My phone buzzes in my hand, and I unlock it to see that Kyla has sent me a voice note. I press play and hold the phone up to my ear.
“CHLOE! I forgot to tell you HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” she shouts, the volume of her voice edging into static through the speaker. I can picture her mouth pressed up close to the microphone and the corner of my mouth ticks up. “I hope you have thebestbirthday, even though you’re flying and I know you hate flying. And don’t think about how you’re turning thirty. I’ve heard that thirty is the new twenty, so enjoy! I love you so much, sissy!Mwah!”
I feel tears prick at my lash line, and I quickly blink them away.
I willnotcry in an airport.
An announcement echoes overhead, informing me that boarding is now starting at my gate. With a sigh, I head reluctantly toward the line forming at the boarding desk.
At least I have priority boarding, I remind myself.And I’ll have my book to keep me occupied.
Besides, knowing that the plane will have coffee gives me some hope.
It will be fine.
Everything is going to befine.
TWO
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
I’M LIKE A BIRD — NELLY FURTADO
Stifling a yawn,I glance over at the man to my left. His guttural snoring has been an unwelcome soundtrack for most of this flight. Every few moments his head will loll forward…then violently jerk back a second or two later. I have to pee, but I’m slightly concerned that if I wake him he’ll give himself whiplash.
While I’ve been trying (and failing) to concentrate on the enemies-to-lovers romance blooming deliciously within the pages of my novel, I’m fading—fast. My hope for at leastonecup of crappy airline coffee was dashed not even twenty minutes into the flight, when an apologetic flight attendant announced sheepishly to the cabin that there would be no coffee on the plane today.
Now all my tired, delusional brain can contemplate is just how close this man seems to snapping his head clean off his neck altogether with the force of its drooping and lolling.
And, more pressingly, how close I am to peeingmyself.
As his head sags forward for the hundredth time, I finally decide that nudging him awake is now a life-or-death matter. But before I must resort to physical contact I don’t want to make, he chokes out a gurgling snort from his slackened mouth and wakes with a jolt, blinking away the daze of sleep. It takes everything in me not to laugh when I catch him wincing and massaging his neck firmly with the heel of his palm.
Instead, I stand and politely edge past him and his neighbor, heading toward the back of the plane and the long bathroom line currently snaking down the aisle.
I come to stop at the end of the line and find myself sandwiched between two of the young families I saw earlier at the gate. A baby, cooing sweetly, rests on her mother’s shoulder, while the other mom is rubbing her sleepy toddler’s back as he watches a whimsical cartoon, featuring dogs wearing animal-print onesies, on an iPad.
I wish someone would rubmyback to help me sleep.
Alas, I am an adult. And alone.
I’m lost in thought about how cartoons have changed since I was a kid when a petite young woman who looks like she just got out of college twists around in line and catches sight of me. She does a double take as her big, brown doe eyes meet mine. A spark of recognition flits across her face, then she exclaims, “Oh, Iknowyou!”
I freeze, and I’m not quite sure what my face does next, but I have a feeling my expression contorts into a “who, me?” look of bewilderment.
“I, uh—” I stammer, feeling awkward. I’m nearly twice the size of this woman, my tall frame a near-comical contrast to her barely-five-foot self. She has straight black hair cropped into a neat, layered, chin-length bob that flicks out at the ends—very early 2000s Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. But the resemblance to the twins stops there. Her dark eyes slope up gently at the corners, rimmed with black eyeliner and framedby the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. A broad grin pulls at her full lips, lighting up her face with genuine warmth.
Without missing a beat, she takes my hand and shakes it eagerly. From someone so small, I expect a weak grip, but it’s surprisingly firm.
“Sora Harumoto,” she states, beaming as she squeezes my hand. I blink, uncertain of what this name is supposed to mean to me. Is it hers? Does she think it’smine?
Her face falls a bit when I don’t respond right away, and she backtracks.
“I’m a junior PA forLove at First Sail…we met last week on the Zoom call? We’re supposed to share a taxi when we land…”
It starts to click in my head. Production assistant. Taxi. Land. Right—the whole reason I’m here. I’m in an airplane, on my way to film a stupid reality TV show on a stupid cruise ship so I can pay my stupid rent.
How could I forget?
