“Hey, Laura isn’t picking up,” he says easily. “Sorry. I’m in the cell-phone lot. Tell me where to come get you.” “Sure, okay,” I say, and tell him the gate number and hang up before I have to say anything else. There are no messages from anyone and I don’t bother to call or text Laura. She wouldn’t have thought to tell her family before I got home. She is probably wandering barefoot through the snow and making friends with jackrabbits or homeless people on the bus. Brandon pulls up smoothly behind an SUV that’s crawling with screaming children in cargo shorts and light-up flip-flops and two moms who are bickering about who spilled the orange juice, and who would give orange juice at this time of the day to a kid, do you know how much sugar is in it, and why don’t we have any more napkins. I jump into Brandon’s front seat with my suitcase in my lap and he peers past me. “Where’s Laura?” he says, and his brow furrows are so cute a whole family of bunnies should live in them.
