Date = 18 March
Place = San Francisco International Airport
Aria Thompson = 20 years old
Enrique Blackburn = 23 years old
Leyla Thompson = 7 years old
POV - Aria Thompson
I hold a firm grip on the small hand in mine, patiently waiting next to one of the blue cylindrical columns that support the roof of the terminal. I keep my eye on the silver carousel for our bright green suitcase to arrive.
Funny how you can fit a whole 20 years of existence into a single suitcase. For the umpteenth time since we bordered the plane, my morning coffee pushes up in my throat; my nerves are not only raw but bleeding. I swallow down the burning sensation and look down to find a pair of tired teal eyes fixed on me. I fake a smile at the pale elf-like face under the bright pink bandanna sprouting white daisies and receive a goofy toothless one in return.
The colorful garment hides her bald head, her hair loss a side-effect of the chemo treatments, but typical Leyla … she just takes it in her stride. She now proudly wears all these bold-colored fabrics even though I know it was a miserable shock for her when those beautiful locks started falling out. She’s such a brave fighter, so I need to be one too.
I can do this. I can do anything if it means she will get better. Hell, I even jump off the Golden Gate Bridge if that would save my little sister. So, this is nothing, and it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us. I must be over the moon - but instead, it feels as if someone punched me in the gut a few times too many.
Get a grip, Aria Thompson, this is for the best, I pep-talk myself. This is the miracle for which I’ve been fervently hoping. It’s like winning the lotto - everything I need right now handed to me on a platter. The best treatment possible, a home, a new start, and family to help me out … what more can I ask for? Maybe a future … ug, don’t be greedy Aria, I reprimand myself. All I have to do is act a little … stand about and appear in love … how hard can it be?
So why do I feel like a cat stuck in a dryer? But I know what’s revving me up – the thought of being in the public eye, the press. I hate the spotlight. I’m clumsy and someone that will say the dumbest things under pressure, so having others quote me is not the best idea out there.
But what do they say – beggars can’t be choosers, and I guess 99.99% of the female population would gladly trade places with me without batting an eyelash.
And who can blame them – my fake lover has more than appealing dimensions and enough money to get any female drooling, BUT I can’t help but conclude that he’s a massive player and man-whore just judging by the fact that he gets photographed with more than one different girl a week. And the fact that he needs a contract for a fictitious relationship is sufficient proof that he’s definitely not the commitment type at all.
I anxiously grab my purse, containing the secret contract just to make sure it’s still there. I can’t afford to lose it, or even worse, let it end up in the wrong hands.
The confidentiality of this contract is treated with the same secrecy as a spaceship hidden in Area 51, or placidly more – nobody knows except for Enrique and me. We’ll sign the damn paper after both of us are satisfied with the content.
Ug, this thing is hanging over my head like a sword ready to drop and decapitate my soul. I hate lies, and now we’re lying to the whole freaking world, even our closest friends and family.
The real story is that Enrique phoned me out of the blue, to talk to me about helping Leyla with her treatment. He offered me a deal – he would pay for everything we need, give us a home, and in return, I must act like his girlfriend until his new movie premiers. The fact is we’ve only Skyped once and it wasn’t my prettiest moment – my hair wrapped in a towel, my face covered by a therapeutic charcoal face mask. Yeah, I know, first impressions and all, but luckily I don’t care what he thinks.
The fake story we will tell everybody is that we fell in love online during our SKYPE sessions to talk about Leyla’s treatment and that we’ve been secretly dating online for the last three months. And he also, allegedly, came to visit me a few times covertly.
Truth is I have never seen him face to face
Since I need help with Leyla while working, he then asked me to move in with him to make it easier for me. And here we are. Yep, here we are.
I lean my head against the cold hard column, staring at the sea of people that flow like rivers through San Francisco International airport, never even stopping for obstacles, but swirling around them. Every person in the crowd moves as if unseeing hands are dragging them from the check-in desks to the cafés and through the gates, each one heading for a destination of their own, following their own story.
I tap my foot irritably, today I’m just not feeling particularly patient in any part of my system. How will my story end? Will I get out of this thing better or worse?
“Calm down Aria! You’re going to see your boyfriend soon.” Leyla misunderstands my mood, her voice moody, something I got used to since she got sick. It means she’s tired. She wipes her hand over her eyes.
“How long must we wait?” The little voice drains away in the cacophony of sounds and the loud interruption of an announcement over the intercom system.
‘Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 89B to Chicago. Please have your boarding pass and identification documents ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes. Thank you.’
I pray for our suitcase to magically appear on the conveyor so we can get the hell out of here. I’m not sure why, but I feel almost claustrophobic as if the inevitable encounter with my fake boyfriend is suffocating me bit by bit with each slow passing second.
Two young guys walk past us, backpacks casually thrown over their broad shoulders, boosting with confidence and swagger – typical frat boys returning from holiday, would be my first guess.
The one turns his head and brazenly checks me out with an unapologetic stylish grin on his tanned mug. He’s handsome alright, and he knows it. Leyla waves innocently at him and he winks at us, his face clearly impressed. I bite my lip to keep myself from smiling, foreseeing the unavoidable jam about to happen, due to him not looking where he’s going.
Inevitably, he bumps into a woman that’s easily just as wide as she is tall, causing him to stumble back and land awkwardly on the floor. The look on his face is surreal and I can’t hide my smile anymore. His friend’s laughter echo’s through the building and instead of helping his buddy up, he holds onto his tummy with one hand, the other pointing at the guy sitting on the floor. Leyla is laughing just as hard as the friend, if not more.
The woman stops the forever ongoing argument she has with her boyfriend; they’ve been at each other’s throats since they boarded the plane – sitting just behind us - I couldn’t help but overhear the whole, long, unfruitful battle. Something about some naked pics on the guy’s phone and judging by her reaction, it wasn’t hers.
I try to do my civic duty and hold out a hand to the young man; he gets up and dusts off his trousers and then playfully punches his friend on the shoulder. It seems the whole ordeal didn’t even put a dent in his overbearing ego. How nice must it be to not worry about anything? He blows me a kiss before getting hammered by the square lady’s handbag. He protects his head with his arms, trying awkwardly to get away from his attacker, and soon he’s sucked into the meandering crowd of chaotic travelers, leaving me in the viewpoint of the meaty lady’s skimpy porn-watcher.
The guy looks like your typical nerd – thick glasses, a simple crew sweater over a button-up shirt, and shoes without socks. To make the look even more official his mouse-brown hair is combed back in a sleek wet-look style that went out in the 60s. He’s not exactly the double-take hunky bloke girls would give a second glance at – not to be rude, just stating a fact. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t an awesome personality, and in my book, it counts much more than looks anyway.
Not that I don’t appreciate a good-looking bloke, I’m just saying that looks are not everything. My new boyfriend’s vision jumps into my mind and I shake my head to get rid of it. I can’t even dare to catch feelings or else I won’t walk away from this freaking contract unscathed. That’s when Mr. Nerdy’s girlfriend returns from her chase, panting for breath, to focus her 250-pound attention directly on me.
“Hey, girl, are you checking out my man?” she suddenly shouts, her flabby cheeks red probably from not taking enough breaths between the slander of words she’s throwing around. She moves closer, now standing an arm’s length away from me.
Leyla quickly puts her hand on my arm, knowing by now that I might do something crazy, stupid, and impulsive. I take one … two … three deep breaths.
I can’t make a scene and get into trouble on my first day on the ‘job’. But it’s not so easy when being hot-tempered is part of your DNA and saying stupid things is part of your anatomy. If I had any good sense I would close my mouth and turn my back to them, I would just ignore the situation, but that’s so not me.
I look over at the little guy again and it looks as if he’s undressing me from behind his bifocals. Is he licking his lips? What the fuck! Scratch the awesome personality – he’s a little perverted gum-sucker and no wonder he has porn on his phone. Feeling uncomfortable under his beady eyes, I try to hide Leyla behind me and turn my gaze back to his girlfriend.
“Eh … technically I was looking at him, but girl, I don’t want your boyfriend … no one wants your boyfriend … that’s why he’s with you,” I try to be polite at least and wipe my hands against my pants, metaphorically wiping away some dirt as if it will keep me calm.
Her eyes bulge dangerously close to popping out, her face is turning dark red … leaning to purple and her hands are clenched in fists along her side. She doesn’t move, except for her jaw which pushes back and forward as if she’s grinding her teeth.
I swear she’s going to pop an artery, so I tap her softly on her nose with my index finger to pull her from her agitated state.
“Lady, take a deep breath, you’re starting to look like a purple cucumber,” I mention carefully, but it seems this girl doesn’t appreciate caring behavior. No, instead she seems more pissed off.
“You mean an eggplant, Aria,” my sister corrects me like usual, and now the boxy lady seems to be a real candidate for a seizure.
Leyla grabs the lady by her arms and shakes her, “Snap out of it, aunty. Statistically, a red face is a sign of rising blood pressure. You could have a heart attack.”
It seems to work cause at least the woman starts breathing again. Enough for her to shout at me and make people notice us … some even start filming us on their phones.
“Leave my man alone, tramp!” Yep, she’s mad and she now really looks like a purple fruit. And to think I worried about her for a moment.
“O boy, here comes the crazy!” Leyla says, slumping down on the nearest chair, and slouching her head in her hands.
“Are you deaf or just plain stupid?” I throw my hair back over my shoulder, not in the nursing mood anymore. The degenerated sicko of a boyfriend doesn’t even try to intervene, but his perverted gazes are starting to make me feel rather nauseated. I pull my cream suit-type jacket close, trying to cover up. Suddenly the short-cropped top showing off my tummy doesn’t feel as sexy as it did this morning.
“Do you think you’re the first girl that tries to steal him away from me?”
I’m not sure if that’s a trick question or not, so I rather leave it unanswered. This lady is not seriously fighting with me over that horny piece of shit, and that in a fully packed airport terminal. We’ve already attracted even more entertained onlookers. Shit. What if this turns into a scandal? I can already see my fake love life going up in flames before it even started. I need to seriously end this – now.
“Look at my lips – I – DON’T – WANT – YOUR – MAN,” I pull out the last words, hoping that she would get it through her thick head, pun intended.
