The gate area iscrammed with early morning travelers, but we manage to snag a cluster of seats near the window. Mom's already pulled out her knitting; some kind of infinity scarf she swears will be done by the wedding, while Dad stands with his nose pressed against the glass, monitoring takeoffs like he's personally responsible for aviation safety.
My cold brew only feeds the jittery buzz crawling beneath my skin, but I needed something to get through this morning. Ivy sits cross-legged in the seat next to me, sipping her chai latte, while Mom talks about the wedding flowers she helped pick out. Which somehow turns into a conversation about the meaning of different blooms.
"NOW BOARDING GROUP THREE."
"That's not us," I say for the fifth time. "We're group five."
Dad's already half-standing, passport clutched like it might sprout wings and escape. "We should line up."
"They haven't even called group four."
"Do you want to miss the flight?"
Mom rolls her eyes.
Ivy's been doodling in her little notebook, probably manifesting our safe arrival or whatever. Must be nice, having that much blind faith in the universe. Me? I trust math and metal, and right now both are saying we're about to hurtle through the sky in a tin can.
My leg won't stop bouncing. Every time a plane takes off, the windows rattle, and pressure builds in my gut, tight and twitchy, just short of nausea. I crack my knuckles. Then my neck. Then start on my fingers again.
"You okay?" Ivy glances up, catching me mid-anxiety spiral. "You look a little pale."
"Fine." I wipe my palms on my jeans.God, when did it get so hot in here? "Totally fine."
"Wait." Her notebook snaps shut. "In ten years of friendship, how did I not know you're scared of flying?"
"I'm not—" Another plane roars past, making me flinch. "I just think humans weren't meant to be catapulted through the air in metal death traps at five hundred miles per hour. Like, what's wrong with driving? Or trains? Or just not going places?"
She presses her lips together, failing miserably at hiding the amusement. "The guy who once jumped off Old Gillmore's Bridge is afraid of planes?"
"That was different. I could see the bottom."
"NOW BOARDING GROUP FOUR."
Dad practically levitates. "We should go."
"For fucks sake, for the last time—"
But he's already barreling to the gate. Mom trails behind with an apologetic smile, her half-finished scarf hanging from her knitting needles. Ivy leans closer, her shoulder brushing mine.
"Want to play a game?"
"Does it involve some weird meditation or breathing technique?"
She rolls her eyes. "Rate people's airport outfits. Out of ten. Go."
"What?"
"That guy." She nods toward a businessman in slides and dress socks. "Rate him."
Despite myself, I snort. "Negative three. He should be arrested."
"Lady in the full tracksuit and heels?"
"Two. But respect for the commitment."
We're still playing when we finally board—group five, despite Dad's best efforts to convince the gate agent we're actually group four. The flight attendant's wide smile and "welcome aboard" does nothing to ease the way my stomach drops at the sight of the narrow aisle. I count the rows as we shuffle forward.
12 . . . 13 . . .14 . . .
