Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

“I haven’t given it much thought. Other than to be glad we got away without any unintended piercings.”

“What? You mean you didn’t want a freebie? You didn’t want to get yourself some of those oh-so-manly earrings or eyebrow thingies . . . Oh no. No, no, no! I know just what would look good on you. You’re the nose ring kind, like an ox.”

“And here I thought we were making progress.”

“Camping out in a third world airport is progress?”

“No, Andie. The airport isn’t progress. Talking without sniping is progress.”

I blush. Okay. I’m more than a little guilty here, but come on. This is Max, trouble for me. “You have to admit it’s kind of outrageous to take a job where you know nothing about the subject matter.”

“And you’ve got to admit I’ve got plenty of on-screen time under my belt.”

“True, but what good are you if you can’t contribute a thing to the show?”

“Who says I can’t?”

“You haven’t yet.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Maybe when barbecued sparerib dinners replace those jetliners in the skies.”

“And the pigs haven’t even left the runway yet.”

“I didn’t say it. You did.”

“Sometimes it’s better to take the jab at yourself before someone else throws you the knockout punch.”

I step back, look him from head to toe. “You don’t strike me like a guy who’s had much experience with that kind of punch.”

“You’d be surprised what I have and haven’t experienced.” “Can’t argue that. But I do know you haven’t experienced a course in gemology.”

“True. But it won’t be true for much longer now.”

“Huh?”

“I’m thinking of taking a continuing education class on rocks.”

“Really?” Uh-oh! There he goes again, doing something to make him more appealing. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Andie. Think fast! Think of a new brick for that wall you’ve been building between the two of you.

“Aren’t you going to give me any credit?”

I bite my tongue—hard. He’s got a point. My conscience stings and I wince in shame. Oh, Lord, in my cowardly efforts to protect myself, I’ve been unfair and mean.

When I don’t answer, he throws his arms upward, frustration on every feature. “What kind of super-Christian are you? You don’t give a guy half a chance.”

Another stab of guilt. “It’s not that I won’t give you half a chance. It’s more that I’m waiting for you to go even half that mile, never mind the extra one. And now you want me to believe you’re ready to do the homework you should have done before you started the job.”

Arms crossed, he now takes a step back and studies me. I don’t like it.

He doesn’t seem to care.

The silence starts to get to me. My back itches right smack in the middle of my spine. Where I can’t reach it.

“You’re stubborn enough for ten ornery mules,” he says after a long while of pitched eye-to-eye combat.

My hackles rise. “I am not.” Did I just say that? Oh, am I ever in trouble. But right now, in front of Max, isn’t the time to deal with this little personal issue. It’s time to take a stab at an answer—a better one, this time. “I’m a perfectly agreeable woman.”

Great! I just dug me a bigger hole. I don’t know anyone else whose mouth flaps before their brain engages as much as mine does.

“And I’m one of those flying pigs you’re waiting for.”

“If you want to call yourself a pig, who am I to stop you?” “Miss Mona was right, but I don’t think she knew even the half of it.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean? What was Miss Mona right about?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“She said you’d be a handful, but that you’re smart and know your business. I’ll give you the brains and the book smarts, never mind the handful bit. But what you really are is more trouble than you’re worth.”

Ouch! “What do you mean?”

“That a guy can crack his head on a brick wall only so many times before he decides it’s just not worth it. I really want to make this job work, but I can only do so much. The other half is up to you.”

My jaw nearly clips the dingy floor. He thinks he’s been trying to work with me?

You’d never know from where I stand.

Right?

Or have I been so busy shielding myself that I’ve missed his attempts? Could it be my fault?

I shake my head. “It’s way too late in the night to do this. I’m going to try and sleep. I suggest you do too. Maybe you’ll find enlightenment while you grab your z’s. You might figure out why this cohosting gig isn’t working.”

I’m sure I can wait for further enlightenment—know what I mean?

Max looks like he’s about to argue some more, but then he shrugs and walks back to S.T.U.D.-world. I follow. And then I groan.

While we were ring-around-the-kiosking, Hannah and Allison must have gone to the bathroom or something, because they’re no longer on the couch they’d been sharing. Now each has taken up residence in one of the two armchairs that—you got it—Max and I had used.

The only piece of furniture left vacant in S.T.U.D.-world is that lousy couch. And unless one of us is ready to lie down on the hard concrete floor or wants to wander down to the other cluster of furniture at the far end of the terminal, we’re going to have to share.

Yep. You got it. The grounded pig and the dug-in mule and the teensy-weensy little ol’ couch. Oh my!

Not a pretty picture.

But I’m too tired. So I drop onto one corner and Max takes the other.

To my surprise, I actually sleep.

I hear clapping.

Then, “People!”

With less than no oomph, I pry open a totally reluctant eye. “Huh—”

Then I yelp. And bolt upright.

If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ve already figured it out. You see, there I was curled up on Max’s broad, warm, supportive shoulder, right in the middle of the airport, for the whole world to see. Of course, I had to bolt.

How am I ever gonna live this one down?

But then it gets worse. When I force my sleep-fogged eyes to focus, I see Miss Mona, who clearly has been staring at us for some time, the most indulgent smile on her face. Betchya Aunt Weeby knows all about that cozy dozing on the Burmese couch by now.

Like I said, I’m never gonna live this one down.

“People!” The man’s voice is more strident this time. “You want leave, no?”

“Huh?”

Max stands. “I think he’s trying to tell us they’ve found seats for us.” He turns to the khaki-uniformed man. “The flight’s ready?”

“Flight! Yes.” He nods like a bobblehead dog on the back of a land-yacht Cadillac. “You fly to America. Now.”

In less than no time, we board and buckle. This time, I make sure I’m next to Miss Mona, even though that poses a peril all its own. We listen to the Burmese version of the airline scare tactics—the life-jacket stuff, the exit slides, mass destruction and mayhem, etc., etc., etc.

Finally, after heavy-duty praying, and by the grace of our merciful God, the plane takes off without any more hitches.

I pray even harder than before, this time all praise and worship for his protection. Plus gratitude, since we’re all in one piece.

I sleep.

By the time we land at JFK, I know what I have to do next. I see the rest of our group on to their flight home to Kentucky, book a later one for me, and then hail a cab outside the terminal. A short time later, the NASCAR escapee in a turban screeches to a halt just outside my former place of employment. I pay him the king’s ransom he demands. Thank goodness I always kept my purse with me in Mogok. Can you imagine what I would have had to deal with if I’d left all my ID and credit cards in that hotel?