My manager had recently proclaimed himself a “Noah and Macey shipper,” so this must have been his way of pushing his agenda. It was too late to walk it back now without making me and Macey look like frauds.
I rubbed a hand over my face but dropped it once I saw Macey get out of the car in front of me. How was I going to tell her that Opal Serenity thought she was my girlfriend, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it?
In my defense, I did try to tell her a few times.
First, as we went through security. But then I got dinged for an electronic in my pocket and had to be pulled aside.
Second, when we waited to board. Macey must have had a double shot of espresso before arriving because I could hardly get a word in before I gave up completely.
“I’ve never flown first class,” Macey commented as we boarded the aircraft.
I’d never heard of ArubaAir before, but through the plexiglass, the plane had seemed standard. Safe. Opal Serenity was a five-star resort; I was sure we’d travel there on a nice plane.
As we climbed over the rickety bridge into the aircraft, I realized how wrong I was.
First class, as it turned out, was no different than the rest of the aircraft. The only difference was a curtain that separated a handful of seats from the others. A general feeling of neglect emerged from each part of the plane: outdated, uncomfortable-looking seats, and stale air.
The line moved slowly as the people ahead of us stopped to shove their oversized carry-ons into the small overhead compartments.
“You should have checked this,” I scolded a middle-aged man with a suitcase that hardly fit in the compartment. Between the two of us, we were able to jam it in.
Macey and I settled into our seats, then she was the one scolding me. “Not everyone has the extra cash to afford to check in luggage, Noah. He’s not flying first class.”
“Then he should have packed less.”
The plane was so tiny that there were only two seats on each side of the aisle. Our seats were so close together, our arms constantly brushed. I scooted closer to the window to try to gain some distance. Said window was scratched and smudged, reducing visibility.
Macey clicked her seat belt closed and sighed. “I bet you’re the guy who leans his seat all the way back.”
“I pay good money for plane seats,” I defended. “Hell yes, I lean them back.” There was no other way to get comfortable.
“Technically, you didn’t pay any money for these seats.”
“Neither did you.”
She nodded solemnly. “Exactly. And that is why we will not be leaning our seats back.”
We’d see about that.
I flagged down the nearest flight attendant, a woman with a bun at the top of her head. “Excuse me, could I get a coffee?”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, we don’t serve coffee on this flight.”
“A beer, then.”
“We don’t serve alcohol on this flight, either.”
I rubbed my temples and tried to ignore the inner urge to bang my head on the seat in front of me. “Water?”
The flight attendant nodded. “That we have.”
As she walked down the aisle, Macey giggled, which also brought me closer to that urge. “What?” I snapped.
“You’re such a diva.”
“I’m a diva for asking for a drink?”
Macey rolled her eyes and focused on the backpack in her lap. “No, you’re a diva for not waiting until they come around with the drink cart to ask.”
