Page 83 of Boss Abroad
“Yeah, babe. It sucks. Welcome to falling in love. It has its highs and lows.”
“Why would anyone put themselves through this?”
“Because every other feeling he caused made that one worth it.”
Damn, the woman knows how to pack a punch.
“God, I hate it when you’re right.”
Callie’s heart jab evoked memories I’ll be spending the near future trying to avoid. A new batch of tears is unleashed, but my tissue is saturated with previous weeping and yucky fluids I don’t wish to dab on my eyes. I bin it and curse at the cars moving at a snail's pace.
“I was so sure I could steer clear of getting attached. I always have. How did I let this happen? Aren’t I supposed to be smarter than that?”
“Love makes us blind and stupid, A.”
“Stop saying love, Callie. It can’t be love.”
“Why not? It didn’t pass through your scrutiny? Do you want to bring your heart down to the lab, slice it open and take a closer look?” My best friend scolds me over the phone. I don’t recognize this dynamic. I’m the scolder. She’s the fool that falls in love. “Babe, you don’t need to hit certain milestones for it to be love. Take a good look at yourself. Only love can hurt like that.”
Terry doesn’t leave my side until we get to the immigration barriers and he can’t go any further without a ticket. I give the big man an awkward goodbye hug and he squeezes me back. I’m so on edge I almost cry again in his arms.
When it’s my turn to talk to the man in the little booth, he makes a funny face as he scans my passport. He scans it again, face scrunching up even further, then he signals for one of his colleagues to join him.
They speak so low I can’t hear a word of what they’re discussing. But it is about me, so I butt in, “Is there a problem, officer?”
“There is. There’s an issue with your visa. If you don’t mind following Officer Morris, so you don’t hold up the line. We’ll clear the situation in a second.”
“What’s wrong with my visa? And why is that important? I’m leaving your country and don’t plan on coming back anytime soon.” He looks at me as if I’ve personally offended him. Oops, guess I hit a patriotic nerve. “Of course, lead the way.”
There are still two hours until my flight. I’m sure whatever this is will be resolved by then.
Officer Morris does not lead the way. Instead, he makes a show of manhandling me out of the line. He’s scrawny but tattooed enough for me to know he can endure more pain than a punch from me could cause. Still, I wrestle my arm free from the guard and cling to my dignity, walking side by side with him. Do I even look like a menace at the top of my 5 foot 1, red Rudolph nose, and puffy eyes from crying?
His uniform with shoulder straps makes him look like a pilot wannabe, not a security officer. I smirk at the total lack of authority this dress up costume lends him and he takes me by the arm again.
Before I have the chance to pull it back and give him a piece of my very confused mind, he uses more force than necessary to push me inside a room and close the door between us.
I’m still catching my balance and adjusting my sight to the darkness when I turn around and watch him snickering.
It’s a childish gloating. His small-dick version of who's-laughing-now. I’m forced to watch the face I now regret not punching across the small window that is the only source of light into wherever he’s put me.
He locks the door, and that turns the lights on. And with that stupid smile on his stupider face, he closes the window he was looking at me from.
I’m alone in a room where yellow lights are too bright and migraine inducing. It’s a prison without bars to match my phone reception. I shake it in my hands, standing on the tips of my toes, then raise it higher, as high as I can, as if an arm’s length would make any difference.
My shiny new phone only serves to count the minutes I’ve been in here. A single chair and table keep me company. They’re terrible hosts and are as informative as the officer who brought me in.
I fool myself into thinking I could knock one of these paper-thin plasterboard walls with a few good kicks and run through the airport yelling ‘fire, fire!’.
Yeah. That would probably get me into a real jail. But I’ve been trapped for… no, it can’t be. Seven minutes only? Either my phone or my mind are playing tricks on me.
My breathing gets heavier, or maybe it’s the air. I stretch the collar of my top down and blow inside it, trying to cool off my heated skin. Grabbing the heavy metal chair, I drag it to the wall with the single vent to the room, convinced it’s not working. It shrieks the whole way there and I have to press my lips together not to squeal along with it.
Climbing on the chair, I barely reach the vent, which is doing a slow and poor job, but it’s circulating enough air that I can convince myself I won’t suffocate to death.
Then I measure the room with my steps, the crisp click of my heels sounding louder than they should, bouncing from wall to wall. I hum my favorite song until I spoil it. I bring the chair back to the table and sit to practice breathing exercises. Nothing soothes me or placates the involuntary jerking of my right leg.
I rest my palm on top of my restless thigh and take one more deep breath, eyes shut. When I raise my head and lids back up, I’m sure the air has gone sparse and I’m oxygen deprived, hence my hallucination. Because I’m seeing Liam’s neck on that window that’s once again open.