Delay and Effect
The thing about grief, Millie had learned, was that it didn’t ask permission before it rearranged your entire life. Two years after losing her brother, she’d stopped fighting the waves and started riding them instead. Which was how she found herself, on a humid Atlanta afternoon in May 2023, sprawled across her childhood bed in her parents’ house, booking a girls’ trip to Ibiza while her mother’s wind chimes clanged chaotically on the back porch.
“So we’re doing this?” Gabriella’s voice crackled through the phone, that particular blend of Portuguese lilt and German efficiency that came from being Brazilian, studying in Sweden, now living in Munich and speaking six languages fluently.
“We’re doing this,” Millie confirmed, her laptop balanced on her knees, three browser tabs open comparing flight prices. This was classic Millie. Even in spontaneity, she needed the logistics locked down before she could relax. “Same group from Greece last summer?”
“Yes, but this time I need you to promise we’ll have some sober moments. Or at least relaxing moments. That boat in Greece was nice, but it was party non-stop.”
Millie laughed, and it felt good, felt like the old her. The bleached-blonde life of the party who used to plan themed parties and knew every bouncer in Manhattan by name. That Millie had dimmed considerably since the accident. This Millie had mousy brown hair that wouldn’t grow past her shoulders, twenty pounds she couldn’t seem to lose no matter what she did, and a tendency to leave parties early with a tightness in her chest that felt like drowning on dry land.
But travel was different. Travel was movement, forward momentum, a way to outrun the sadness that lived in her bones.
“Okay, so I’m looking at flights,” Millie said, scrolling. “Delta has me connecting through Amsterdam for Ibiza.”
“Amsterdam!” Sofia practically squealed. “I love Amsterdam.”
“I’ve never been.” Millie paused, an idea forming. The walls of her parents’ house had been closing in on her for weeks. The wind chimes on the back porch, her mother’s passive-aggressive comments about her weight, her father’s rigid rules. She needed out. “Wait. What if I just... went early? Like, arrive a week before? Explore the city for a bit before we all meet up in Ibiza?”
“I’m coming with you,” Sofia said immediately.
“Really?”
“Yes, but I also want to explore another city. Maybe Den Haag? We could split the time.”
Millie felt something loosen in her chest. More days away from the depression of her parents' house. More days of forward momentum. “That sounds even better, actually. I desperately need to get out of Atlanta”
“Say no more. I’ll book my flight to Amsterdam, we’ll do the weekend, maybe a few days in Den Haag, then we fly to Ibiza together the following Thursday.”
This was why Millie loved Sofia. No hemming and hawing, no “let me think about it.” Just immediate, enthusiastic yes. Life was short. Millie knew that better than most, and she’d stopped having patience for people who needed to be convinced to live it.
“Done,” Millie said. “I’ll book the Airbnb.”
“And I’ll get us a reservation at Gertrude for the night we arrive. It’s this amazing place, you’ll love it. Very Amsterdam. All natural wine and small plates and beautiful people.”
Millie was already pulling up Airbnb, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She needed to know where they’d be staying, what time they’d eat dinner, how long it would take to get from the airport to the apartment. Only then could she actually enjoy any of it. Her therapist called it “anxiety management.” Her friends called it “Millie being Millie.”
“What time should I make the reservation?” Sofia asked.
“Eight? That gives me time to get through customs, get to the Airbnb, shower, have a minor panic attack about what to wear, then wear the first outfit I tried on anyway.”
Sofia laughed. “You’re so predictable.”
“I contain multitudes of predictability.”
The flight from Atlanta left on time, which felt like a small miracle. Millie settled into her window seat, pulled out her neck pillow, and then immediately put it away. She had a strategy: stay awake the entire flight, arrive exhausted, force herself to stay up until a reasonable bedtime, and outsmart jet lag entirely. It was always foolproof.
She watched three movies back-to-back, read forty pages of her book, did a face mask in the tiny bathroom that made the woman waiting outside give her a concerned look. By hour six, her eyes felt like sandpaper. By hour seven, she was having that out-of-body experience where you’re so tired that everything feels slightly unreal, like you’re watching yourself from a distance.
Then the captain came on. “Folks, we’re experiencing some headwinds over the Atlantic. We’re going to be about thirty minutes behind schedule.”
Millie texted Sofia: My flight’s running late. 30 min delay.
Sofia: Mine too! Just got delayed an hour. Munich is a mess today.
An hour later, the captain again: “Unfortunately, those headwinds are stronger than anticipated. We’re now looking at about an hour delay total.”
Millie: Make that an hour for me too. Can you push our reservation to 8:30?
Sofia: Done. But also...my flight just got delayed AGAIN. Now it’s 90 minutes late.
Millie: Jesus. Okay, 9?
Sofia: Let me try.
By the time they finally descended into Amsterdam, Millie had been awake for twenty-two hours straight. The Dutch countryside spread below like a patchwork quilt, impossibly green and geometric. It was beautiful. She was too exhausted to properly appreciate it.
She made it through customs in a fugue state, collected her bag, and took a taxi to the Airbnb. The apartment was on the outskirts of the city center, a third-floor walk-up with steep Dutch stairs that felt designed to kill tourists. She dragged her suitcase up the narrow stairwell, her shoulders aching, her brain fuzzy with exhaustion.
The apartment was cute in that specifically European way—tiny kitchen, enormous windows, furniture that looked like it came from a very hip flea market. Millie dropped her bag and immediately headed for the shower. The water pressure was surprisingly good. She stood under the hot spray for fifteen minutes, letting it wake her up slightly, wash away the airplane feeling.
Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
Sofia: Another delay. Landing around 9 now.
Millie: Shit. I'll call the restaurant.
Millie wrapped herself in a towel and called Gertrude. The woman who answered had that particular European brand of politeness that was really just barely concealed irritation.
“I’m so sorry,” Millie said, “but is there any way we could push our reservation to 9:30?”
A long pause. “We close the kitchen at 10.”
“Right. My friend is landing at 9, so she could probably make it by—”
“I’m sorry, but we cannot guarantee service if you arrive after 9:30. I can put you on the waitlist for tomorrow night.”
“That would be amazing, thank you so much.”
She hung up and texted Sofia: We’re fucked for dinner.
Sofia: Damn. Okay. We’ll figure it out. Amsterdam has food everywhere.
Millie stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, hair dripping, eyes bloodshot from staying awake. She looked like hell. She felt like hell. Her hair was limp and lifeless where it used to have body, the volume just gone. She wasn’t getting trims anymore because what was the point when it wouldn’t grow past her shoulders anyway—stuck at the same length since the accident like it had given up trying. What used to be fun kinky beach waves that made her feel like she’d just walked off a California beach were now like limp noodles trying to curl but too weak to commit. Even her hair had learned to stay small, to take up less space, to stop reaching for anything. But she was here, and she was going to make it to a reasonable bedtime, and tomorrow she’d wake up on Amsterdam time like a genius.
She’d just finished in the bathroom when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Sofia’s distinctive rhythm, quick and light.
“MILLIE!”
They hugged in the doorway, that specific kind of hug between women who’ve traveled together, who’ve seen each other cry, who’ve held each other’s hair back and shared sunscreen and navigated foreign cities as a team.
Sofia looked exactly like herself. Straight dark hair, olive skin dotted with freckles, wearing linen pants and cashmere in that old lady chic way she’d perfected, like she’d just stepped out of a magazine about women who summer in Sylt.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a bicycle,” Sofia announced, dropping her bag.
“Do you want to shower first or...”
“No. Food. Now. I’m going to die.”
It was nearly 10 PM, and they were both running on fumes and airplane peanuts and the specific delirium that comes from crossing time zones. They walked out into the Amsterdam night, and Millie felt that familiar flutter in her chest. The one that came with new cities, new possibilities, the sense that anything could happen.
