My leg jigs, heel tapping against the worn airport floor. I arrived two hours early, daffodils clasped in my hands. Ten, one for each year we’ve known and supported each other. I picked them myself, sneaking behind the bus stop shelter. Stalks tattered from my excited grip, but Erin wouldn’t mind.
Meeting in our twenties, we thrived together instantly. Still do. But I couldn’t sit still… not like she can.
Erin had chosen a life of academia, marriage, children. I had not, living on the other side of world, near an airport so I can escape whenever I felt the need to.
Her mind amazes me, inspiring me to reach for whatever I might want. Apparently I inspire her too, I don’t see how. I didn’t have anything apart from a collection of destinations stacked in my memories.
Both in our early thirties now, two years gone by since our last reunion. A promise we both made to each other, amongst other things.
We promised to never apologise to each other. No matter the situation, we will never judge so what’s the point of apologising?
We promised to talk on the phone once a week to hear our voices, laugh, vent, cry, even if for a moment.
We don’t buy gifts for each other, which brings me to our last promise… we cannot go longer than two years apart. That is our gift, a physical hug of relief being in each other’s sphere again.
This promise is why I’m currently sitting at the airport at eight fifty at night, staring at the arrivals notice board anxiously waiting for the nine thirty plane to land.
One of the daffodils slowly sunk within my grasp. Letting out an annoyed gasp of air I attempt to straighten it. I make it worse. Reluctantly, I pull the tie from my long hair, gently looping it around the daffodils; the stems uneven and jagged.
I could feel my hair keep its shape from my tight tie, it desperately needs a wash. I don’t care though because I knew Erin wouldn’t. She’d seen me much worse then this and I her. We’d picked each other up literally and metaphorically throughout our friendship. Not just in despair or tragedy, but in the good moments too. I attended every single one of her graduations, wedding, giving birth. She always drove me to the airport.
The word womanhood echoes in my brain as a large older man asked for the seat next to me. The last seat left in the terminal.
I glance at my wrist watch. Ten past nine. Twenty minutes.
The terminal hums with excited people waiting for their loved ones, eagerly watching tight security gates. Heart rates thumping, tip toes stretching whenever they slide open. Disappointed faces when it wasn’t who they hoped for.
A dire contrast between the hired drivers holding names across their chests opposite us. All identical in their black trousers, blazers paired with crisp white shirts, stiff collars tucked over black ties wrung around their necks. I feel sorry for them. Standing in chaos without the added joy of seeing someone they love, they would pretend to be happy instead. A fake smile plastered across a driver’s face as a well dressed man approached him. Curiosity struck me, wondering where the man had arrived from, what he was doing here with such a little suitcase and well tailored suit.
Twenty past nine. I remind my fingers to relax, the daffodils are delicate, needed, her favourite because they grow anywhere.
“You waiting for a boyfriend?” the man next to me spilt over my seat, sitting with his arms crossed, disturbing my thoughts.
“No,” my head shook, dragging my eyes away from the arrivals notice board, “my best friend. You?”
“Aye, same. Known the bastard thirty years, decided to move to the other side of the world. Left me here,” he scoffed but I could see the anticipation, his own excitement, sitting behind his tired eyes.
I snorted, “I’m afraid I’m the bastard that did that, I left my own best friend behind,” I felt ashamed, fingers twitching to grasp tighter.
The silence between us felt thick. My eyes darted, avoiding his glance, I felt guilty for his friend’s abandonment. I felt like I’d done the same.
Twenty five past nine.
“It’s okay,” he croaked. Looking in his direction, puzzled. “It’s okay to leave. We understand.”
“Oh, what is it that you understand?” delicate daffodils twirling between my fingers. Stalks well and truly bruised.
He considered me for a second, “Let me guess, you seek adventure and movement? To wander about, forever searching?”
I nodded, swallowing.
“We understand that you need an anchor. Places aren’t home for you, it’s people,” he explained, “It’s us.”
“An anchor? That’s a heavy job.”
“Mm, aye. But you also make us float. I never would have flown or experienced life outside this town if it weren’t for best friends like you,” he scratched his short grey beard.
Nine thirty. My feet itched. Any second now. She’s landed.
“Dave!” he abruptly stood, arms stretched out, only just missing a few people’s heads as he hurried through. He embraced his best friend, patting each other on the back.
I wait.
Leg jigging.
Daffodils still intact, mostly.
Nine forty.
Half the drivers were gone by now, the rest tapping their toes or shifting from foot to foot.
Nine fifty.
I watch the sliding door with more intensity than I intend.
My heart rate spiked.
She spots me immediately.
Smile stretching wide. My leg stops bouncing. Feet moving me towards her.
“Jordan!”
We skip towards each other.
We sway to the imaginary music of relief and joy, hugging tight. I swallow my happy tears.
“Are those daffodils?” she asked excitedly, “They are my favourite.”
I handed her the slightly wounded daffodils, “They are a bit mauled, I’m sor-.”
“Ah, don’t even think about it,” her grin made me grin. Bringing her in for another hug.
Finally, I thought.
My anchor.