Page 14 of Diamond in the Rough (The Diamond Trilogy 1)
There have been no new posts from her in those two weeks. No emails. No Facebook messages. I open the apps to check for the trillionth time, my heart dropping again to find them empty. I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s okay so I can kill her for making me worry like this.
And then I close my eyes, blocking out the flight attendant and the handsome man beside me. I block out everything except sensation. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air and dropping.
Is this what it feels like to fly? No, because this feels like nothing.
Or maybe that’s how birds feel.
My characters would know. My readers would know. Children always know. And when I’m writing them, when I’m Holland Frank, beloved author, I can feel the world through their eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
The airport itself feels sleepy, heavy shades drooping over dark windows. Workers push large floor cleaners across a floor that’s lost its gloss. Every other restaurant has bars over its entrance. Closed. Good thing I’m not hungry.
It’s four a.m. The embassy opens in a few hours.
Feeling numb, I lift my phone to check my messages. The last text message from my sister came two weeks ago. It’s a photo of her plane ticket to Paris, with the text, Heading to the most romantic city in the world. Remember that boy you met?
I responded with an emoji of me sticking out my tongue.
A few days later, I ask how she’s doing. A few days after that, I demand an answer, only half-jokingly. And a few days after that, I got really worried.
A lone suitcase circles the conveyor belt. A family with two children appears with a large stuffed elephant that probably needed its own seat. A selection of individual men and women, probably business travelers. A couple who are leaning on each other. Honeymoon?
We’re all too exhausted to do anything more than stare straight ahead.
There’s also a text message from my mother. It’s a photo of her hydrangeas, looking healthy and pink. How are you? she asks. How’s London? She didn’t reply to my text.
I can picture her in her quaint bungalow with cats sprawled across the patio while my dad fixes up cars in his garage. They live an idyllic life, and I know they wish my sister and I lived closer. I moved to New York City with London, where we share an apartment. I mostly live there while she explores the world and stops by every few months.
She’s busy with a new guy, I say, covering for her like I always do.
What about you? How’s the writing going?
I haven’t been able to write a word since my sister went off the grid. Writer’s block, I type. I’m working on fixing it, though.
The man from the plane doesn’t show up at baggage claim. I don’t know whether I’m disappointed not to see him again. He would have made small talk, and I hate small talk.
Except when it’s with handsome strangers, apparently.
Then even talking about the weather would make a little fire pitch inside my stomach.
He probably only brought a carry-on. Except he hadn’t pulled one down from the overhead bins. He’d only had a leather briefcase. Strange, even for someone traveling light.
A loud buzzing sound heralds the arrival of our luggage. They slide down the chute, stacking on each other in clumps like a poorly played game of Tetris. After a full revolution of the carousel, my cornflower-blue bag appears.
I grasp it and pull, almost falling backward.
Signs lead the way through customs and border control. I’m snapped at in rapid French for not checking the right box on the form. And then I’m finally free to find the exit.
A big blue sign proclaims TAXI. I pull my luggage along the rubbery floor, eager for a breath of fresh air. A block of exhaust envelops me. The crowd of people shout and wave their arms, a stark contrast to the languor inside the airport.
These aren’t travelers. That registers first.
They don’t have luggage. They’re wearing jackets and holding signs.
Protestors. Something about Uber. A row of yellow-and-black taxis don’t appear to be moving. A group of men surround a black Escalade, pushing, pushing, and I let out a shriek that no one hears. A window breaks, and they cheer.
“They’re on strike,” comes a low voice behind me, and I gasp. Adam gives me an apologetic smile. “The taxi drivers. Only a matter of time before they get violent.”
I watch them rock the Escalade back and forth on its wheels. “That’s not violent?”
“More violent,” he amends. “It’ll be hell getting out of here.”
Anxiety grips my chest. “What should I do?”
He pauses, seeming almost embarrassed. “You could get a train. Or… look, I hesitate to say this. I don’t want you to think I’m hitting on you. Again, that is. But I have a town car waiting. One of those things you schedule before the trip. They wait in a different lane than taxis.”
