Christmas at Gate 18 Read online

  Christmas at Gate 18

  by

  Amy Matayo

  Copyright © 2017 by Amy Matayo

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.amymatayo.com

  Cover designer: James, GoOnWrite.com

  Interior Designer and formatter: Paul Salvette, bbebooksthailand.com

  Editor: Kristin Avila

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the Christmas lovers out there

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1. Rory

  2. Colt

  3. Rory

  4. Colt

  5. Rory

  6. Colt

  7. Rory

  8. Colt

  9. Rory

  10. Colt

  11. Rory

  12. Colt

  13. Rory

  14. Colt

  15. Rory

  Epilogue

  Contact

  Other books by Amy Matayo

  Chapter 1

  Rory

  Maybe the impending storm is putting me in a worse mood than usual, but there are only so many times a girl can repeat the exact same question in the exact same way to the exact same person without feeling her mind begin to unravel. Rumor has it the process starts off simply: the frontal lobe snaps, followed by the temporal lobe and all the other lobes in between. And then before you know it your brain stem is flapping in the wind and you’re sitting in a padded room rocking back and forth while your head bounces against the wall like a ping pong ball in the palm of a hand, all because a man in a foreign airport didn’t understand enough English to decipher your very very very basic question.

  So I try again. Speak slower this time. Louder. Because everyone knows this tactic works when you’re speaking to someone who doesn’t comprehend your language.

  “Is there any way to get my suitcase off the plane, or will it be left there while we wait?”

  In the five hours I’ve been here, we got on the plane and then off the plane and then back on the plane…and now we’re here. I checked my bag. They loaded it under the plane. I want someone to take it off, since I never even left and none of this is fair. I have no toothbrush. No mouthwash. No deodorant. No make-up. No anything—oh, besides a backpack crammed with mementos, my passport, a single credit card, a tube of chap stick, and a few other things that are no one’s business but my own. To make matters worse, what was supposedly going to be a very short delay is taking a heck of a lot longer. I’m hearing we might be stuck here up to twelve more hours. In a Dominican Republic airport. Which means by the time this storm is over, I’ll be a grimy, smelly, ugly mess who won’t be able to open her mouth to talk to people. A barely recognizable version of the girl who finished shooting an ad campaign for fashion designer Marc Jacobs only yesterday.

  Last season’s winner of America’s Favorite Model, brought to shame by one quick whiff of her breath.

  The guy behind the counter still looks at me with that same blank stare, and all those lobes I was talking about? I feel the first one snap.

  I try to always be tolerant of other people’s cultures and viewpoints. But right now I’m tired, hungry, and two seconds away from crumpling into an underfed heap onto this matted blue carpet. So it’s not that I mean to say it, but like a reaction mastered from growing up around my grandfather, I find myself uttering his words. The words I’ve heard a million times in life, the ones that always made me cringe every time he used them. Like a true Gray through and through, I lean forward and unleash the words anyway.

  “For the love of all that is good and holy, does anyone around here know how to speak even a little English?” I’m instantly embarrassed by the sheer volume of my question, but when I see my finger and thumb pressed together three inches from the travel agent’s face—the same gesture my grandfather spent his life using—I blink in shock and drop my arm. This rude display of ticked-offedness isn’t normal for me, so I open my mouth to apologize. The man speaks before I’m able, replying in the same indecipherable language he’s been using for the last two minutes and looking at me like I’m someone he can barely tolerate. Suddenly exasperated and despite my shame, I toss up my hands with a growl and turn away.

  A temper tantrum. In the middle of the Las Américas airport. On December twenty-third. During what looks to be a rare late season hurricane, as the news just stated.

  Of course it’s rare.

  There hasn’t been a Christmastime hurricane since hurricane Alice hit over sixty years ago.

  Of course there hasn’t.

  Life hates me right now.

  I miss my grandfather.

  The thought comes from nowhere, and a wave of grief pelts me like the loud gusts of wind beginning to rattle the roof above us.

  The only man I’ve ever relied on, and now he’s gone too. He would know what to do in this situation.

  “Ma’am, can I help you?”

  I jerk to a halt at the sound of a soft-spoken female voice coming from behind me. She speaks English, and I sigh in relief. I sniff away signs of grief and turn toward her with a tired smile. My relief is lost the moment I spot her expression; she looks at me like she can’t wait to scrape me off the bottom of her regulation black heels. The way I’ve been acting, I can’t exactly blame her. I take a step toward the counter and place my hand on it, leaning forward to give her my undivided attention. I find this tactic to be generally effective.

  “I was wondering when the next flight out might be?” I’m not sure why I feel the need to change my question; this one just slips out. “I’ve been here five hours already and nothing much is happening.” With an arm held up, I gesture to the inactivity taking place around us. Long lines of people either standing or sitting, all with slumped posture and sleepy expressions. It’s midnight already. “Can you tell me when things might begin moving around here again so that I can get home?”

  Her eyes narrow. Obviously my tactics don’t work on everyone.

  She taps a pen on the desk, the sound as annoying as a drippy faucet when you’re trying to fall asleep.

  “Ma’am…” She manages to stretch the word—an insult, really, seeing as I’m hardly old enough to be referred to as ma’am—into two very choppy syllables. “Like we’ve been announcing for the last several hours, we don’t fly through hurricanes. And since there’s obviously…” She glances toward the window. “…a very large hurricane forming as we speak, you won’t be flying anytime soon. Probably not for a couple of days. The FAA is funny about that sort of thing. They’re kind of partial to keeping people safe.”

  Sarcasm. It’s the last thing I need.

  Wait. A couple of days? What happened to twelve hours?

  “You do realize Christmas is in two days, right?”

  She just looks at me and taps that pen. I’m pretty sure she realizes it.

  I massage my forehead and glance at the gold and green Christmas garland behind her head. It’s hanging off center, and a red ornament is clinging to one lone pine needle by a tiny piece of wire. The ornament should fall and break any second now. Does no one care about this holiday? I eyeball the woman again and force a smile. “Can I get my suitcase off
the plane, at least? It might be nice to have it in case we’re stuck here for a while.” I’m using my you’re a toddler and I don’t like children voice. It can’t be helped. Clearly this woman hates Christmas.

  She doesn’t smile back. Grinch. “Until this storm passes, your carry-on is the only thing we can guarantee. I hope you packed yours wisely.”

  I glare at her. I didn’t pack it at all. I take this thing with me everywhere I go, like a security blanket of sorts, and I’m convinced she knows it. Only luck would have it that I added a couple necessary items last minute. Otherwise, this bag has stayed the same for six years now.

  “I packed Chapstick.” Pressing my lips together, I pull it from the bag and hold it up like it’s a trophy. It isn’t. “And my driver’s license. So the suitcase would be great, if you don’t mind.”

  “Your suitcase is staying on the plane.” Apparently she doesn’t like children either.

  I suck in a slow breath to keep from saying something additionally snarky, then take a step back and walk down the line of waiting passengers standing behind me, each of us coming to grips with the fact that we will never freaking leave this place. An elderly man rubs his eyes. A shorter, well-tanned man rakes both hands through his already mussed hair while trying to quiet two rambunctious little boys. A woman releases her irritation on a raspy sigh, her impatience narrowly escaping through the hard press of two thin lips.

  We’re soul sisters, she and I. Because all I want—all I’ve wanted for over five hours now—is to go home. Home. Back to plastic smiles and shiny overpriced automobiles and air kisses that drip with insincerity even while being administered. Back to professionally decorated Christmas trees with empty wrapped packages underneath because I haven’t had time to shop, but there’s a party scheduled at my house tonight so I need to at least look prepared. It’s Hollywood. No one is genuine.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, back to solo baking and all-day movie watching on Christmas day. Back to photo shoots and designer clothes and an upscale apartment I was able to pay off earlier this year with the money I’ve earned in thirteen short months since winning the show. Modeling pays off in a huge way when you hit the big time. Who knew? Certainly not me back when my idea of striking it big meant appearing in a back page ad of the JC Penney Christmas catalog.

  All this sounds depressing when you think about it, but still…it’s home. It’s my way of life. The only thing I’ve known for years. I miss it almost as much as I miss that girl who thought the JC Penney catalog was hitting the big time.

  The big time isn’t always what you think it will be when you’re still only daydreaming about it. Nowadays, I have very few old friends who have remained by my side. Weird how strangers love to step up and share success with you, but lifelong friends tend to slink away with resentment following in little black clouds behind them. So I share my apartment with no one.

  It’s just me in this crazy world.

  Just me.

  Plus a cat who hates me and a flat-screen television that almost always manages to be my closest confidant. Most girls my age have boyfriends or at least the occasional Friday night date. I, on the other hand, can normally be found cozying up to a Roku on the weekends. Mainly because I like it that way…partly because I have no choice. I don’t trust men for two reasons: One, after my mother died in a car accident at the age of twenty-two, my father left. He stayed around and pretended to be a good dad for a few months, but he must have gotten a taste of the single life. At twenty-three, he saw his chance to start over. He took off when I was not quite a year old and left me in the care of my grandparents. They raised me.

  I’ve seen my father twice in twenty-one years; once after my grandfather died and once last year. Both times he asked for money. Being the sole beneficiary of your grandparents will and being the sole winner of a national modeling competition brings out the worst in people, it seems. They climb out of the rotted woodwork they’ve hidden behind for years and claim to be your long lost best friend. Both times I told my father no. I told almost everyone else no too, but that’s another story.

  The only good male role-model I had was my grandfather. As for all other men…

  No thanks. Not interested. I’ll take the single life. Which brings me to the second reason: most men have seen my pictures in magazines and assume the girl in the photo won’t mind a quick stop by their bedroom as a thank you for buying me dinner.

  I mind. I definitely mind.

  Cleavage might sell products, but it certainly doesn’t sell me.

  I scan the area for a spot to call my own as I drag my feet toward gate D18. It becomes clear that this is the busiest spot in the airport right now. The chairs, the carpet, even the main walkway, are littered with bodies in various stages of sleep. Children curl up in their mother’s laps clutching blankets, sucking thumbs, softly snoring in blissful oblivion to the inconveniences unfolding around them. Husbands sit with slumped posture guarding over their families, eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep. Teenagers stare unblinking into glowing iPhones. Long stretches of silence are interrupted only by the blare of the latest discouraging updates, most of which I can’t understand but am positive are discouraging because of the monotone inflection in the delivery.

  I wish I’d packed earplugs in my backpack. Like my toothbrush and make-up and even a single change of underwear, all my belongings are locked inside the belly of the plane, buried indefinitely, maybe for the end of time. Poor Louis Vuitton. His oversized leather self might be scared down there all alone. I try not to think about my suitcase and instead wonder why—with my career—I didn’t remember to keep in my possession the basic necessities commonly used in making a girl presentable. That would assume I was fluent in common sense. Seems today I’m fresh out. I fish the Chapstick out of my bag and swipe it across my lips.

  Finally spotting a six-foot open space in a far corner against a blackened window, I deposit my backpack and sit down in front of it, knowing this is my bed for the night. The stale scent of restlessness floats in the air around me. I glance at the wall clock directly above my head to see that it’s nearly one a.m. The second hand thrums in my head, keeping time with my heartbeat as it switches between rapid and slow, a mix of fear and sadness, anxiety and boredom. I suspect I’ll be playing this game of emotional whiplash with every hour that I sit here alone.

  For the first time in years, I resent my independent streak. Sure, it’s provided an absence of apprehension when it comes to traveling the world. I’ve seen more of this earth than my extended family and most of my old friends combined. Look where that’s gotten me. Stuck in the Dominican Republic. With thousands of strangers. Most of whom don’t understand a word I’m saying. Fine under normal circumstances, but a little disconcerting knowing this is my reality for the next few days. And it’s almost Christmas. You won’t be flying anytime soon. Probably not for a couple of days. The woman’s words come back to haunt me. If things don’t start moving soon, I’ll be stuck here over the holiday.

  After my stupid, obligatory Hollywood party, I was supposed to fly home to Seattle.

  Home.

  The place I grew up, the place I long for, the place that holds all my best memories.

  Now there won’t be my annual trip to the Needle on Christmas morning. There won’t be the solitary hour spent at Edmond’s beach. There won’t be the marathon Christmas Story watching past midnight. No sausage balls or cookies for Santa or red striped slipper socks tucked under green flannel pajama pants. Every tradition I’ve tried so hard to keep alive for the past six years, cancelled at the whim of the weather.

  I pull my long blonde hair over one shoulder, lay my head on my backpack and curl into myself, and try not to listen as the clock and the people and the announcements crash into me all at once. Noises of a busy airport might be comforting to some and exciting to others, but they are neither to a girl who hates to be alone yet manages to find herself living life that way anyway. Shutting my eyes against the images melding to
gether in my brain, I force my mind on my bag and the contents inside. As usual, the thoughts calm me, comfort me. Because despite the acclaim of my job and size of my bank account, the possessions inside this twelve by fourteen bag are the only true things that give me real peace.

  It’s that peace that lulls me into a dreamless sleep, where I blessedly remain for the next four hours.

  * * *

  My eyes blink open, and at this point I have two options, neither of which seem too pleasant. One, I can lay here in this same spot and continue to listen to the non-existent happenings of sleeping and other darkness-infused inactivity around me. Or two, I can lift my head from its spot on my bag, which is definitely the worse of the two ideas because I’ve strained a muscle above my collarbone. I can tell by the dull ache shooting up my head. Hours of using a backpack for a pillow can do that to a girl, as I’ve learned over the last year of nonstop travel.

  With a groan, I straighten and look around, squinting against the muted airport lights and moving my head from side to side to ease some of the tension in my neck. It doesn’t work, but as I massage my aching muscle I notice a few things.

  First, the storm has picked up in intensity. Even though weather reports insist that hurricane Yvonne should only be a category one or two storm at worst, a lightning strike and thunder clap fills the silence around me. The slash boom crack sound brings fear to the forefront of my mind. It’s looking a little scary outside, like a beast once trapped for centuries finally broke free, ready to wreck its havoc on the timid and unsuspecting. My anxiety ratchets up a notch; I hate the sound of thunder. Lightning frightens me even more.

  Second, the area around me has become more crowded, bodies lined up so tightly together it feels almost like living inside one of the cans of sardines I recall my grandfather eating when I was a little girl. It smells nearly as bad too, like I’m not the only one who forget to pack toiletries.

  I pull at the collar of my gray knit tee and discretely sniff, relieved to discover the scent isn’t coming from me. It’s only been twelve hours since I showered at the hotel, but lying prone on an airport floor next to a thousand different strangers doesn’t exactly boost a girl’s cleanliness confidence. I have no idea how long it’s been since this carpet was last shampooed. There’s no telling what kind of filth lives down here with me.