The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison Read Free Book Online

that maybe, just maybe, things really do happen for a reason. Ten minutes later, the symbol of Jeff’s undying love was on eBay.
    Two weeks later, I am strapped into an American Airlines jet, sharing my story with a kind Argentine woman. I have no fiancé, no job, no permanent mailing address, and, for reasons that are becoming less and less clear as the lights of Seattle become farther and farther away through the oval window on my left, I am headed to South America.
    South America. As in not North. As in don’t drink the tap water. As in you can’t trust the police. As in me rotting in a prison cell, denied food and tainted tap water because I tried to buy fake Fendi from some guy on the street. As in me lying dead in a ditch somewhere, for God knows what reason, my poor parents made to fly down to identify the body and missing a number of favorite televised programs to do so. As in one step away from falling off the edge of the earth.
    How did my so-called friends and loving family let me go through with this? Okay, my mother didn’t so much let me as choose to believe that I wouldn’t go right up until I passed the security point. I could still hear her yelling at my poor stepdad for letting me go when the red-faced customs agent with a chunk of broccoli protruding between two front teeth looked at my ticket and snorted, “Have fun getting kidnapped.” As if anything anyone could say would terrify me more than I already was.
    “I don’t speak a word of Spanish,” I tell my sedated seatmate. She nods and smiles sympathetically. “I freckle easily.” She tsks compassionately. “I think I might be coming down with something.”
    She puts her hand on mine, and I ease up on the armrest. She digs in her purse and retrieves the bottle of small purple pills. “Take one,” she whispers. “It will make the flying more easy.” I’ve never before taken so much as an M&M from a stranger, but then I’ve never been en route to Buenos Aires before either. And easy anything sounds really good right about now. I shrug, pop one in my mouth, and take a swig of bottled water.
    “You will love Buenos Aires,” she says with a dreamy purr. “The city is magic. You will see. This trip will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
    I can’t help but cringe a little when I hear these words. “Right,” I say. “I’m thinking of having that put on a T-shirt.”
    She gives me the look of confusion and mild amusement again, well deserved this time. “This is a joke?”
    “Yeah. A joke.” And it’s on me.
    But before I can wade any deeper into my self-pity, a velvety Valiumness takes over and ushers me tenderly toward the edge of sleep. I am so tired. The plane takes off, and I feel my body sinking into the scratchy blue fabric of my upright seat. I don’t look out the window, can’t stand to see home getting smaller and smaller. I close my eyes.
    I wake sometime later as the meal cart creaks by, reminding me where I am. I shake a fuzzy head at the stewardess. I’m not hungry, though I probably should be. Food won’t fill this hole. I am already homesick. For a blurry moment, I am Judy Garland, and when I lift the thin airline blanket covering my legs, I see red sequined shoes. I try to tap my heels together, but my feet are so heavy, like concrete blocks attached to steel rebar. When I wake again, groggy and dry-mouthed, I am startled to find myself on a dark, sleeping airplane. The buzz of air-conditioning mixes with snores. I check my watch. About ten more hours to go—ten hours and six months. I stare out the window and see nothing but black.

CHAPTER THREE
    W e touch down on the tarmac with a light bump, and my stomach lurches. I open my eyes and turn as slowly as possible to the window on my left. American Airlines jets. Luggage trucks. Small men in reflective vests. It could easily be Sea-Tac or LAX or JFK. Then, in the distance, I spot what looks suspiciously like a donkey pulling a cart. Yep, that’s a