She drinks the second cup almost as quickly. When she catches me staring, she shrugs nonchalantly, the first time I’ve seen her calm so far. In an effort to distract her, I ask, “Why are you going to Italy?”
“Study abroad.”
“That’ll be fun.” I figure if I can keep her mind off her fears until her drinks set in, then it’ll be smooth flying from here.
“Mm-hmm,” she mutters. Her skin is starting to grow pale and I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the altitude. I catch the eye of the flight attendant and gesture to my sickly seatmate. The attendant nods and makes her way over.
“Are you alright?” I ask her. “You look a little?—”
But I don’t get to finish my question because at that exact moment she projectile vomits all over me.
Chapter 17
I’m sitting in absolute shock, covered in someone else’s vomit, trapped in my window seat, cursing Reid and his bad airline luck that has now somehow transferred to me. Then it dawns on me that I amcovered in vomitand all my clothes are in my checked luggage in the bowels of this plane.
I mutter to myself, using a flimsy napkin to try and wipe off the seatbelt buckle so I can get out. It disintegrates in my fingers and I fight the urge to gag. Unsuccessfully, but I’m doing my best.
“I am so sorry,” the girl says.
I wave her off despite my eyes watering. “Accidents happen.” And they do. It’s fine. Disgusting, but fine. I finally get my belt unbuckled and gesture to her. “Do you mind if I get up?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
The man next to her has been out of his seat and standing in the aisle since she turned to face me. He backs up several steps as she gets out as if he’s afraid she’ll turn and yak all over him too. The girl slides out just as the flight attendant finally approaches, rolls of paper towels inher hands to help clean the mess.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl apologizes again, this time to the flight attendant.
“Happens all the time,” she says. But I feel like the pulled grin on her face is too polite. I get the feeling this is a tragic rarity she didn’t want to ever have to add to her resume. “We’ll get this all cleaned up and figured out. There’s a bathroom that way,” she reminds the girl, giving a pointed look at her own dirtied clothes, “and you,” she points at me with the towels, “can use the one up in first class.”
I look down at my ruined clothes, realizing I’ll have to walk throughfirst classlooking and smelling like a frat house floor. I chew on my lip as I stare up at the section, then turn to the woman. “I don’t suppose you have spare clothes on this flight for situations like this.”
“That’s what your carry-on is for,” she deadpans.
“No replacement clothes in there, unfortunately. They’re all in my checked bag.”
“Sorry,” she says, moving past me to start spraying the seats with a disinfectant spray. She clearly has bigger fish to fry, so I accept my smelly fate and slink off through first class.
It only hits me after I’ve opened the curtain that Reid is sitting here. I’ll have to walk past Reid in this state.
I could cry.
His eyes find me almost immediately, widening as he takes in the sight of me. I just walk faster, zeroed in on the salvation of a teeny tiny airplane bathroom. I quickly shut the door behind me and survey the damage in the mirror.
Now that I’m locked in a small space, the reality hits me and I’m gagging as I try to get the shirt off without getting it on my face or in my hair. I honestly wish I had a scissors to just cut it off at this point, but we’ll just work with what we’ve got here. Once I have it off, I toss it in thesink and douse it with hand soap.
I have no idea what else to do. I don’t have any other clothes. My only shirt is soaking wet in a bathroom sink as I stand in my bra and leggings, which, upon further inspection, are also carnage now. I sigh in defeat, pulling the leggings down my legs and tossing them in the tiny sink too. I aggressively scrub soap up and down my arms and legs as I contemplate my next move.
What am I going to do? I can’t walk out of here in my underwear. Maybe I can crack open the door and at least get a blanket or something from the flight attendant. Maybe they have a spare uniform I can cram into.
I’m rinsing the third round of soap off my forearms when a knock sounds at the door.
“Occupied,” I call.
“It’s me.”
I freeze at the voice.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
