Second Chance || Luke Hemmings

|| 1 ||

"Guess who returns today," I break the silence between myself, my dear best friend, and the clanking of our spoons against our cereal bowls.

"Who?" Michael, the kid who I've known for practically forever (since we were 7, but feels like forever), looks up at me, completely clueless.

"Luke" I say, gulping down the words as it plummets into the pit of my stomach.

"Oh," he says awkwardly, not quite sure what to say.

"Yeah" I lightly chuckle, not because it's a funny thing that he's coming back, but because I feel awkward about it too.

"Is that why you haven't touched your bowl?" He chuckles, looking at my now soggy froot loops.

I pick at it with my spoon, "I mean, it may have some part in it."

"Nervous?" Michael stares at me with his big green eyes.

"Just a bit," I bite at my lip, looking down at the bowl in front of me.

"It'll be just fine, Al" Michael walks over to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder and lightly rubbing his knuckle against my scalp like I'm his little brother.

"Well I'm glad you say that, because I volunteered us to pick them up from the airport," I quickly rush out the words, but found it amusing to see the look on his face.

"Dammit Al, now I actually have to get dressed today," he groans, sitting back into his seat.

I stand up and walk my bowl over to the sink, placing it still full into in the sink and slightly feeling guilty that I didn't touch it.

"Well what time are they landing?" He asks, and I could tell he's holding his breath, hoping my answer isn't "soon."

"In 2 hours" I laugh, smiling over at him. He sinks down into his chair, purposely slipping out of it and onto the floor.

"So you better start getting ready!" I shout back to him, starting to make my way up the steps to shower and change.

After a nice 20 minute shower, I change from my usual after shower sweats and t shirt to some shorts and a thin sweater.

"Michael Gordon Clifford, you better be ready!" I shout, quickly running down the stairs while still attempting to dry my hair with a towel.

"Relax, it'll take me 5 minutes" he says reclined back in my couch, not worried one bit.

"You do realize you're driving and there's gonna be traffic," I stare, eye brow raised and smirk on my face.

"I really hate you" he groans, shutting off the tv and standing up from the couch.

"Your duffel bag's in my room!" I shout to him as he trudges up the stairs.

"Yeah, yeah. I know the drill" he mumbles, disappearing behind the wall upstairs.

After about 10 minutes of waiting, we finally left on the road and made our 30 minute drive to LAX, but it doesn't seem so long when you get to sleep on the way there.

Sucks for you, Michael.

"Do you know their terminal number?" Michael asks as we walk through the doors, the business and noisiness of the place setting in.

People of all kinds are scrambling around, luggage dragging across the floor, others are chatting and laughing. Some people say their sweet goodbyes, others embrace their loved ones in a welcoming hello.

I find it funny how I know airports by heart, but never once have I been on a plane.

"Terminal 3, I think" I answer him and we finally push our way through the thousands of people, making our way to where we're supposed to meet them.