Burning Moon (3 page)

I don't love flying.

There's nothing normal about being forty thousand feet above sea level in a glorified sardine can.

I have two main fears, really. Firstly, that we'll simply fall out of the sky and plummet to our grizzly deaths, and secondly, that when we land the brakes will fail and we'll go thundering into a building, burst into flames, and blow up—of course, it doesn't help that I've seen the exact same thing unfold on a TV show about plane crashes.

But this never happens.
(Knock on wood.)

But what
does
always happen is that the split second the plane comes into contact with the ground, people jump up, practically leap, and throw themselves at the storage compartments for the start of the great bag jostle.

I've never understood the urgency. I didn't feel physically strong enough to fight for my bag or stand in line for ten minutes while I waited for the doors to open, so I just sat there. Goth Guy was already up, and I wanted to say something to him, but he was too far away.

The interior of the Phuket airport was bustling, and all the sudden noise and movement made me feel sick again. I leaned against a pillar and took a deep breath, hoping it would quell the sick feeling, lest I embarrass myself again in front of an entirely new audience.

After a few breaths the feeling dissipated and I was finally able to look around and orient myself. I glanced at the clock on the wall and reset my watch to local time. A hotel shuttle was fetching me in an hour and a half, so I had plenty of time to get my bags, go through customs, and maybe even squeeze in some duty-free shopping. Perhaps things were looking up after all—but then I got to the luggage carousel.

What is it about airports that make people lose all sense of propriety, politeness, patience, and anything else that resembles manners? People shoved. They pushed. They elbowed one another and acted as if getting their bag one second before the next guy was more important than finding a cure for cancer.

I saw Damian through the marauding crowd and knew that this would be my last chance to say something to him.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey.” I smiled apologetically. “I never got a chance to thank you for helping me earlier.” I was trying to find an indirect way of saying it without causing more offense.

“No prob.” He looked at me again with those black eyes; they really were startling. “I'm sorry for walking away like that. I just…didn't expect that.”

I jumped in. “No, I'm sorry. That was out of line, I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's okay. You just caught me off guard. It's not something I usually talk to people about.”

His candor surprised me, and I was about to say something about his right to privacy when five security guards interrupted us. I smiled at them, but they didn't look friendly. In fact, they circled like vultures around a carcass. I had a very bad feeling about this.

“Can I see your passports?” the guy with a face like a bulldog asked.

I pulled mine out immediately and handed it over, but Damian objected.

“This is so typical. It's discrimination. I'm not giving it to you.”

What was he talking about? Was I missing something? I looked from him to Bulldog and back again.

Bulldog growled. “Give me your passport.” His eyes blazed with aggression.

Damian stared back at him indignantly. “No.”

The tension was building and the other vultures stepped forward, pecking at us with their evil eyeballs.

“What's going on?” I was suddenly very nervous.

Damian turned to me. “What's going on here is a clear case of ignorance and discrimination.”

“But they're just asking for our passports,” I offered.

“No, they're not!” Damian was adamant.

Now I was really confused and the vultures came even closer.

And then it happened. And it happened so damn fast. They swooped, they grabbed, they handcuffed and then dragged us across the room.

“Hey,” I was screaming. “What are you doing?”

There was a lot of loud angry shouting in Thai, and several more vulture guards came lunging over. And then, for the third time that day, people gawked at me. Accusatory looks, and looks of horror and disgust, were thrown in my direction. I recognized some of the faces from the plane; many of them were nodding at one another with knowing looks. Their suspicions about me had been confirmed.

“I told you, Tony. She's a total criminal.”

“Please, the hotel shuttle will be here any minute to pick me up. I have to get my bags and get to my hotel. Just tell me what's happening?” No response. They didn't even look at me. At least if I knew what was going on, I could have defended myself and proved to them that I was innocent of whatever crime they thought I'd committed. No such luck. They dragged us into a small, miserable-looking room. The type of room that hardened criminals are kept in.

“I know my rights!” I screeched. “My sister-in-law is a very powerful lawyer, and if I phone her and tell them what's going on, she'll be on the next flight over here and you'll all be in trouble.” I was over being nice.

I took out my phone but before I could press a single button, it was whipped away from me and taken out of the room. I heard a loud click and swung around to see my suitcase being pried open and rummaged through.

“Hey, what are you doing? Those are my clothes!” I glanced at Damian, who looked totally unperturbed as someone started tearing his backpack apart.

“Damian!” My voice was demanding. “What's going on?”

“They think we're drug smugglers.”

“What!” I shrieked. “That's ridiculous. Why?”

“I told you, discrimination. It's happened to me before. They see someone with a tattoo and black clothes and assume.”

Something red flew past my face. It was my honeymoon underwear. A little lacy risqué number that was
so
not me! I went crimson with embarrassment as the tiny swath of see-through fabric went flying through the air and landed on the table just inches from Damian. I shot up, practically slid across the table, and grabbed them, which only ended up drawing more attention to the itty-bitty red things.

He looked up at me and smiled, which made my blood boil.

“This is all your fault.” I was furious.

“How is this my fault?”

“Well, obviously, I'm only guilty by association. I was talking to you and you're the one who looks like a drug smuggler.”

I could see this statement hit a nerve. “I hate to break this to you, Lilly, but you're the one who looks like she's smuggling drugs. In fact, you look like a junkie on a very bad comedown in those pajamas, with your black eyes and red face. I'm the one who's probably guilty by association.”

My heart dropped. I was so offended. But I also knew he was right. I slunk back into my seat, devastated, and watched them pull my suitcase to pieces. But when it became clear they weren't going to find anything, they left. I was happy they'd gone, but I wasn't happy to be alone in a room with Damian.

And so we sat in silence and waited. And waited. And waited.

It was awkward.

I was embarrassed.

And I was angry.

I could feel him looking at me from time to time, but I refused to shift my gaze. I also refused to cry, which was difficult, because the tears were close to the surface now. At some stage I glanced at my watch and realized we'd been there for two hours—so much for my hotel transfer.

After what seemed like another hour, the door finally opened and two new vulture guards walked in: one male, one female. The guy grabbed Damian and dragged him out, while the female approached me looking very suspicious and wearing a latex glove.

Not a chance!
Not a chance in hell!
I jumped out of my seat and ran to the other end of the room, but when the glove followed me, I flipped.

And for the second time in two days, I lost it.

I screamed and flapped my arms. “Please, I am
not
a drug addict or smuggler and any resemblance to one is because I have had the shittiest two days of my life. I mean total S-H-I-T.” I spelled it out for added drama. “Crap. The worst, crappiest, crap day you can ever crapping imagine.”

Like I said, I lost it.

“Yesterday was supposed to be my wedding and my fiancé decided it would be fun to leave me at the altar in front of five hundred guests. Fun, right? Yay, for me. Woo-hoo!” Yes, I definitely lost it. “The only reason I look like this is because I've been feeling like a mad cow for the past twenty-four hours, barely able to move off the couch or stop eating sugar! I've probably put on ten pounds in the past day. And guess what? This trip is supposed to be my honeymoon, and do you see a husband anywhere?
NO!
That guy's not my husband. I don't even know him.”

I slumped against the wall feeling utterly defeated. “This was the worst decision of my life coming here. Clearly I'm off my rocker and need to be locked up somewhere. So please,
please
I beg you, don't stick that thing up my…!”

And then I started to cry. I couldn't hold back, and I hated myself for showing that kind of vulnerability to a total stranger with a latex glove. The woman studied me curiously and then called out to someone else in Thai.

Another woman rushed into the room and looked at me with horror. She shook her head violently and spoke.

“Bastard,” she said in her thick Thai accent.

“I beg your pardon?” Was she talking about Damian?

“He left you on the wedding.” Her English was broken. “You were in dress?”

I nodded. The women said something to each other and shook their heads again.

“This happen to my friend. We say he was bad man. She not listen. But better you know what bad man he is before wedding.” She was right. I nodded.

And then another woman joined them; clearly I was speaking some kind of universal language here. Suddenly we were sisters, bonded together in our collective disgust and disapproval of men's actions.

“You must find someone else. He not worth time! You very pretty,” said the new woman who'd joined in. One of them handed me a tissue and then a lot of tutting and oohing and head shaking took place.

I smiled; it was the first time that day. One of the women even brought me a chocolate—clearly chocolate is the universal currency for the brokenhearted. I discovered that their names were Ang, Piti, and Ginjan, and they were only too happy to listen as I regaled my woeful story.

I was more than happy to throw the words
bastard
and
lying
and
asshole
around a few times; it made me feel better and my attentive audience lapped it up. They nodded, shook their heads, and said some loud things in Thai. After a few much-needed minutes of female bonding and a lot of expletives, the ladies said I could go free. We all hugged one another and threw a few more bad words around for the hell of it.

I was relieved to be free, and even more relieved that I could finally get out of my pajamas and slippers. I collected my scattered clothes from the floor and started packing them back into my bag. I chose a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt and glanced around for a place to change. But there was nowhere. I'd have to do it quickly and hope no one walked in. As fast as humanly possible, I pulled off my offensive pajamas.

“Take that you little bastards,” I said as I tossed them and the slippers into the nearby dustbin. I then bent down to pull up my jeans…and that's when I noticed it.

The wall behind me was nothing more than two partitions pushed together. There was a large gap between them, and I approached it. I pressed my eye to the gap and there sat Damian, looking at me.

Shit!
Three questions ran through my mind:

One
, had he seen me get undressed?
Two
, was I wearing a G-string? And
three
, had he heard everything I'd said?

Since I certainly wasn't going to wait around for him to answer any of those, I quickly grabbed my bag and left.

I was hit by a wall of humidity when I walked out of the airport. The air was hot and sticky and I wished I'd had the foresight to wear something other than my jeans. I examined the place. Everything around me was so foreign. I mean, I knew I was in a foreign country, but really, it was extremely foreign. And then it suddenly dawned on me.

I was really here.

In Thailand.

On my honeymoon.

Alone.

I'd never done anything on my own before. I felt very out of my depth and comfort zone. To make matters worse, I'd also missed my hotel transfer. Across the street stood a row of yellow cars with yellow lights; I assumed they were taxis. But I certainly wasn't going to take a taxi alone. You just never know who'll be behind that wheel—they could be an ax murderer or a pervert, and you might just find yourself the subject matter of a program on the crime channel.

I dug in my handbag for the hotel details, found the number, and called. But the next available shuttle wasn't until ten p.m. I looked at my watch and it was only seven p.m. What was I going to do here for three hours? All I wanted to do was bathe, wash my hair, soak my face, and brush my teeth.

“Hi.”

A voice from behind made me jump, and I was surprised to find Damian standing there with a strange look on his face. God, I hoped that look didn't mean
I've heard your sob story and I've seen you in your underwear, lady
. I gave him a halfhearted nod, but all I could think about was what direction I'd been facing when I'd bent down to pull my jeans up.

“I need to apologize. It was wrong of me to say that stuff about you looking like an addict. I heard what you said in there, and I'm very sorry. If I'd known I would never have—”

I cut him off abruptly. I didn't want to talk about it. “It's okay. Let's leave it. I insulted you and you insulted me. Now we're even.”