Sierra and Aiden: Anthology

The Airport

I roll my eyes.

He is still holding on to me, making sure I don’t rest my hurt foot on the ground. We aren’t talking, I'm just waiting for the pain to subside. Kind of like when your foot goes numb and you have to wait for it to come back.

“Let me help you get back to your door” he offers, “miss…?”

“I think I can handle it” I say smiling, “but thanks.”

I let go of him and stand up straight. It still hurts a bit, but I’m sure I can walk.

“Well,” he says, offering his arm as if this was a nineteen century ball, “I still want to help you. You know, make sure you don’t fall down again.”

Looking at him, waiting with his arm like that makes me feel like a Jane Austen character, being wooed.

Wooed. Stop it See, no one uses that word anymore.

Well... we might get back faster. I lace my arm under his and he smiles pleased.

“Door G7, please” I say as if I'm taking a cab.

“As you wish” he answers, which makes me think of The Princess Bride.

We give a few try steps, and I can walk decently, though it would be much worse if he wasn’t helping. Eventually we get in a rhythm, and he decides to talk.

“So, where are you headed?”  he asks, alternating between looking at our feet and our way. Not me.

“Abroad”

“Vague answers, good job. You passed Strangers 101.” He laughs at his own joke, which I find cute.

“How about you, Wesley?” I say “Can I call you Wesley?”

“Sure. And I’m going to London.”  He said.

“Bussiness or pleasure, Wes?”

“Studies, actually. Why Wesley?”

“It’s from The Princess Bride”

He nodds in understanding. We walk in silence for a while, and I notice a few things about him. His grip, is firm, and each time I take a step, he tenses his arm so I can use it as support. His eyebrows are dark and full, like two little roofs on top of doodle houses. He also smells good, which is an impressive thing to find in an airport.

We reach my door and I sit down and take a breath.

“Thank you, Wes.” I say sincerely. I think he’s about to leave, when he actually plops down on the seat next to mine. “Shouldn’t you go back to your own door?”

“Mine’s across the hall. I can stay here, make sure you’re ok.”

“I am ok, Wes. Seriously. It’s just an old injury”

“Exactly how old?”

“Like, two, maybe three months.”

“So it’s a baby injury. Can’t risk it.” he said, taking off his backpack and setting it on the seat next to him.

“So” he turns towards me “Spain, huh?”

“How would you know?” I say

“I can read minds, Buttercup.”

This is so cheesy.

“Plus,” he adds “your destination is written on the door”.

I turn and surely, there’s a sign reading “Barcelona, Spain”.