Her lashes flutter. She makes a small sound that hits me right between the legs, then blinks herself back. Confusion, focus. She straightens.
“Sorry,” she breathes, rubbing under one eye with the back of her knuckle. “How long?”
“Twenty,” I say. “Seat belt.”
She reaches for the buckle, still half somewhere else, and misses the clasp. I catch myself before I help and let the moment pass.She tries again, finds it, clicks in. The small satisfaction on her face makes me want to smile. I don’t.
“Do you want water?” I ask.
She nods. Scarily efficient, Alvarez walks by with two water bottles and sets them on the table before walking away to take her own seat. The plane shivers lightly as we descend.
Out the window, the clouds part in the night, and the lights of cities below slide into view. Though we can’t see them in the night, I imagine the neat roofs and roads of Bologna below.
Bianca drinks, caps the bottle, and looks at me over it. “Did I snore?”
“No.”
“Drool?”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “No.”
“Then I’ll call that a win.” She pulls the blanket off her lap, folds it once, then again, neat, and sets it aside.
We both look out the window in the dark as the plane continues its descent.
Outside, the wing tips a degree and we line up the runway. Gear thumps down. The cabin does that small pressure shift that makes your ears want to pop.
“You’ve done this a lot,” she says after a beat, eyes on the window.
“Enough.” I reach for my own bottle. “You?”
“Commercial,” she says. “Coach. With a screaming toddler and a man who thinks both armrests belong to him.”
“We don’t have him today.”
“Thank God,” she says softly.
I feel a surge of pride that I could save her from that, provide her with a better experience.
The wheels find concrete, and the brakes move quickly, slowing us down until we’re just cruising along the runway and to a gate.
“Welcome to Bologna,” a voice says over the speakers. “We’ll taxi for a few minutes, then get you on your way.”
Bianca lets her head tip against the cushion for one more second, then sits straighter and smooths her sweater. The mask slides back into place—professional, contained. I find myself disappointed at that.
“Okay,” she says, mostly to herself.
“Unfortunately, we do have to head through a terminal,” I tell her. “Quick passport check.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Of course.”
Everything moves quickly then. The plane comes to a stop, we get out, detour to a terminal, then we’re in the car and on our way.
Streetlights stripe the windshield as we slip off the perimeter road and onto city streets. Bologna at night passes us by. Active restaurants, bar hopping patrons, scooters parked nose-to-curb.
Bianca watches the glass turn her reflection into a faint ghost.
Half a minute in, she leans forward. “I didn’t give him my address,” she says, suddenly. “The driver. My apartment—he doesn’t know where—”
