Page 5 of The Worst Best Man

“Shut up, Kilbourn.”

Chapter Three

The plane dropped like a stone onto the runway, and the violently applied brakes had everyone in coach jerking forward and back. Frankie couldn’t see much of the tropical paradise outside the window from her middle seat vantage. She was crammed in between a guy who smelled like he hadn’t showered in four days and a little old man who had fallen asleep at twenty thousand feet and slept on her shoulder for an hour.

She had to pee and could have killed for a roast beef sandwich, but at least the flight was over and she only had to fight her way through customs and immigration now. In an hour—two tops—she’d have her toes in the white powdery sand, a drink in her hand, and that sandwich.

Frankie waited for the elderly narcoleptic to stand and then wriggled out into the aisle behind him to help him with his carry-on.

She lugged her own carry-on with her, thankful that Pru had insisted on flying the bridesmaid dresses down on her father’s plane. The rest of the wedding party had arrived on private planes they’d chartered together.

She waddled down the aisle toward the ever-smiling flight crew and the humid breeze. Frankie stepped out onto the rolling staircase and slid her sunglasses on. Eighty-three degrees with a beautiful, balmy breeze. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Even though her hair had just doubled in volume.

She followed the rest of the passengers onto the tarmac and into the long, low building of Grantley Adams International Airport. The line zig-zagged its way between the ropes. Anxious travelers ready to see paradise thumbed over the screens of their phones. But Frankie was content to people watch. The residency line for immigration was short and brutally efficient as Bajan passport holders were welcomed home. To her right was the expedited line where travelers with Louis Vuitton luggage and oversized sun hats were guided through the process by resort staff dispatched to collect them.

Frankie’s line crawled along at a snail’s pace as harried parents tried to juggle official questions and cranky toddlers and young backpackers zoned out on their phones, needing a prod forward every time the line moved.

One such backpacker caught her eye and gave her a smile. “Hi there,” he said softly, pushing a shock of blond hair off his forehead.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he was Australian.

“Hi,” she returned.

“Come here often?”

She laughed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he teased.

“If you can find a bartender in here, yes, you can buy me a drink.”

The line moved and the woman behind him—in a sun visor with flowers on the brim and a Hawaiian shirt—prodded him forward.

“See you around,” he winked.

They caught up again when the lines froze at exactly the right place.

“We meet again. It must be fate.”

“Oh, you’re good. I bet that wouldn’t work as well without your accent,” Frankie told him.

“I like yours,” he confessed.

Boca Raton Grandma gave the Aussie another push. “Sorry, honey. But I got a frozen margarita waitin’ on me,” she said to Frankie as they passed.

Frankie’s immigration officer was an unsmiling girl in her early twenties with YouTube tutorial-level makeup. “Have a nice stay,” she said, shoving Frankie’s passport through the slot in the Plexiglass. Her tone implied she didn’t give a damn whether Frankie’s stay was nice or not. But dealing with three plane loads of grumpy tourists would do that to a person.

Frankie pushed on past baggage claim. With Pru bringing her bridesmaid dress, she’d been able to shove everything else she needed into her carry-on and saved the checked bag fee. A small victory in what had been a year of hemorrhaging money. The two bridal showers, the girls-only engagement party, engagement party, the pre-emptive bachelorette party, and now the destination wedding. She should have taken a third job. But a few more weeks with the caterer, and she’d have the credit card paid off and could stop spending money like it magically appeared replenished in her wallet every morning.

Customs was much faster. A quick scan of her bag, and she was pointed toward the exit. Her phone started ringing in the beach bag she’d dual-purposed as a purse.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Oh thank, God! I thought you were dead.” May Baranski was nothing if not dramatic.

“Not dead, Ma. Just in paradise.” The automatic doors parted and she walked into the heat. It was a covered area rife with tourists who looked lost and cab drivers who looked like buzzards circling carrion.

“Why didn’t you call me when you landed? You said you’d call me.” Her mother had infused normal protective instincts with steroids until she was convinced that all of her children were in constant mortal danger or worse—destined to remain single and childless while the rest of her friends became nanas and grammas.