I look down at my knee and sure enough, it is bouncing up and down on its own accord.
“So two screwdrivers . . .” Bianca repeats.
“I’m fine with my water for now,” I say, holding up my mini bottle and forcing my leg to still.
My seatmate leans forward, speaking in a stage whisper. “Trust me, a drink right at takeoff and a second drink when they bring around the food is key. The orange juice makes it count as breakfast, too, in my opinion . . .”
I shake my head. “I’m allergic to citrus, so Iliterallycan’t have a screwdriver.”
“Should I alert the cabin about your allergy, miss?” Bianca asks, becoming impatient with our back and forth.
“No. It’s not anaphylactic. I just get a rash if I come in contact with any citrus, and it really upsets my stomach if I ingest it. As long as she doesn’t spill her drink all over me, I’ll be completely fine,” I say, trying to keep low maintenance Cool Drew at the forefront. “Like I said, I am fine with just water . . .” I trail off when I realize that neither of them is listening to me, and I follow their line of sight back down to my knee, which is bouncing again.
I sigh. “I’ll take a vodka soda.”
“No lime?” Bianca asks.
“No lime,” I confirm.
My seatmate gives an approving nod as Bianca moves to take orders from the passengers in the row behind us. I avoid eye contact and reach for my phone to update the group chat that I am settled in my seat.
Scott:About to go into a meeting, but I’ll check texts when I get out. Love you, Sis.
Gabe:I’m tracking your flight, and I confirmed your rental car in Charlotte. How is everything going so far?
Monika:Just made it back. Call the store if you need me. Short-staffed today.
I roll my eyes as I type out my response, thankful for the momentary distraction.
Me:Let me guess, Chad called out sick? All good so far. In my seat now.
Bianca returns with our drinks as I hit send on my text. “A screwdriver for you, and a vodka soda for you,” she says, handing us our drinks in glass cups. “And extra napkins, just in case.”
“Thank you.” I fumble awkwardly with my already full hands.
The woman next to me wastes no time and downs her screwdriver in under a minute. I take small sips of my vodka soda, willing it to calm my nerves, and concentrate on keeping my body still by recalling a few best-case scenarios that Monika planted in my mind on the drive over to pass the time until we are in the air.
My favorite, and most down-to-earth scenario, is one where I spot the iconic yellow spine of an old Nancy Drew book on our Charlotte bookstore tour with a handwritten note by the previous owner inside. I have always loved the look and smell of old books, and personalized notes from decades past are a special kind of magic.
The positive visualizations help but are not enough to fully take the edge off. I set my water on my lap to make room on the tiny armrest surface to set my cocktail, then reach under the seat in front of me for my purse. Monika gave me an emergency kit with medicine for every ailment imaginable. I scan the tiny labels taped on top of the individual pill compartments for something to help with my nausea.
A bright yellow label claims to help with motion sickness, which is in the same ballpark. I open the compartment just as Bianca returns to collect our glasses. The motion sickness pills are tiny, and the note Monika wrote inside with a Sharpie just saystake 1-2, so I pop two of them into my mouth and wash them down with the rest of the vodka soda before handing it over. I keep my fingers crossed that they work quickly so that I do not need to ask Bianca to unbuckle herself during takeoff to give me an emesis bag.
As the flight crew starts closing the overhead compartments and pulls the cabin door shut, I cling to the words that Monika said before we left the car, that my bad luck is not cyclical, so what happened the last time I got on a plane will most likely not happen again. The chances of something happening to Scott, Gabe, or Monika in the twenty minutes between takeoff and cruising altitude when I can log into Wi-Fi are slim, as well. Plus, they have each other in case of emergency, so calling for help doesn’t rely solely on me.
Normally, I wouldn’t even allow myself to consider those odds, but I can’t deny that something shifted the night of my birthday when that flicker of hope made its presence known, and I’ve been focusing my sights on that tiny beacon ever since.
I am still being safe, of course, and there’s no telling what trouble might await me once I land in Charlotte. For now I am stepping into Epic Drew’s headspace and expecting an uneventful flight.
Twenty-five minutes and a routine takeoff later, we are cruising at thirty thousand feet, and my nausea has markedly reduced. The pilot comes on the speaker and informs us that he expects a smooth flight and that we can take off our seatbelts, but I keep mine on in case of any unexpected turbulence and open a browser to connect to the Wi-Fi. Three failed attemptslater, my palms start to sweat, and the nausea breaks through the temporary barrier that the pills offered.
“Excuse me, Bianca?” I say, failing to channelLow-Maintenance Drewas I wave down our flight attendant.
She stops talking mid-conversation with another passenger and hurries over. “Is everything okay, ma’am? Are you having an allergic reaction?”
“No, but it seems that I can’t connect to the Wi-Fi.”
The crease on her forehead relaxes. “Would you like to hand me your phone, and I can try to get you connected?”
