Chapter 13: The Terminal

"You," Liza said.

She stopped two feet from me and pulled off her sunglasses.

Her eyes were swollen. Her mascara was perfect.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

"Good morning, Liza."

"Don't." Her voice went up and bounced off the glass roof. "Don't you dare good morning me."

The clapping at the ticket booth died.

Three hundred people in rain jackets turned around to watch.

"My father hasn't spoken to me since Saturday," she said. "Two of my bridesmaids dropped out. By text."

"I'm sorry about your bridesmaids."

"You posted a private video!"

"Lance's friend filmed it. Lance cut it. I posted the rest."

"You made me look like a..." She couldn't find the word. She flung a hand at the whole terminal. "Like a home wrecker."

"Liza," I said. "You asked me what Lance liked. For three years. Over lunch. I paid for half of those lunches."

Somebody in the line said, "Oof."

Liza swung toward the sound.

"Mind your own business!"

"It is my business," a man said.

He had a bike helmet under his arm. I knew him from the car deck.

"You held up my boat last Monday."

A few people laughed.

Liza turned back to me. Her chin was shaking.

"Everyone's laughing at me. They made a song out of 'Etta's slow.' There's a song!"

"I've heard it," I said. "It's catchy."

She swiped at my cap.

It was a sloppy, open-handed swing. I stepped back and it hit air.

The ticket booth lady came out of her booth.

She was five foot nothing with a radio in her fist.

"Ma'am," she said. "You lay one finger on my captain and port police will be here before your nails dry."

"Your captain?" Liza laughed, high and wild. "She's a ferry driver who married up. She couldn't keep one brother, so she..."

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