“Mine isn’t working, either,” my seatmate interjects, and I jump at the unexpected sound of her voice because she was fast asleep with her jaw slack not ten seconds ago.
Bianca’s brow creases again. “Let me go check something up front,” she says, and disappears behind the curtain.
I don’t bother to try to stop my leg from bouncing as we wait for her to return, but I do manage to rack up six more failed attempts to connect to the internet by the time she comes back.
She crouches down next to our aisle to speak with us eye to eye. “I am so sorry, but it appears that our Wi-Fi is not currently working.” I can barely make out the next sentence over the roaring in my ears that rivals the plane’s engines, and have to rely on lip reading as she asks, “Can I bring you both a complimentary set of headphones so that you can watch movies until we can get it back up and running?”
Chapter eleven
PANIC MODE
Accordingtomyresearchin preparation for this exact scenario, the number one reason for a flight to be diverted is severe weather.
The second, medical emergencies.
I pop two more anti-nausea pills into my mouth since I apparently already burned through the first dose, then unbuckle my seatbelt and stumble forward, making sure to bump into Bianca on my way up the aisle.
It’s time to put into motion my plan to fake a medical emergency so that the plane is forced to land, and I can be back in contact with my family before something terrible happens to them.
The look on Bianca’s face as I pass by lets me know that I might just have what it takes to pull this off, even though my only acting experience was as turkey number three in my elementary school Thanksgiving pageant.
It didn’t hurt that my legs were actually wobbly upon standing, and are still a bit unsteady, even now—probably a combination of the anxiety and alcohol. I make a show of locking and unlocking the bathroom door a few times, then lean against the wall to steady myself as I pull my phone out of my pocket to review the bullet points for sudden onset illnesses.
Being a woman in my late twenties, a stroke is more realistic than a heart attack, although my chest is pumping so hard that I might not even need to act if we don’t land soon.
The bathroom tilts, and I throw my arms out to steady myself. A glance in the mirror reflects my flushed cheeks and neck. Good. It all helps to paint the picture that I am not feeling well. I dab a bit of water from the sink on my forehead to really sell it and clutch my head before stepping back out.
Bianca races to catch me as I lunge forward out of the bathroom and manages to bear all my weight when I struggle to get back upright.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” she asks in a low but panicked voice. The first-class bathroom is at the front of the plane, so the entire cabin is likely able to see my performance right now. Scott and Gabe’s insistence on spending top dollar is working in my favor this time.
“I don’t feel right,” I say, which is the only true statement she will be hearing from me over the next few minutes.
“Let me help you get her back to her seat,” a familiar female voice says behind me, and adds a supportive hand across my back.
“I think we should see if there is a doctor on the plane, so that someone can check her out,” Bianca says to the stranger behind me.
“I am a doctor,” the woman says, and when I turn to see who the familiar voice belongs to, I come face to face with myseatmate, the one who insisted I have a screwdriver with her. “Bring her back, and I’ll check her vitals.”
The women hook my arms over their shoulders and guide me back to my seat. I slide in without a single measure of grace and slouch over into the aisle.
The cabin starts to spin as Bianca unlocks the overhead compartment, and I shut my eyes tightly to try and concentrate on what the next step in the plan is. Unfortunately, my brain is preoccupied with the realization that I mightactuallybe having a medical emergency right now, and it goes straight into panic mode.
“My name is Doctor Emily, and I am a vascular neurologist. What’s your name?” my seatmate asks.
The irony of it momentarily pulls me out of my spiral, and I laugh out loud. Sitting next to a neurologist would be the best-casescenario for someone who was actually having a stroke. But for me, trying to fake one, just about the worst.
“Just call me Bad-Luck Drew,” I say, rolling my head to the other side so that I am no longer hanging in the aisle. “My family thinks I can be someone else, but they’re wrong. I will always be Bad-Luck Drew.”
The silence that follows prompts me to crack open one of my eyes, and I catch the end of a look of concern that passes between Dr. Emily and Bianca.
“Do you know where you are right now, Drew?” Doctor Emily asks.
“On a plane ride to break my curse at a book club in Charlotte. Although I should probably just—” The words die in my mouth and are replaced by an insistent, full-body yawn.
“Drew, do you give me permission to check your vitals?”
“Sure, but there’s no point. None of this is real. I am just acting. Well, at least I was, at first. Now I’m not so sure.”
