Our row is 23. That's . . . that's a lot of rows to get past if something goes wrong. The overhead bins seem too small to hold all these bags. Are they supposed to bend like that?
"Window or aisle?" Ivy asks when we reach our row, ignoring how I've nearly torn my boarding pass in half.
"Take the window." I swallow thickly, noting how the wing flexes through the narrow pane of glass.
"You sure? I don't mind—"
"Definitely sure." I focus on stuffing my bag under the seat, purposely not looking at the safety card with its cheerful drawings of water landings.
The flight attendant's voice crackles over the intercom, asking us to fasten our seatbelts and put our tray tables up.
I fumble with the metal clasp, clicking it three times to make sure it's secure as the flight attendants start their safety demonstration, pointing at exits that seem impossibly far away. A woman with a sweet smile holds up an oxygen mask, demonstrating how to "place it over your nose and mouth, and breathe normally". As if anyone breathesnormallywhen oxygen masks drop from the ceiling.
"You good?" Ivy asks.
"Peachy," I mutter, watching as they pantomime inflating the life vest. Because drowning is totally what I want to think about right now.
The wheels lurch into motion and—fuck. My hands lock onto the armrests like they're personally responsible for keeping this tin can airborne. The engines rev up, and some kid starts wailing, which feels appropriate because same, buddy. Same.
Then Ivy's hand slides into mine.
"Guy in 21C," she whispers, like we're not about to die. "Hawaiian shirt. Combat boots. Discuss."
"I—" The plane lurches forward, but she squeezes my hand.
"Four," she decides for me. "But only because the shirt has flamingos."
She keeps going, riffing on airport fashion disasters until we're airborne, and I realize I'm still death-gripping her hand.
I let go. "Sorry, I—"
"Want to watch a movie?" She's already pulling out her iPad like I didn't just try to break her fingers. "I downloaded a few options for the flight."
"Please tell me it's not one of your weird horror movies. I don't think I can handle possessed nuns while we're thirty thousand feet in the air."
She grins. "Actually, I got your favorite."
"If you sayHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—"
"The very same." She waggles her eyebrows. "Relax, your Matthew McConaughey obsession is safe with me."
"I do not . . ." I stop at her pointed look. "It's a good movie, okay?"
"Sure, sure." She hands me an earbud. "Your secret's safe with me."
The hour and forty minutes to Dulles passes faster with Kate Hudson's terrible journalism ethics to distractme. Ivy doesn't mention how I grip her armrest during every bit of turbulence, just keeps quoting along with the movie like we're on her couch.
The landing is smooth, which doesn't stop me from leaving finger-shaped dents in the plastic. Ivy pretends not to notice, just keeps debating whether the love fern deserved better.
The wheels haven't even touched down when Dad's seatbelt clicks open. He's already standing before the plane stops moving, yanking his carry-on from the overhead bin while the seatbelt sign is still lit. Honestly, I'm shocked he's not one of those people who clap when we land.
"Sir, please remain seated," the flight attendant calls from the front, but he's already got his jacket on, huffing impatiently across the aisle from us.
The sweet elderly lady next to me, who spent the whole flight giving Ivy and me these soft looks, starts gathering her things. I stand to help her with her bag from the overhead bin.
"Oh, thank you, dear." She beams at Ivy. "Your boyfriend is so thoughtful."
Ivy's cheeks flush pink, but before she can correct the woman, I throw her a wink. "She only keeps me around for the heavy lifting."
