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And So It Begins

As promised, although somewhat guiltily so, I skipped breakfast, leaving Mark and Amy to eggs and bacon themselves out. I retreated back into my room after Mark left me to my devices, to be quite sure I'd gotten everything I need, and much to my surprise, I did, managing to-- for once in my life-- not be a complete and utter mess.
After getting properly clothed, brushing my hair-- which took too long because I kept fiddling with my side bangs-- and brushing my teeth, I went to clean anything that wasn't already, making my bed, and dusting off my desk a little. I slipped my earbuds into the front pocket of my suitcase to switch them out for my headphones and brought my luggage downstairs by the door, all in maybe half an hour, or forty-five minutes.
That kind of organized crunch is so out-of-character for me that when Amy came back downstairs after a quick shower, her mouth fell open a little. "Damn, okay," she'd let out a chuckle.
Mark followed behind her just moments after, deciding to crack a joke, saying, "Jesus, it's almost like you want to leave," which made me a little more than upset inwardly, because I don't. It goes without saying, but even though I chuckled for the sake of not seeming like I was in a mood, I... did not find it funny.
It felt like salt in the wound, but then I realized he might not understand how this situation makes me feel, and it might have been just a joke for joke's sake. I didn't say anything as we piled my luggage into the trunk, climbed into the car, and started to make our way to the airport.
Now we've made it to the present, with Amy asking me what the first thing I want to see in England is.
I sarcastically answer, "The first thing I'll probably see is the inside of an airport."
Amy smiles to herself and shakes her head. "Sam."
"Okay, okay."
My default with people I know and am comfortable with is sarcasm-- maybe it's a deflective tic to hide what I'm actually feeling, or maybe a desire to simply be funny, but I always turn to it without fail. I like to say I'm fluent in it.
Although, right now, I might just be using it to convey how I feel about being sent away at all as an undertone. Perhaps.
"Brighton Beach," I say finally.
"You mean the beach that's barely a beach?" Mark pipes up. "Come on, you can do better than that-- like, what about the carnival thing they have there?"
"You mean the Pier?" I ask.
"Yeah, that."
I pause, thinking of how to word my response. I highly doubt I'll be going out much anyway, mostly because Brighton-- well, any part of Europe, really-- is infamous for its cloudy, gloomy, and even chilly weather, but also because I know Seán and Evelien have their own commitments. But I don't want to sound snappy or depressive, so that's what I don't say.
"Both, maybe."
That seems to satisfy them.
"I really hope you enjoy it there, Sam," Amy says, and I swear I detect a hint of sadness in her voice. It makes me want to yell. I want to say Sure, I could enjoy it there, but if it sucks so much, why don't you keep me here? Do you hate me that much?
But I don't. Besides, I know that's not it-- you don't need to be a genius to figure it out. There's something bigger going on that I just don't understand, something that I'm not aware of. It sucks, but I'll deal with it. I don't know.
"Me too." And at that simple reply, the conversation dies away.
I slip my headphones back on and hit play on the Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack, watching buildings, cars, road, and sky slip by the window.

~

My hands start to shake as I watch Amy and Mark walk back out the sliding doors to the car. We registered my luggage, leaving me with my only carry-on-- my backpack, which holds the most important stuff I'll need on the flight.. mostly to distract myself from the potential 12 hours of being stuck in an airplane cabin.
We said our good-byes, Mark keeping me in a hug for way too long.
"I love you, kiddo. Stay safe and call me when you land, no matter how late it is." He'd said.
I love you, kiddo. It still rings in my ears as I watch them drive away. Then, of course, something hits my shoulder. It's like the world telling me Hey, remember me? Yeah, I suck still. I stumble sideways, snapping my head up to apologize to whoever I've inconvenienced by literally standing in the middle of the walkway-- where a shitload of people are trying to walk-- like a statue. But they're already on their way, casting me a dirty look as they go.
I draw in a deep breath and slowly dispel it. Relax, Sam.
LAX is huge, but I can navigate it. All I have to do is make my way to TSA, stand in line for way too long, strip myself of my backpack, technology like my phone and laptop, take any metal off of me, and while I'm at it, take my shoes off, get to the other side and put everything back together, find my gate, and wait.
Easy.
Right?