Greyhound [Marcus Rashford]

14

Impulse decisions have always been a weakness of mine. My heart races as I realize what I'm doing. I'm flying halfway around the world to visit somebody that has no idea that I'm coming, I have no arrangements to stay at a hotel, and I'm terrified of the thought of driving on the wrong side of the road. Even in America, I can hardly keep it together and not rear end someone daily.

"Please fasten your seatbelts, we will start our decent shortly," the pilot announces over the intercom system. I grip my arm rests and close my eyes. One thing I forgot when I made an impulse decision to fly is that I've never been on a plane before. If I were to rate my experience it would be about a 0/10.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Manchester!" the flight attendant greets enthusiastically.

After waiting to get off the plane, I grab my suitcases and head out. As I get out onto the sidewalk, I realize that I have no idea where I'm going or what I'm going to do. Do I call Marcus? Do I take a taxi to a hotel? Do I turn around, fly home, and pretend this never happened?

I pull out my phone to call the one person that can help me right now. After two rings, he answers.

"Peyton, it's a surprise hearing from you. Isn't it also like 4 a.m. in Chicago?" he asks.

"Yeah, but I'm not exactly in Chicago right now, so it's not a big deal. I'm a bit tired now that I think about it," I tell him honestly. I didn't realize what time it actually was, and I couldn't take a break from my heart attack long enough to sleep on the plane.

"Cool, did you go back to Indianapolis?"

"I may or may not have impulsively flown to Manchester, and I may or may not be stranded at the airport," I tell him, putting my hands over my face.

"No way dude! I can come pick you up!" he exclaims, "tell me your gate and I'll come get you. My flat isn't too far from the airport. I can be there in 30 minutes with a fresh cup of tea waiting for you."

"Really! Jess you're the best. I don't know what I'd do without you right now," I thank him earnestly.

"I don't know, maybe you'd actually call the person you came here to see. I know I'm more attr-" I hang up on him when he starts being the sarcastic Jess we all love, but right now I can't handle.

Now it's just a waiting game. An excruciating waiting game at that. I know I came here for Marcus, but I'm too embarrassed to call him like a lost puppy that follows him everywhere he goes, even though that's exactly what I'm acting like right now.  Why couldn't I just be like every other girl and eat ice cream and talk to my friends on the phone for hours about missing a boy.

I wait for about 30 minutes, a flashy, silver Bentley GT rolls up in front of my gate. I know it can't be anyone other than Jesse, and as if his car doesn't already drag attention my way, he gets out of the car  to give me a hug. He seems to have forgotten that he's a celebrity around here. If me shouting, "Nice to see you too, but get back in the car you idiot!" didn't remind him, the hoard of United fans that crowded around him sure did. 

Just as I thought I had slipped into his car unnoticed, I hear a fan from outside ask, "Who was that girl?" along with his friend responding, "I don't know, but a bunch of people took pictures of her. I'm sure she'll be identified on social media by the morning."