Say Never Read Online Free Page A

they can say things like ‘I hate you, motherfucker!’ And that’s right about the time they drive your precious Lexus into a chain link fence. But years down the line, when they graduate tops in their class and find a cure for cancer and bring about world peace and finally do you proud, well…” I give a tight smile. “It makes it all worthwhile, right?”
    I narrow my eyes at him. When he doesn’t respond, I say, “Still waiting for your little darlings to make you proud, huh?”
    The baby’s cry has turned hoarse, and it’s like someone has rammed glass shards into my ears. I turn my back on my row mate and stare at my shoes, a beautiful pair of Louboutin boots I got at Sax Fifth Avenue last year. But not even my beloved boots can calm me. I count to ten, slowly, watching with something like reverence as Sherry makes her way toward me, Stoli in hand. The smart girl brought two bottles.
    Five minutes later, with my fourth Stoli spreading through my innards, the man next to me indignantly quiet, and the baby behind me good and plugged up with a pacifier or a bottle or possibly a boob, I fall fast asleep.
    * * *
    Vodka is helpful in enduring a cross-country airplane ride with turbulence and a shrieking infant, however it’s not such a friend when navigating baggage claim and car rental.
    My head pounds as I stand at Carousel Three waiting for my matching Rimowa Upright and Overnighter to appear, both of which I got for a steal at an online weekend blowout sale. One by one, the large metal mouth spits suitcases and duffel bags onto the revolving belt, making me think of how much better I’d feel if I could just vomit. Probably, I should have eaten the complimentary cookies on the flight. Probably I shouldn’t have had that fourth Stoli.
    Probably, I should have stayed in New York.
    Christmas is still more than a month away, but the John Wayne Airport terminal has been done up in true holiday fashion. Giant glittery snowflakes with happy faces are suspended from the high ceiling, and at every kiosk and counter hang garish, non-religion-specific, fringed boughs of all different colors: red and green, yes, but also blue, yellow, orange, pink and purple. The scene reminds me not of Christmas, but of Cinco de Mayo . The only thing missing is a piñata (although I’d be happy to take a bat to one of those damn smiling snowflakes).
    A blow-up snowman waves goodbye to visitors from beside the sliding doors leading to the taxi stand—an incongruous decoration seeing as how it’s likely seventy-five degrees outside; no way in hell Frosty could survive the OC winter.
    I suddenly feel like Bruce Willis in the original Die Hard when he arrives in Los Angeles: Cali-fucking-fornia. Too right.
    On the other side of the baggage carousel, I see my row mate make a grab for a humongous Louis Vuitton bag whilst his damsel-in-diapers giggles and bats her false eyelashes at him. For a minute, he looks like he might suffer a coronary right on the spot, forehead covered with sweat and cheeks lobster red. But when the woman throws her arms around him and kisses him full on the lips, he puffs up like a body builder winning the Mr. Universe title.
    I roll my eyes and return my attention to the conveyer belt, thinking that if I tap the toe of my boot against the floor fast enough, my suitcases might emerge more quickly. No such luck.
    I reach into my purse and withdraw my Samsung Galaxy and punch the side button to bring it to life. The familiar T-Mobil chime echoes painfully through my head. I glance down at the small screen to see that I have thirty new texts and forty-four new emails as well as a dozen missed calls. Jeez. Five hours on an airplane, and you’d think I’d gone missing in the Congo.
    By now, the majority of passengers from my flight have already gotten their luggage and moved out of the terminal, leaving only a handful of pitiful, hopeful schmucks—myself included—to gaze longingly at the conveyer belt. The young