Home > Sweet Thing (Sweet Thing #1)(2)

Sweet Thing (Sweet Thing #1)(2)
Author: Renee Carlino

I tapped her shoulder lightly but she didn’t respond. Finally, I cleared my throat and said, “Do you need a hand?” I figured I might as well since I wouldn’t be going anywhere until she did.

She mouthed the word “shit,” then said, “Yes! Please! Will you grab his shoes?” She pointed to a little blond, blue-eyed cherub. “Would you mind carrying him up there for me?”

“No problem.”

I walked up to the little boy, who immediately quieted. I gave him a big smile, then yanked his shoes off and threw them into the bin moving swiftly down the conveyer belt. “Ready, kid?” He nodded and I picked him up and carried him toward the metal detector. The warmth of his little arms around my neck radiated through me. I smiled at him, crossed my eyes, and made a silly face. His giggle sounded like music. I pried his clinging legs and arms from around me to set him down.

We ushered the little boys through the metal detector and then proceeded to collect our things on the other side. I followed her over to the benches to help put shoes back on the boys. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Cash,” he said shyly in his small, squishy voice.

“Cool name.” In fact, it was my favorite. “I’m Mia, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Hayden!” shouted his dark-haired brother. They were almost identical in height, but Hayden had dark hair and dark eyes.

“I like your name too,” I said smiling.

His mom stood up and introduced herself. “Hi, Mia, I’m Lauren. Thanks for your help. Motherhood is crazy.” She let out a long breath.

I noticed that we resembled each other: same straight, dark hair, fair skin, and hazel eyes. It was eerie. She could have been my sister… or maybe she was me in ten years? There was something different about her, though—her eyes were sunken and hollow; she looked exhausted. In that moment I wondered if I would ever be a mother or if I even wanted to be. I thought maybe if I found the perfect husband—stable, wealthy, business-minded—it could be a possibility, but definitely not in the near future. I decided if I did have children, I would surely have my shit straighter than this lady.

For being all of twenty-five, I was admittedly a bit of a control freak. I actually used to embrace that facet of my personality. I thought being an independent woman who was in control and made decisions with her head and not her heart was evolved. Making the right choices equaled guaranteed success in my mind. Of course, I didn’t know then that my definition of success would change so drastically.

My eyes scrolled down the monitor, searching for flight twenty-five, DTW to JFK. Failing to remember what gate the clerk had mentioned, I cursed myself. I was nothing if not punctual. Okay, 35B. I walked briskly, passing Lauren and her two kids as she chased them around outside the duty-free. Flying must suck for her. I hoped we weren’t on the same flight and then I immediately felt guilty for the thought. I decided I’d offer to help if she ended up on my flight, seated anywhere near me, but I’d much rather sleep.

I love flying. It’s an escape for me. There is nowhere to be; it’s surrendering to fate. Fate was always such hard concept for me to understand, but I bought into it when necessary, like on a plane or the subway. When I fly, I allow myself to believe in fate simply because it is too tedious to worry about whether or not the pilot is pouring whiskey in his coffee. I let everything go when I fly, just like when I play the piano. It’s the closest I get to religion; it’s the closest I get to faith.

I had no one to answer to for a couple of hours and I was looking forward to it. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about anything. I wouldn’t worry about what I would do with my father’s apartment, his belongings, the café, pretty much everything that was my father’s in New York. I would just get out there and continue living his life until I could figure out what to do with my own.

When my father had passed away a month before, I was devastated. Although I grew up in Ann Arbor, essentially raised by my mother, Liz, and stepfather, David, whom I referred to as Dad, I was still very close to my biological father. I spent summers in New York, helping out with his café, hanging with the then-bizarre East Village crowd. My father was the only child of Irish immigrants. His parents had given him every last penny to open “Ave. A Café” in the East Village in 1977, later to be renamed Kelly’s Café in ‘82 and then finally in ‘89 renamed again to just simply Kell’s. In the 70’s it would be the ultimate hangout for any troubadour and trobairitz alike. It was and remains a place with a liberal and artistic vibe, something my father exuded directly from his pores. It would be bittersweet to be back there.

I made it to my gate on time; there was no sign of Lauren. I breathed a sigh of relief and then I directed a brief request to the universe asking that it seat a tired antisocial traveler in the seat next to me. I boarded and found my seat quickly. I threw my bag in the overhead bin, sat down, and began my preflight ritual: super fuzzy socks on, ear buds in, Damien Rice on the iPod, travel pillow around the neck. I was ready. The window seat remained empty as the last few passengers came on board. I had a ridiculous grin on my face, prematurely thanking the universe for leaving the seat empty until I glanced up and saw this guy headed toward me. I have to admit, he was gorgeous, but as soon as I saw the guitar case, my stomach turned sour.

Oh no, please world, do not let this egoist, wannabe, probably smelly musician sit next to me.

As he approached he blurted out a breathy shout. “Hey!” Pausing, he looked right into my eyes—my soul—and said, “Do you want the window seat? It’s all yours if you do.”

   
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