A Beginner's Guide to the American West ✓

chapter forty-six

f o r t y - s i x

*

I don't know where the time went. One minute, Arjun and I were enjoying the sun and the view as we walked down the infamous Lombard Street – which, I learned today, is not simply called that wiggly road – and the next minute, we were trying to figure out the ticket machine at Union Square station in order to get the BART to the airport.

Now we're sitting in a quiet carriage, a couple of stops away from San Francisco International, and I can't stop tapping my foot. Arjun puts his hand over my knee, but the incessant jiggling only abates for a minute before apprehension kicks in. I don't want to get there, for this to be reality, but it is. The trip is over and in three hours, I'll be boarding a plane that will carry me over the USA and the Atlantic, depositing me in London.

The BART wheezes to a stop. Arjun stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and takes my hand to pull me to my feet. His fingers slip to my elbow and he holds on as we leave, jostling along the platform in search of the exit that will carry us to departures.

It's getting late, eight o'clock already, and we were up so early this morning that I don't know if I'll be able to stay awake until eleven. I'm already fighting off yawns, trying to save my sleep for the flight. Ten hours is too long, never mind the hour of security and three hours of extra travel at the other end. I haven't left San Francisco yet, and I'm already dreading trying to cross London.

"Ready?" Arjun's voice pierces my thoughts. I look up to see that we're at security, about to join a queue. With only hand luggage between us, making the most of our carry-on allowance, we were able to skip having to line up for bag drop, and I don't even have any liquids to separate into a plastic bag.

I'm ready for security, but ... I'm so not ready.

But somehow, the line trundles forwards and I go through the motions, slipping out of my shoes and loading my things into a plastic tray, walking through the scanner and managing not to set off any alarms. The whole experience has me on edge, but I make it through without an issue and Arjun follows right behind, inching closer as we wait for our bags to come back.

His little finger curls around mine, the back of his hand warm against mine. "You're very quiet," he says.

"I don't want to be here."

He sighs. "Me neither." When our trays emerge, he pulls them over and slips on his shoes, tucking his phone and passport into his pocket and shouldering his bag. "But we are, and before you know it, we'll be back in England and as much as you'll miss being here, you'll be glad to be home."

He's right, of course. I've told him about the niggle of homesickness lingering somewhere at the base of my skull, but that doesn't make it much easier to drag myself through the airport, towards a crowded concourse and then a crowded gate, onto a crowded plane to take me to a crowded city.

But there's no avoiding the inevitable. Once we've retrieved everything, and I've spent a couple of minutes cursing the decision to wear lace-up trainers through security, Arjun takes my hand and we walk through duty free. The anxious pit in my stomach tightens with each step, counting down the seconds until we have to part ways.

As soon as we hit the concourse, I look up at the departures board in search of my flight, but it's a fruitless exercise when the board is high and the letters are tiny, the red glow rendering each word unreadable no matter how hard I squint. Maybe I need glasses, even if I didn't have dyslexia.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Arjun watch me and adjust his glasses. He clears his throat and hums a sigh. "What's your flight number again?"