Chapter 2: Delays and Destinies

The flight out of Newark had been delayed by rain. We’d spent an hour stuck on the tarmac, and by the time we landed, the airport felt like the set of a ghost story—empty rows of seats, the echo of suitcase wheels, and just a few cab drivers and cleaning crews left behind. I checked the departure board out of habit, even though I had nowhere else to be.

It was 2:30 a.m. when I finally made it outside, the air muggy with that Southern humidity but laced with a surprising chill for late spring. I zipped up my hoodie, searching for any sign of life in the nearly deserted parking lot. The night was thick with the scent of jet fuel, wet concrete, and the faint hope of morning.

Every rideshare app just spun—no cars, no drivers. I felt invisible. Guess everyone else had somewhere to be but me.

I texted my sister again.

[Are you up, Em? Can you come pick me up at the airport?]

After hitting send, I caught the word "sister" in the message and winced. Weird. Why the formality? It sounded like I was cold-calling a colleague. I almost redid it, but let it stand. Everything felt off at this hour.

We had each other’s numbers, but our chat was empty—proof that we weren’t exactly close these days. Didn’t mean we had a bad relationship, just that life, distance, and our own stubbornness kept things brief. Months could pass with nothing but a meme or a “Merry Christmas!” text.

I waited ten minutes, hands jammed deep in my pockets, trying to look casual as the last TSA agent drifted by. The cold was starting to seep into my bones.

Two voice messages popped up.

[Which little brother is this?]

[Send a selfie.]

Her tone was classic Em—flippant and a little teasing. She always played it cool, using jokes to keep things light. I could picture her rolling her eyes, probably stretched out in her apartment, glass of wine in hand.

I stared at the screen, realizing she definitely hadn’t saved my contact. Of course she hadn’t saved my contact. Classic Em—always the center of the party, and I was just another number in her phone. It stung a little, but I couldn’t help smiling. That was just her way.

I called her on video right away. The call rang twice, then her face appeared, backlit by a dim lamp, music and laughter filtering in from the background—her friends in full party mode.

She was sprawled on the couch, eyes full of mischief, swirling a wine glass. Her hair was in that messy bun she wore when half-tipsy, cheeks flushed, and she had her old Georgia Tech hoodie on—her go-to pajamas.

We stared at each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. She sat up fast, that lazy, affectionate vibe gone in an instant.

I grinned. "Tomorrow I’ll ask Mom and Dad how many little brothers you want. How about it, big sis~"

She spat out her wine and started coughing, completely thrown. Wine dribbled down her chin, and her friends burst out laughing.

Someone next to her called out, "This little brother is so cute. If you’re not interested, introduce him to me."

Another woman’s voice, sharp and teasing, cut through. There was a chorus of giggles, like a pack of hyenas after midnight.

My sister laughed and scolded, "Get outta here, he’s my own little brother. Don’t talk nonsense."

I guessed the phone had started on the coffee table, but now Em picked it up, camera zooming in on her embarrassed face.

Her eyes were wide, her smile tight. She glanced off-screen, clearly wishing she could disappear.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home earlier?" she asked, her voice suddenly softer.

I kept smiling. "If I had, I wouldn’t have found out you had so many little brothers. I’ll tell Mom and Dad when I get home, hehe."

She rubbed her temples, groaning. "I drank too much, don’t tell Mom and Dad."

Her plea was half-joke, half-serious—sibling ammo for later.

A new, pleasant laugh drifted through the speaker. A voice I didn’t recognize—smooth as honey—said something lost in the background noise. It sounded like a dare.

Em glanced sideways. "I’ve been drinking, can’t drive. I’ll have someone pick you up."

A commotion broke out—friends volunteering, playful and competitive, like a bachelorette auction.

"I’ll go!"

"Little brother, I’ll pick you up!"

"Since your sister has so many little brothers, you can have lots of big sisters too."

I rolled my eyes, grinning despite myself. Em finally called order: "My little brother is sweet, cute, and honest. You guys can’t go—if you do, you’ll eat him alive."

She looked at me, trying to be serious but failing. "Here, I’ll have my most beautiful and best-mannered friend pick you up."

The camera shifted, and there she was—Lauren Mitchell. The light from her screen caught the gold flecks in her eyes. Even through grainy pixels, she looked like she belonged somewhere fancier than my sister’s couch.

We’d only met a handful of times—at high school football games, a barbecue or two. She’d always been untouchable, poised, the quiet one in a sea of chaos. Not strangers, but not friends either. I never had the guts to say more than “Hey.”

Through the screen, her gaze was steady, almost searching. I was startled when she smiled, calm and gentle, like she found the whole thing quietly amusing. Before I could react, Em ended the call—maybe realizing the teasing had gone far enough for one night.