He’s scribbling something on a piece of paper cradled in his palm. “Try gummies next time. That’s what I do.” He winks, which usually makes me cringe, but for some reason doesn’t now. Maybe it’s his innocent grin? He hands me the scrap of paper before joining the passengers lined up like cattle in chutes.
It’s a Dazbog Coffee receipt. He had an iced white chocolate chai and a banana nut muffin for breakfast. Lola says you can’t trust anyone who chooses tea over coffee at a coffee shop. The message scrawled on the back reads:
Would love to talk more. I’ll save the seat next to me.
Maybe take a few selfies before we take off to level the playing field.
Devon
Blinking a few times, I read it again. He’s at the end of the line slowly advancing on the mouth of the beast, but his back is to me, so I assess. He’s the opposite of Chance—late-twenties, athletic build, dark unkempt hair beneath his baseball hat, comfortable clothes, casual stance.
I snap a quick photo of him and his note and text them to Lola.
About to board. The guy in the blue hat and gray sweatpants gave me this before he got in line. What do I do?!
Her reply is instantaneous.
Lola
Mama approves. Does he give off serial killer vibes?
I’ve seen all the documentaries and serial killers can be charming. It’s how they lure people in. He was charming when I talked to him, so maybe?
Lola
A plane is a safe space, too many witnesses. Carpe the fuck out of this diem and take the seat!
Which instantly makes me sweat. But it also makes me want to do something out of character, something that scares me. After all, doing scary stuff is pretty much my life for the next month.
The call for group B inches up the anxiety, and as I move through the line and panic converges, I do my best to channel Lola.Fuck it, you can do this. Sit next to him, I tell myself.
By the time I enter the death machine, my Xanax muddled mind has convinced me that I can, indeed, do this. Eyes scanning the endless rows of people in front of me, I spot him midway. That damn grin shining like a beacon.
The bossy corner of my mind has taken up a bullhorn like she’s at a protest rally and is commanding through gritted teeth,So help me, Sophie, sit the fuck down or else.
He’s cute. And young.Too young. What would we talk about for three hours? We probably don’t have anything in common. Which makes me think of Good Guy and how much I like him even though we’re just friends. And now I irrationally feel like I’m cheating on him because I think I’m flirting with this stranger. God, I’m so bad at this.
He’s still smiling as he stands to move into the middle seat so I can take the aisle seat. He’s too big for the middle seat. He’ll be cramped and uncomfortable. Which spirals into verbalizing the next excuse, because I read about it last night. “I don’t want you to get blood clots in your legs.” When he looks confused, as he should, I continue, “I’m sorry.”
I keep walking. All the way to the last row. Where I stow my backpack in the overhead, tuck my camera bag under the seat in front of me, sit down, rest my head against the window, and promptly fall asleep as the adrenaline spike descends into a shame coma.
I’m never taking Lola’s drugs again.
I mean it this time.
Hours later,the jarring impact of wheels meeting tarmac jostles me awake. I wait until we’ve taxied to the gate and the flight attendant welcomes us to Atlanta, before taking my phone out of my camera bag and turning airplane mode off. My phone chimes repeatedly. And loudly. The volume must be turned all the way up. There are multiple texts and a voicemail from Lola. I open the voicemail first, tap the play icon, and fumble the phone.
It lands somewhere under my seat, out of reach, speaker on, as Lola’s voice resonates loud and clear. “Well, what happened? How’d the airplane meet-cute with the serial killer go? Joining the mile high club is on my bucket list, and since I’ll probably never fly, please tell me you two shoehorned in the bathroom and some Cirque de Soleil-level, naked contortion took place.” She sighs dreamily.
“Please, make it stop,” I whisper. The seating area is compact, and appendages aren’t built to bend the way I need them to.
My fingers finally make contact with the phone as Lola says, “Hope you’re not dead. Love you.”
Head between my knees, I mutter, “Dead doesn’t sound so bad right about now.”
The gray-haired woman next to me is stowing her e-reader in her bag and unsuccessfully hiding a smile when I sit up. She leans close and whispers, “It’s on my bucket list too. Not the serial killer, the mile high club.”
I laugh, because I can’t do anything else, and apologize. “I’m sorry. That was my sister. She’s…”
