Chapter 5: Airport Surveillance and Famous Dave’s

I made a burner Facebook account and added the guy, saying a friend referred me to ask about insurance.

He accepted right away.

He greeted me first.

I said I was a family of four wanting to buy insurance for everyone, asked if he had any recommendations.

He was super enthusiastic, said family insurance needed to be tailored based on structure and budget, sent me a brochure with all their top products and successful cases, then apologized, saying he was about to board a plane and would contact me after landing.

I checked his Facebook—almost all work stuff, not as interesting as his Instagram.

Two hours later, he messaged: "Hey dude, I’ve landed. Just tell me your needs and budget."

I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I messaged my girlfriend, asking when her flight was.

She never told me her flight number, always saying her project schedule was uncertain. Now I get it—she was afraid I’d show up at the airport.

My girlfriend didn’t reply.

Ha.

She had no idea I was already at the airport, hiding in the crowd at arrivals, staring at the exit.

The crowd buzzed with chatter and rolling suitcases, the tannoy calling out delayed flights and lost bags. My palms sweated inside my hoodie pocket as I watched every couple, every businesswoman, every group of tourists. The arrivals board flickered from DELAYED to ARRIVED, and I tried not to grind my teeth. I’d never felt so out of place, invisible in plain sight, watching the story play out like some trashy reality show I couldn’t turn off.

I saw her come out, sunglasses on, arm in arm with a tall guy, laughing and chatting.

They left and got in a cab. My car was still in the parking garage, so I couldn’t follow. By the time I got home, my girlfriend was already there.

She acted completely normal, ran up and hugged me, saying she didn’t tell me her flight info because she wanted to surprise me.

Then she took two bags of takeout barbecue out of her suitcase, saying she got them for me despite her busy schedule.

She pulled out two Styrofoam containers of pulled pork—probably from that airport Famous Dave’s.

Yeah, if those weren’t bought at the airport souvenir shop, I’ll eat my own shoe.