As Far as the Stars. Virginia Macgregor
the morning and I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, I got out the debit card Mom and Dad set up for me, and booked the flight from Heathrow to Nashville, as planned.
Jude, Blake and I all have a card with separate accounts set up in our names. It’s Mom and Dad’s way of teaching us to be responsible with money. Only Blake keeps maxing his out and then I have to bail him out with my card. The thing is, Mom gets alerts when any of us spend more than $50 so I texted her, explaining that Blake had forgotten to book a return ticket and that he didn’t have any money but that she didn’t need to worry, I was on it. Everything was going to be fine. Blake messing up is a scenario she’s familiar with. She answered with: OK. Just get him here.
Mom never blames Blake for anything. She never even blames him for maxing out his debit card. She’s got this massive blind spot where he’s concerned. Being pissed off at how Mom is totally soft when it comes to Blake is one of the few things Jude and I bond over.
Then I sent a text message to the phone he’d called from with the flight details for the totally overpriced last-minute ticket. That I’d meet him at Nashville airport and take him to the hotel.
I sent him a few other texts too, not caring what stranger would read them first, telling him how pissed I was that he’d woken me up and how expensive the flight was and that he’d better be on time.
He never answered any of my texts.
I don’t really believe in praying: I don’t think anyone out there is listening. Except, perhaps, some life form on a planet we haven’t discovered yet. But not a God-like figure. Not someone who directs our lives. That night, though, I found myself begging that if there was some force out there who decided whether things work out or get fucked up, that Blake would get my messages. That whoever he’d borrowed a phone from would pass them on. That he wasn’t some random guy off the street that Blake would never see again.
I guess I begged – or prayed, or whatever – because I knew that this time Blake had to get his shit together. That he had to make it back for the wedding.
The next time I heard from him was the text he sent me when I was halfway to Nashville saying that he was landing in Dulles. The text was from a different number, probably another phone he borrowed.
You mean Nashville!
I’d texted back.
No. Dulles. See you soon, sis.
And then nothing.
Had he not received any of my messages when I booked his flight? Did he end up booking a flight on his own? He was always borrowing money off people; maybe he’d found a way to pay the airfare. And then he’d got it wrong: he thought we were meant to meet up in Dulles and drive down to Nashville together. But that had never been the plan. I’d explained it to him.
But then Blake’s not good at listening. Not when it comes to practical, everyday stuff.
So, this was another typical Blake fuck-up. Only worse: a fuck-up on top of a fuck-up.
I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palms.
Focus, I think. Just focus on finding Blake.
I’m really late. Two hours late. So, I guess all these stressed-out looking people, they’ve been here for a while already.
There’s a toddler screaming. But besides him and the red-faced yelling guy, everything’s a weird kind of quiet, people walking around with wide, glazed eyes like they’ve lost something.
I’ve been to this airport more times than I can remember – I’m Blake’s personal taxi service – and it’s never felt like this. And when I see how lost those people look, I feel bad – like I should be asking them if I can help or something – but I don’t have time to be helpful in other people’s lives right now: I’ve got to find Blake, get him into the car and start driving.
That’s if he’s even here. Knowing Blake, he’s probably got on a plane to Hawaii or Iceland or bloody Timbuktu.
I check my phone again.
No. Dulles. See you soon, sis.
Though, in the grand-Blake scheme of things, his message doesn’t really mean much. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s told me where he’s planning to go, only to find out that he’s ended up somewhere else altogether.
Maybe his brain went into autopilot; maybe he thought he was coming home to DC, like he usually does. Or maybe his brain was tired or hungover or in its general state of Blake-like distraction and he texted Dulles because that was what he was used to texting.
Maybe, at this exact moment, he’s standing at the arrivals gate of Nashville International Airport – like he was meant to all along.
God, I shouldn’t have turned the car round. I should have gone to Nashville as planned, assumed that he was on the plane I’d booked for him, ignored his random text.
If you made me drive all the way to Dulles for nothing, I’m not doing anything for you ever again, I say to him in my head. And this time, I mean it.
Dulles. Nashville. Dulles. Nashville. The words crash around in my brain.
Where the hell are you, Blake?
He should have some kind of electronic tag.
I take a breath.
I’ve got to concentrate on one thing at a time. Assume he’s here. Then work out from there. A clear, logical method.
I search the area around the arrivals gate. Blake’s hard to miss. He’s really tall and skinny and has this crazy black hair that stands up a mile with all the gel he puts in it – it’s longer than mine. It’s a bit of a family joke – how Blake’s hair is longer than mine, and how many products he has in the bathroom, and how long he takes grooming himself.
When we tease him, he says it’s part of his brand.
Blake’s been honing his brand since he was five years old when this music teacher at school told him he had a talent – and that he was cute, which, she explained, was a winning combination.
When I can’t find him, I scan the arrivals screen for his flight. Within a few seconds, I’ve found it:
10.15 UKFlyer0217 From London Heathrow:
DELAYED.
12.40 EST
I look back at the screen to make sure I’ve got it right.
But the word’s still there:
DELAYED.
It doesn’t make any sense. Blake texted me before he got on the plane. If it had been delayed, he’d have known – and they wouldn’t have let passengers get onto the plane, not that early.
Though sometimes they get everyone on and then pull everyone off again. If there’s a technical error or something. That could have happened.
But who cares what happened? If we’re late for any of the wedding stuff, Mom’s going to kill me.
I go up to a guy wearing what I recognise as a UKFlyer uniform:
‘Excuse me—’
He spins round. His eyes are wide and kind of jumpy. UKFlyer officials have this way of looking totally calm. Like, even if the airport was on fire, every hair would stay in place. Mom says it’s a British thing. But this guy doesn’t look calm, not at all. Which is weird. Like it’s weird that everyone around me is acting so stressed out. It’s not like they’ve all got weddings to go to – or Moms like mine. Planes get delayed all the time.
‘The plane – the one that’s been delayed,’ I say to