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Olivia

T here’s nothing like a wild sprint through the airport to remind me of how wildly out of shape I am.

People dramatically get out of my way as I jog, skip, and hop my way through the crowd to get to my gate.

My first flight was delayed so we landed late and now I have to get from Terminal A to Terminal C as quickly as possible.

There was the train, of course, but as soon as the doors opened, I bolted.

I’m not going to miss my connection; I still have thirty minutes.

I am, however, a nervous flyer who has an almost obsessive need to be at the gate early.

So here I am, flailing and rushing to what has to be the last gate in this terminal, all because I’m a weirdo.

Still, once I come to a halt at the gate and see there are plenty of seats and I am indeed on time, I allow myself a solid minute to catch my breath.

I did, after all, essentially just run a marathon while being comically out of shape.

My breakfast of coffee, a cake pop, a bag of pretzels, and a Coke probably didn’t help either.

After my minute of bending at the waist with my hands on my hips and letting everyone know that I ran there without actually saying a word, I casually turn and find the nearest restroom. Luckily there’s no line and after I take care of business and step out of my stall, I startle at my reflection.

Good Lord, Liv. You look like the poster girl for what not to wear. Ever.

Okay, but at four a.m. when I was getting ready, the leggings, oversized hoodie, and my messy bun looked cute.

Now, after running across the monstrosity that is the Denver airport, I look borderline psychotic.

It takes a solid five minutes before I feel like I don’t look like a total troll, and when I turn to leave, I walk directly into someone.

“Oh! Sorry!” I say before looking up and meeting a furious face.

She mutters the word bitch before stepping around me and heading into a stall.

Normally, this would fluster me, but she’s the same woman who called me a bitch earlier on my first flight because I refused to give up my seat to her entitled self. I paid for a first-class seat. I hate flying, and the only way I survive it is by upgrading and buying the window seat.

“Will you switch seats with me?” she asked. No “please,” no “would you mind,” just a blunt statement, almost like she wasn’t really asking, but telling me.

“Um…I’m sorry. No,” I politely said. “I need the window seat.” I was about to put my earbuds in when…

“So do I,” she replied stiffly.

That’s when I started looking for a flight attendant. “Look, no offense, but…I paid for this seat, so…”

“I asked for the upgrade when I checked in and was assured I’d be assigned one at the gate.”

“And were you?”

Her look was openly hostile now.

“Why do you specifically need my seat?” I continued, feeling just as hostile.

Instead of giving me a reason, all she said is, “I’m in row fourteen E.”

Middle seat, economy.

Hard pass.

“Sorry,” I said, putting one earbud in. “I’m not moving back to economy after I paid for this seat.” I turned away and placed the other earbud in, but not before I heard her call me a bitch. Oddly, I was okay with it.

Maybe my oversized Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, leggings, and sneakers made me look like I didn’t belong in first class, but I believe in being comfortable.

No sooner had I started to relax again than someone else was right there in my face asking the same question.

Do people just not pick the seats they want anymore and then expect the masses to accommodate them?

This time, it was a couple with three kids and they were all looking at me.

“Hi,” the wife said. “We know this is a lot to ask, but…we could only get four seats in first class and one in economy. We’d really love to all sit together, so…” She held up her boarding pass to me. “If you’d like, we can pay the difference for whatever you paid to upgrade.”

I was this close to losing my shit when I finally flagged a flight attendant over.

Without looking at the family, I explained my situation and how this is now the second time in my five minutes on the plane that someone has tried to make me move.

My heart was racing a bit, but I knew I was completely in the right here.

Fortunately, she agreed, and the wife and kids sat in first class while the hubby went back to row 27 B.

But not before he also called me a bitch.

Banner morning for me.

So now I’m 0-2 on the bitch scale, but at least I’ve freshened up and feel ready for the next flight.

I find a seat at the gate and get comfortable.

A quick check of the clock shows I still have fifteen minutes before boarding is supposed to start.

It seemed like the perfect time to do the work I’ve been avoiding all morning.

I should have used my laptop on my flight from Seattle to write, but instead, I opted to watch Wicked for the eighteenth time.

Sighing loudly, I remind myself that I can’t put this off forever. There is a serious time crunch, and I need to be done by the time I land in Raleigh later today.

Eulogy.

How the hell did I end up getting asked to give the freaking eulogy?

I should have said no.

I wanted to say no.

But…

“Olivia, I know this is a lot to ask, but…you have to know how much you meant to him. You were the only one who truly understood and accepted him. Plus, your writing is so beautiful. Please.”

When your dead ex’s mother calls you personally and asks you to give the eulogy at her son’s funeral, it’s kind of hard to say no.

“I’ll pay for your airfare and put you up in a hotel, if you need,” she had gone on.

“It’s fine, Mrs. Serrano. You don’t need to do any of that. I’m happy to do it.”

Liar, liar, liar!

Looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have said I was happy to do it. That just sounds wrong, doesn’t it? After all, we were talking about a funeral. There’s usually nothing happy about it.

And yet, there I was, acting like I was looking forward to going to this funeral.

And while I know that makes me sound like a seriously bad person—the kind that makes you ask, “What is wrong with you?” — in this instance, my feelings are completely justified.

It wasn’t like I wished him dead or anything, but he was an ex for a reason.

So why am I going?

Because it was the perfect excuse to finally meet up with some of my oldest and best friends.

Once we found out about the funeral, it was like the planets aligned and we were able to quickly throw together the ultimate girls’ trip afterwards.

Well, maybe not the ultimate trip because I would so rather be going to an all-inclusive resort right now instead of the town of Cape Breeze on the coast of North Carolina.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great town—very quaint and not the least bit touristy—but it’s my friend Vanessa’s family beach house, so there’s no room service, and the only ones assisting and serving us is… us.

Still, other than the funeral, this trip is going to be awesome.

I haven’t been back to North Carolina in almost five years, and I’ve missed it.

As an author, I’ve been living a bit of a nomadic life—choosing to fully immerse myself in whatever location I’m writing about.

I’ve been living in Seattle for the last year and before that, Alaska.

Which is why I’d prefer to be on my way to Hawaii or the Bahamas right now.

Still, I missed Loren and Mike’s engagement party because I was snowed in back in Seattle.

I missed Roxie’s divorce weekend extravaganza because I was snowed in while living in Alaska.

Basically, I’ve missed some of my best friends' major life events, and it’s amazing that they’re even still speaking to me.

But I am going to make it up to them on this trip.

I am going to do everything I can to prove that I’m still reliable and fully invested in our friendships.

Weather and amenities aside, this trip with the girls couldn’t have come at a better time.

I’ve got a serious case of writer’s block.

I’m uninspired. My last book didn’t sell as well as I had hoped and my agent and publisher are both telling me I need to switch gears a bit.

I’ve been writing cozy mysteries for years and now I’m being encouraged to write more in the realm of romantic suspense.

Naturally I pushed back because that’s not my thing, but the more I push, the more I have to wonder if it’s a losing battle.

Like…am I arguing because I don’t like the genre, or am I arguing because I don’t believe in myself?

Maybe it’s a little of both and I’m too set in my ways.

A month at the beach with my closest friends will be the kind of therapy I need to work this nonsense out; I’m sure of it.

I’ve discussed it with Loren, Vanessa, and Roxie so much that I swear I can actually hear their eyes rolling.

Hopefully they’ll take pity on me this month and a little face-to-face time will help me figure out my life.

At almost thirty, it’s time.

Now, as I sit at the gate, I am practically bouncing with nervous energy while I try to put into words how I felt about Matt.

Lying, cheating, heartbreakingly too handsome for his own good, and gone too soon, Matt.

My first love. My first heartbreak. My first lesson in how some guys are just assholes.