The black vinyl of the luggage carousel was already hot from the afternoon sun leaking through the high windows. I held the blue itinerary binder against my chest with my left hand, twisting my silver wedding band around my finger with my right.
Darlene pulled at my fingers, her grip tight and sweaty from the flight.
“Is that our red one?” she asked, pointing her small finger at a scuffed suitcase sliding past.
“No, sweetie, ours has the green ribbon on the handle,” I said.
Mark stood three feet away, his shoulder turned toward the terminal exit. His thumb flicked rapidly across his phone screen, the bright display reflecting in his sunglasses.
“Mark, did you see the gray duffel yet?” I asked, raising my voice to carry over the rumble of the conveyor belt.
He checked his watch, then glanced at the terminal exit again without looking up.
“It will get here when it gets here, Sarah,” he said.
The flight from Chicago had been delayed by forty minutes, pushing our arrival past the scheduled lunch window I had noted on page three of the blue binder. I had spent eight months organizing this trip, mapping out every rest stop and dinner reservation on the drive down to the Gulf Coast.
I tapped the plastic edge of the binder against my palm. A man in a floral shirt bumped into Darlene, and she instantly shrunk closer to my leg, hiding behind the heavy canvas diaper bag on my shoulder.
“We need to get the rental car by two or they might release the mid-size,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
Mark did not look up from his phone.
“They have plenty of cars,” he said.
The heavy black suitcase with our green ribbon finally tumbled onto the silver metal slides at the end of the belt. Mark did not move toward it. I reached forward and dragged the heavy suitcase off myself, the plastic handle digging into my palm, while Darlene held onto my skirt.
“I have it,” I said, though he had not offered to help.
