The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [95]
But before I had a chance to change my mind, they started boarding call and my brain muddied up. I should go home to make sure my parents were okay at least, I figured, and then go from there. Anyway, it was only fair. My parents had raised me, hadn’t they? And where else did I have to go? I waited in line, showed my boarding pass, and walked down through the tunnel into the plane. Rather than stow my small, stuffed backpack overhead, I kicked it under the seat in front of me. Something about the air inside the plane made me instantly sleepy, so I adjusted my papery airline pillow, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.
“Excuse me,” someone said. “I think you’re in my seat.”
A sunburned lady in a Hawaiian shirt held her hand up to apologize for waking me.
I reached in my back pocket for my boarding pass. “Are you sure?” My seat read 12A. She showed me her pass. 12A. I shrugged.
We summoned a flight attendant, who spoke to the ticketing desk on a walkie-talkie from the crew area. I gazed out the window at the busy airport workers on the tarmac. I looked past the runway to the skyline, and then back to the airport. Before I looked away from the view, I spotted the young man from earlier—looking at me from another gate’s window.
I squinted. He had wavy dark hair in need of a trim and wore a red T-shirt. His tanned legs stopped at a pair of worn, rugged hiking boots. His eyes seemed sincere, even at a distance. He was staring at me and smiling, just as he had when I was on the phone. He looked familiar, and I tried to figure out where I might have seen him before.
A bunch of the landing crew came in then, eager to close the door. The flight attendant approached me, shaking her head, seeming troubled. I looked back at the man in the airport window. He was still smiling. And then he raised two fingers and moved them from side to side, like Seanie had all those years ago.
I felt something in the core of me tighten. I waved back. He smiled and I smiled. He waved again, and I waved again. Our eyes locked.
I shivered. Every ounce of me knew what I had to do. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. I wanted to question and doubt, but no matter how I tried, my three-hundred-year-old nose would not let me complicate something so simple. Why not believe what was right in front of me—rather than look toward the future all the time? Why trade a chance at real happiness for a misery I already knew?
I pulled my backpack onto my lap and stood up. Before the flight attendant could tell me the bad news, I moved to the aisle and told the lady to take seat 12A.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take the next flight.”
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to many people. My loving family—my parents and sisters and in-laws. My incredible friends who have offered support without judging or questioning my crazy dream. My co-workers and literacy students and neighbors. All of you who have shared positivity with me know who you are. Each kind word has paved this road.
I am indebted to my tireless and very hip agent, Gary Heidt, who said yes even though he knew I was weird, and to Andrew Karre at Flux, possibly the coolest editor ever. I owe the entire Flux team an enormous thank you for making this book what it is—especially editor Sandy Sullivan, designer Steffani Sawyer, publicist and now-editor Brian Farrey, and Gavin Duffy, who designed the incredible cover.
I owe much to my writing friends and my writing groups, past and present. Your limitless encouragement and counsel are no doubt how I finally landed here after fifteen years of writing novels. From the Dublin group to Backspace—you all rock. (This means you.)
Finally, I owe everything to my husband, Topher. From the day I sat down at that cruddy Swedish typewriter to write the first sentence of my first novel, you have done nothing but cheer me on. You are the embodiment of true love. I am so very grateful.
About the Author
A. S. King lives