"Gianna, get us a cab, will you?" I'm stiff, my entire body tender from the eleven hours in fucking hell by the time we're at JFK airport.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I don't really like her tone, but considering I'm jet-lagged for days, sober as fuck and we just got pat down like criminals at border patrol, I'm going to let it slide. It's not a good day for either of us.

I stare at her until she gives me the bitch brow.

"Your luggage?" Gianna points at the luggage claim signs overhead.

"Right." I follow her, my head sluggish, skin dry from the airplane air. I resist the temptation to power on my phone right away. God knows what kind of messages I'll have by now. I'd rather postpone this entire thing until I actually know what's going on instead of reading speculation after speculation.

"So, you see it and grab it? Is that what I'm supposed to do?" I ask, attempting to get rid of the permanent scowl I've had on my face since we left France.

"Or stay on the conveyer belt for all I care. I'm going home, sir." Gianna swings a duffel over her shoulder after she grabbed her obnoxious, yellow suitcase.

"I don't remember dismissing you, Gianna." I put on my sternest expression but it fails to work right now.

"Yeah, you didn't. But I quit. I fucking quit."

"How am I supposed to get home, then?" I shout after her as she struts away in her high heels.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're Edward Cullen after all."

Her words reverberate in my brain as she leaves me all by myself in this crowded as fuck airport. I watch my suitcase float off the conveyer belt and hurry to get it, huffing as I see the scuffs on it.

"Great."

I follow the signs to the exit and find myself able to choose from an entire line of taxi cars. Out of habit, I pay my pockets only to realize I gave my cash to Gianna on that godforsaken plane.

Fuck.

I take my phone and power it up anyway, only to find out I have text messages from people formerly known as my friends but nothing from my parents.

There's some change in the pocket of my trousers, and a few fifties I seem to have overlooked.

Score.

Christ. I feel like poverty central.