But, God, I felt so emotional, so overly sensitive, so over everything and everyone.
I put my sunglasses on and curled my arms in as tightly as possible.
I focused on my breath, on keeping my eyes squeezed shut, because I was pretty sure if I opened them, the stupid, useless tears would start flowing. Then the infant and I would both be losing our shit.
“Excuse me, miss?” a friendly voice that could only belong to a flight attendant called. “Miss?” she tried again when I figured she might be speaking to the mom.
Steeling myself for an interaction I didn’t want, I pulled my sunglasses down.
“Yes?”
“Miss, we have a seat available for you in first class. If you would like to move, you can bring your things right this way.”
She moved back as she said it, like she knew there was no way someone in my seat would turn down a first-class seat.
She wasn’t wrong.
I typically didn’t spring for first class.
I made a very nice living. But I knew I wasn’t going to want to gamble professionally forever. So I tried not to spend lavishly if it didn’t make sense to. And first-class seats were almost always unnecessary.
I hadn’t even looked at them when I’d booked my seat.
But just this once, I was happy for an upgrade, for space, for the ability to stretch out.
I got to my feet, grabbed my bag from under my seat, then followed the flight attendant as the dad automatically set the toddler in my abandoned seat.
I was happy for them.
But more so, for me.
A complimentary upgrade was a rare and beautiful thing. Especially while having the worst day of your life.
The curtain parted, and there I was.
In a sea of pods.
The seats were only configured in sections of two on each side of the aisle with these rounded plastic pods that lent a certain sense of privacy, and so much space between that I had to assume that the seats laid back almost into beds.
Finally, something was working in my favor.
That is, until the flight attendant waved to my seat.
I turned.
And there he was.
“You can’t be fucking serious,” I snapped, loud enough for a couple of passengers to glance back, brows raised. “Okay. I refuse this upgrade.”
An upgrade that was clearly not complimentary. Harrison had arranged and paid for it. So I had to sit next to him.
“Layna,” Harrison said in that same slightly frustrated, but mostly reasonable voice. “Would you really rather suffer through that middle seat and crying for the next five and a half hours?”
My nerves felt fried just from twenty minutes of it.
“These seats lay back. You get a nice blanket, socks, earplugs, eye mask, moisturizer, lip balm…”
“Fine,” I grumbled.
