Tucking my phone in the pack, I left the stall, blowing a puff of air from being tired but finally relieved. At least the pressure of needing to use the bathroom had been released. “Thank you, so much —” I looked around for the blonde woman but she was nowhere in sight.
I hadn’t meant to take so long. I looked under the counter and froze. Wait. Where was my bag? Panicked, I glanced around at the other women in the restroom, searching the faces for the one I should recognize – the one I had counted on to help me.
She was nowhere in sight and the other women avoided my gaze, as if they had seen her walk out and no one had stopped her. I ran out of the bathroom, searching the rushing crowd as it passed by in both directions.
Biting my lip, I slapped my thigh. She was nowhere in sight. I wasn’t stupid. She'd taken my bag and handed it to someone else. My cheap traveling clothes were probably being rifled through as I sat there, sick to my stomach. I watched my fair share of CSI. At least I could be glad my body hadn’t ended up in the middle of the Bay on some garbage barge.
Who did I call? What was I supposed to do when I had no evidence and I was thousands of miles from home? No, wait, this was my home now. What a great homecoming.
I pulled out my phone and remembered I had gotten a text.
Please, be something good. Please, be from my husband and he was coming to rescue me.
Instead, it was a text from the shipping company I had hired to transport all of my tools and other items with my truck. They were stuck in inclement weather and wouldn’t be there for another two days.
Awesome.
Everything was late, plus my bag was stolen, and I was stuck in an airport.
I flopped onto the nearest bench and stared at the tiled wall. What was I supposed to do? I wasn't a crier, so that wasn't happening. I was frustrated and had no hammer and no wood and no clothes to change into from my denim capris and Skechers.
Even the address I had wasn’t accurate.
After waiting the first thirty minutes for my new husband, I went to the taxi line. Another fifteen minutes and I got a cab. I climbed in and gave the driver the San Francisco address I had.
The cab driver had laughed. “There is no such address. Try again, sweetheart.” I’d climbed out, dragging my carry-on along with me. At least I’d had my stuff then. The discouragement I’d felt then was nothing to what was dragging me down as I sat outside the bathrooms.
I had no one to pick me up. No one to call. Unless of course the ClickandWed app had the contact information I needed.
Using precious battery power, I looked up the app and flipped through to their contact information. No way was I going to check in until I’d actually walked through the walls of my husband’s home – my new home.
A phone number was under their contact page. I dialed the number and reached a voicemail.
Bull pucky. I dialed again. Voicemail. I called seven times until finally someone answered with a frustrated tone to his voice. “Hello, this is Carlisle. Thank you for calling ClickandWed. How can I help you?”
“This is Elizabeth Snyder. I need the address for my new husband's place. I've been at this airport now almost three hours and I'm so tired. Can you, please, help me?” I tried hiding the plaintive whine that I knew was lurking beneath my calm.
“Hmm. The address looks like it doesn’t match the billing address. Here, let me get that for you. I'll text it to your phone.” He was friendly and supportive. I’m glad he finally answered.
“Thank you.” Maybe it had been a typo or something when Tyler typed it into the personal information section.
We hung up and the text came through a minute later. Oakland? Oakland and San Francisco were not typos.
I needed a minute. I needed to try to work through what is going on in my head, what was going on in that airport. Did he not want to marry me? I was desperately confused and I had to get out of there.
I didn’t care how much battery I used. I called Alex and started crying when she answered the phone – okay, not real tears, just more whining and complaining. “My carry-on was stolen. Alex, stolen. From the bathroom by a blonde woman putting on red lipstick. Tell me, please, tell me, that this is not karma. What did I do wrong to make this happen to me?”
Alex laughed and I narrowed my gaze as she spoke. “You're not as panicked sounding as I would expect someone to be when their carry-on is stolen. Was it really?” She had a point. I usually messed around and teased her but this wasn’t the time for that.
I sighed and gripped the side of my fanny pack while looking around for the despicable blonde. “Well, yeah, I’m upset. I think I’m in shock and plus, it's just stuff I couldn’t fit into my boxes. Just a couple overnight outfits and stuff. Nothing fancy. It didn’t have anything of value in it.” Besides underwear – probably not the kind the blonde wore anyway.
My supposed-best-friend didn’t even cover her laugh at this point. “Are you wearing your fanny pack?”
I glanced around, as if maybe wearing the pack was illegal. “What's wrong with the fanny pack? Get off my back about that. Not only is my carry-on stolen, but my things are late, too.” I sighed. I really wasn't that upset some cheap clothes had been stolen. “Too much is piling on, that’s why I’m so upset.”
Her tone immediately changed and she tried to be more comforting than cajoling. “I’m sorry. I thought you were joking. Do you need me to come to you? Or do you want to come up here? Want me to get you a ticket?”
