 p.m., I was settling into my favorite armchair with a fresh cup of Earl Grey and the Spokane Review’s Sunday edition. The crossword from yesterday lay completed on my coffee table.
Delayed gratification had been postponement.
My phone buzzed against the wooden surface. Isabella’s name again.
I let it ring.
The December sun slanted through my living room windows, warming the space where I’d spent so many lonely evenings counting the cost of my generosity. Today, the silence felt different.
Earned. Intentional.
2:47 p.m.
The phone buzzed again. This time, I could see the preview of her text.
Dad, where are you? My parents are—
I turned the phone facedown and returned to the sports section. The Seahawks had lost again.
Some things never changed.
By 3:30, my phone had buzzed six times. I’d finished the newspaper, brewed a second pot of tea, and started organizing the junk drawer in my kitchen table. Amazing what you could accomplish when you weren’t rushing around serving people who considered you their personal bellhop.
The seventh call came at 3:45. Instead of Isabella’s name, I saw an unknown number. Probably her parents, borrowing someone’s phone at the airport.
I let that one ring too.
Outside, a neighbor was hanging Christmas lights on his porch, his children running around the yard with the manic energy that only December afternoons could bring.
Normal families doing normal things.
No one was stranded anywhere, waiting for someone who would never come.
4:15 p.m.
My phone started ringing and didn’t stop. Isabella, then the unknown number, then Isabella again. The buzzing became constant, like an angry wasp trapped against glass.
I walked to my kitchen and unplugged my landline from the wall.
Then I turned my cell phone completely off.
Perfect silence.
I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and heated up a can of tomato soup, comfort food I hadn’t allowed myself in months because every grocery dollar had gone toward making ends meet while subsidizing their lifestyle. The cheese melted perfectly golden. The soup steamed in my favorite mug.
Outside, the winter sun was already starting to set, casting long shadows across my backyard.
Somewhere across town, three people were probably standing in an airport parking garage, arguing about taxi fare and wondering how their personal servant had the audacity to strand them.
The thought made my soup taste even better.