Chapter 161: The Llama and the Lounge

Chapter 161: The Llama and the Lounge
One week later.
The taxi rolled to a smooth stop beneath the towering departure terminal, its engine settling into a quiet hum as streams of travelers hurried in every direction. I stared out the window for a long moment, my heart thudding so loudly I was convinced the driver could hear it over the traffic. International Departures. The enormous blue sign hanging above the entrance seemed almost unreal. For an entire week, Scotland had existed only as a carefully folded itinerary tucked inside my handbag, a leave request hidden in Arthur's filing cabinet, and a secret I still hadn't gathered the courage to tell Elliot. But now... it was real. Painfully, undeniably real. The driver climbed out first and opened the trunk while I remained frozen in my seat, staring at the automatic glass doors sliding open and closed as hundreds of strangers disappeared through them. Families laughed while pushing overloaded luggage carts. Business travelers hurried past with coffee cups balanced in one hand and phones pressed against the other. Excited children pointed toward airplanes visible through the enormous windows. Everyone around me looked as though they belonged here. Meanwhile, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was about to tap me on the shoulder and politely explain there had been a terrible misunderstanding.
"Miss?" the driver called kindly, breaking me from my thoughts. "Your luggage?" I blinked several times before nodding quickly. "Right. Sorry." I climbed out of the taxi, and the cool morning air immediately greeted me. The driver lifted the first suitcase onto the curb. Then the second. Then the third. I stared at the growing mountain of luggage with mild disbelief. "...Did I really pack this much?" I muttered. The driver smiled knowingly. "First international trip?" I looked at him in surprise. "...Is it that obvious?" He chuckled. "Only first-time travelers bring enough luggage to survive six months overseas." I laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. "In my defense..." I glanced guiltily at the largest suitcase. "...I couldn't decide which sweaters to bring." "Scotland?" he guessed while closing the trunk. My eyebrows shot upward. "How did you know?" "The sweaters," he replied simply. "...Fair point." I paid the fare, thanked him, and watched the taxi disappear into the endless stream of airport traffic, leaving me standing alone with three oversized suitcases and a rapidly increasing awareness that there was now absolutely no turning back.
Taking a deep breath, I wrapped both hands around the handle of the largest suitcase and began dragging all three toward the entrance. Whoever had designed airports had clearly underestimated how difficult it was to steer three rolling suitcases in a perfectly straight line. One suitcase obediently followed me. The second drifted slightly to the left. The third appeared determined to immigrate to another terminal entirely. "Excuse me," I apologized as one wheel narrowly missed a businessman polishing off his morning coffee. "Sorry!" I called to a family after my smallest suitcase attempted to join their luggage procession without my permission. "You're with me," I informed it sternly, tugging it back into formation. A little girl walking beside her parents pointed at my rebellious suitcase and giggled. "Mommy," she whispered loudly, "her suitcase doesn't listen." "Apparently not," I replied with a dramatic sigh. The little girl burst into laughter while her mother offered me a sympathetic smile. "Airports bring out everyone's worst side," she said kindly before continuing toward the check-in counters. "...Even the luggage," I murmured under my breath.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and I stepped inside. Instantly, the familiar sounds of the city disappeared, replaced by the constant hum of one of the busiest airports in the world. Departure announcements echoed overhead every few minutes, blending with the rolling wheels of countless suitcases across polished floors. Electronic departure boards stretched across the terminal, flashing destination after destination in neat rows of glowing letters. Paris. Tokyo. Dubai. Rome. Edinburgh. My eyes landed on the final word, and everything inside me seemed to pause. Edinburgh. My destination. Scotland.
I pulled my phone from my handbag, unlocking it almost automatically as my eyes remained fixed on the departure board. My thumb hovered uncertainly over Grayson's name for a moment. Should I text him? He had invited me here. He knew my flight details. Still... announcing that I'd actually made it to the airport suddenly felt strangely significant. Before I could overthink myself out of it, I typed a short message.
Liela: I'm at the airport. Where are you?
I pressed send and slipped the phone back into my pocket, only for it to vibrate almost immediately. My eyebrows lifted in surprise. That had been... alarmingly fast. I opened the message and smiled despite myself.
Grayson: Business lounge. I'll come meet you, or if you'd prefer, you can come up. Terminal 4, Business Lounge.
I blinked at the words. Business lounge.
My eyes practically sparkled.
Business lounge.
I'd seen videos online. Plush leather armchairs, enormous windows overlooking the runway, unlimited food, desserts, coffee machines that looked like they belonged in luxury hotels, quiet reading corners, and people who somehow looked effortlessly sophisticated while waiting for their flights. Meanwhile, my previous airport experience consisted entirely of watching travel vlogs from beneath a blanket while eating instant noodles. I'd never even stepped inside an airport before today, let alone a business lounge. My excitement immediately overpowered my nervousness. I looked around the bustling terminal with renewed enthusiasm and grinned to myself. "I get to see a business lounge?" I whispered, sounding far more excited than any twenty-six-year-old probably should. Forget the anxiety. Forget the long flight. For the next few minutes, I was about to experience something I'd only ever watched on YouTube. Tightening my grip on my three suitcases, I eagerly followed the overhead signs, trying—and failing—to walk with dignity when my inner child was already celebrating.
I confidently marched toward the overhead sign that read Business Lounge, pulling my three suitcases behind me with all the determination of someone who absolutely knew where she was going.
Five minutes later, I was completely, hopelessly lost.
"...This can't be right."
I stopped in the middle of the terminal and slowly turned in a circle. There were restaurants. Duty-free shops. Perfume stores. A bookstore that immediately tempted me to abandon my mission altogether. But there was no business lounge.
"Excuse me," I asked a passing airport employee, trying to sound like someone who definitely hadn't already walked past the same coffee shop three times. "Could you tell me where the business lounge is?"
The woman smiled politely.
"Take the escalator to the second floor, turn left, then continue straight until you see the glass elevators. It's beside Gate 18."
"...Thank you."
I smiled confidently, thanked her, and walked away.
About thirty seconds later, I quietly pulled out my phone and opened the airport map.
"...Second floor... left... Gate 18..." I muttered to myself. "Why do airports have more directions than treasure hunts?"
And what felt like an iternety of wrong turns, I finally went into the right direction and the hallway became quieter with every step I took. The bustling noise of the terminal gradually faded behind me, replaced by soft instrumental music that sounded expensive enough to have its own accountant. Even the carpet felt luxurious beneath my sneakers. Who put carpet in an airport? Rich people, apparently. The walls were decorated with modern artwork that I was ninety percent certain nobody actually understood, and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked rows of gleaming airplanes waiting on the runway. Travelers strolled past carrying sleek leather briefcases instead of backpacks stuffed with emergency snacks and portable chargers. Everyone walked with the effortless confidence of people who had probably memorized airport layouts as a hobby. Meanwhile, I was dragging three oversized suitcases behind me like I was relocating my entire apartment to another continent. The smallest suitcase suddenly veered left and bumped gently into a decorative plant. "Focus," I whispered, tugging it back toward me. "We're trying to look sophisticated." The plant, thankfully, chose not to hold a grudge.
Then I saw it.
Business Lounge.
I stopped so abruptly that the suitcase behind me gently rolled into the back of my legs.
"...Oh."
The elegant frosted glass doors stood proudly beneath polished silver lettering, and through the glass I could already see the inside. Plush leather armchairs faced the runway. People sat comfortably reading newspapers that weren't even folded awkwardly. Some worked quietly on laptops while sipping coffee from real porcelain mugs instead of paper cups. A waiter glided past carrying a tray of tiny cakes that looked too beautiful to eat. My eyes drifted farther inside.
"...There's a buffet."
Not a snack shelf.
Not a lonely vending machine selling suspicious-looking sandwiches.
An honest-to-goodness buffet.
My mouth slowly fell open.
"...Is... is that a dessert station?"
My gaze darted from one gleaming counter to another.
"...Wait..."
There was another one.
"...That's cheese."
Another.
"...Fresh fruit."
Another.
"...Are those mini cheesecakes?"
I stood frozen outside the entrance, shamelessly staring through the glass like an eight-year-old pressing her face against a bakery window. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I vaguely remembered Grayson waiting for me. Unfortunately, the dessert station had temporarily become the main character.
"I've made terrible financial decisions," I whispered dramatically. "I should've become rich years ago."
Then reality arrived with impeccable timing.
I looked down at myself.
White sneakers.
Blue jeans.
A cream-colored sweater.
A backpack bulging suspiciously because I'd packed enough snacks to survive an apocalypse.
Three overstuffed suitcases.
One of them proudly displaying a bright pink luggage tag featuring a cartoon llama wearing sunglasses.
I slowly looked back through the glass.
Every single person inside looked like they either owned a multinational corporation or casually flew business class every other Tuesday. Men in tailored suits quietly discussed spreadsheets. Women in elegant coats calmly sipped cappuccinos while reading international newspapers. Nobody appeared to be arguing with their luggage. Nobody had cartoon llamas hanging from their suitcases.
I looked back at my llama.
"...Listen," I whispered sternly, "you're unemployed for the next ten minutes."
The llama continued smiling.
"I appreciate your confidence."
Taking one deep breath, I straightened my shoulders.
"You belong here," I told myself.
Another pause.
"...Technically."
I confidently grabbed all three suitcases, pushed open the elegant glass door...
...and immediately discovered that confidence and physics were not close friends.
The largest suitcase sailed through perfectly.
The second followed obediently.
The third, however, chose violence.
Its wheel caught on the metal edge of the doorway with a spectacular THUNK loud enough to echo through the beautifully peaceful lounge.
Every conversation stopped.
Every head turned.
Even the waiter carrying tiny desserts paused mid-step.
I remained perfectly still, one hand gripping the offending suitcase as if pretending none of this had happened would somehow erase it from everyone's memory.
After a painfully long three seconds, I leaned down toward the suitcase and muttered through a smile that definitely looked more like a grimace,
"...We talked about making a good first impression."
The suitcase, clearly committed to embarrassing me internationally, remained completely unapologetic then I heard a familiar laugh and of course Grayson had apparently witnessed... all of it.