Page 167 of Camp Bliss
“Yeah, asshole.” I swear, it’s the older woman beside me who just muttered this under her breath. She looks like Dorothy Zbornak fromThe Golden Girls.I always thought Bea Arthur was the scariest of the bunch, and this lady isn’t doing anything to change my mind.
“Greta, I gotta go. Motel, baby. Please.”
“I’m not—”
“Now, sir, or I’ll have to remove you from this flight.”
Fuck.
I end the call and set my phone to airplane mode while both the flight attendant and the Golden Girl glare down at me.
“I’m not usually the asshole,” I say to my seatmate as soon as the flight attendant moves on.
She cuts her censorious gaze my way and narrows her eyes, as though doubting my statement.
“Really,” and then because I can’t help myself, I spill my guts. “My girlfriend’s ex turned up on our doorstep asking her to help him go to rehab. He says he’s got nowhere else to go. I don’t trust him.”
Bea Arthur 2.0 blinks at me, and some of the condemnation melts from her stare. “I’m not usually an old witch,” she says. “My grandson’s school play is tonight in Charlotte, and he has the lead. I don’t want to be late for the curtain.”
Somehow, I manage a half-smile. “I don’t blame you,” I concede. “Congratulations to your grandson.”
Her lips press together, but I can tell she’s smiling. “Thank you.” Then she glances down at my phone. “Is she going to put him up in a motel?”
I sniff a laugh. “Not by the sound of it.”
Bea arches a brow. “A tent then?”
I roll my eyes. “My girlfriend is too soft-hearted,” I explain, a pang of longing going through me because I freaking love that soft heart. “It’s supposed to storm tonight, so I doubt it’ll be the tent either.”
Her gray brows climb. “So? Your place?”
My two-ton sigh says it all. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
Her lips purse. “Hm… Sorry I called you an asshole. Sounds like a tough spot.”
“Yeah, she’s struggling.”
My seatmate sniffs. “I meant for you. If she doesn’t send him away, he might not be her ex anymore.”
I was right. Bea Arthur was the scariest Golden Girl.
* * *
We landin Charlotte an hour later, and I head to Terminal C. I called Greta as soon as we touched down, but it went straight to voicemail. She’s probably got her hands full with check-in and prepping for Happy Hour.
And I kind of feel like a jerk for blowing up her phone, but I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. I know I should just ignore the woman on the plane, but her words are needling me. I don’t understand why Greta would fight sending Josh to a motel. It just doesn’t make any sense.
I get to the gate for the flight to Lafayette I hope to catch and check with the gate agent. She can’t promise me a spot, but no one else is ahead of me on standby, thank Christ.
Searching for food—I’ve had nothing but airplane pretzels and ginger ale since breakfast—I walk back toward the atrium, pass the long row of wooden rockers, and get a meatball sub at Jersey Mike’s.
While I eat, I search on my phone for motels that are closest to Camp Bliss. As I expected, the nearest ones are all the way by the airport on Highway 90, still a good twenty minutes from us. I shut my eyes and visualize getting a seat on this flight; landing in Lafayette tonight at 9:41 on the dot; hugging the hell out of Greta at the foot of the airport escalators; going back to the truck where Josh waits remorsefully before we drop his ass off at the Days Inn on the Evangeline Thruway. It’s only $45 a night.
He’s practically guaranteed bed bugs.
“Passenger Rousseau, please report to gate C17, Passenger Rousseau.”
I grab the untouched half of my sub and my watered down ice tea and hot-foot it to the gate.
