Coach Marshall gives me an unconvinced look, but nods. “You just let me know.”
Falkenberg is sitting in the first row of seats, looking casual in his usual black joggers, this time paired with a black knit sweater. A large pair of headphones covers his ears. He looks clean, a few strands of dirty blond hair curving elegantly away from his part. His icy gaze briefly lifts to me as I board, probably drawn by my staring. He frowns. My eyes linger on him for an extra second before I tear my attention away, making my way to the back of the jet.
It feels like a death. My work isn’t good enough.
I’m not good enough.
Two years on my own, and I have nothing to show for myself. I’m just daddy’s little girl, working the job he made for me, right under his thumb.
The pilot makes some barely discernible call over the intercom, but I turn on my noise-canceling headphones and shut out the world. The jet door closes and a nauseating feeling takes over. It’s going to be a long flight. I stare out the window as we start to roll, watching the desert fly by. The plane tips up, and Los Angeles falls away. I let my tears fall, too.
Sadness weighs heavy on my eyelids and my body. I’m able to sleep the first half of the flight, and I might have slept the whole thing if I wasn’t woken up by something pointy and sharp hitting my face halfway through. Blinking awake, I look down to see a vomit-bag-turned-paper-airplane in my lap. I rip my headphones off and look for the culprit. The rookies—Thompson, Chapman, and Fontenot—are snickering amongst themselves, though the latter looks a little guilty about it.
“Fucking morons,” Poirier grumbles from my left where he’s trying to sleep.
I grab the plane, smooth out its edges to make sure they’re extra stiff, and throw it back. It nails Thompson in the cheek. Fontenot and Chapman erupt in laughter, and I shake my head. Dicks.
It’s dark outside. We’re somewhere over northern Canada. I don’t think I’ll fall back asleep, so I bother the flight attendant for another mini bottle of wine. She asks if I’d like two, and fuck it, I would. That way, I won’t have to bother her again in ten minutes. I’m in the process of unscrewing one of the caps when a shadow falls across my dimly lit seat.
“Nice aim.”
I immediately recognize Falkenberg’s sharp, baritone voice, and my head snaps up. The plane is rocking a bit, and my gaze lands on where his long, sturdy fingers grip the headrest next to me for balance.
“Maybe you have some athleticism after all,” he adds when I don’t reply.
“I’m a champion at drowning my sorrows,” I reply with a feigned smile, emptying one of the bottles into my plastic cup. A tinge of shame hits me but I swallow it down. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I look up again to find him watching me with a stern look. “Can I help you?” I ask.
To my shock, he folds himself into the seat next to mine. “Give me one.”
I stare at him, my gaze shifting from him to my tray table, then back again. “Get your own.”
“I want this one.” He snatches one of the bottles and its corresponding cup, unscrewing the top and pouring it for himself.
“You’re taking up my seat.”
“No, that’syour seat.” He nods pointedly at my chair, then proceeds to check his watch. I can’t believe him. I attempt to snatch the bottle out of his hands, but he moves it high out of reach, holding it away from me. Heclickshis tongue.
“Why are you tormenting me? You have your own perfectly comfortable row on the other side of the plane.”
“The lavatory’s occupied.” He points at the glowing red lavatory sign. “Tremblay knows how to take his time. I might as well enjoy a glass of wine in the meantime.”
My lip curls in disgust. “Thank you for that very solicited information on Tremblay’s regularity.”
Falkenberg gives me a sardonic smile, and even though it’s not particularly warm or genuine, it makes my stomach somersault. “You’re welcome. Like his gameplay, he’s consistent.”
My upper lip curls. Hoping maybe he’ll just go away if I ignore him, I lift the window shade and peek out, seeing only darkness and a blanket of stars overhead.
“Five more hours,” he says from over my shoulder.
No such luck.
“I hate flying,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
I look back at him. Disclosure of a fear of flying is hardly a scandalous secret, but I think that’s the first personal detail he’s ever shared with me willingly.
“It used to?”
