You know that girl on Flicks that’s always moaning about how romance books are corrupting women
Margot
Oh, Polly Puritan?
Freddie
I can’t withthese people. Remember when she did a video on why Pennywise is problematic because she was mad people were thirsting over Bill Skarsgård? It’s a horror movie!!! Of course it’s problematic you fuckwit!!!
Grace
THAT’S WHAT I WAS GONNA TELL YOU. She ordered my evil clown edition dildo!!!
Freddie
SHE DID NOT. SCREAAMMMM
Margot
You have an evil clown edition dildo? Jail, Grace.
Grace
What??? Pennywise has rizz. He’s tall, Swedish, a little scary. Reminds me of someone…
Freddie
Bye
Flushing, I tuck my phone away and spend the rest of the flight home reviewing clips and putting together Flicks, pausing when I stumble upon the snaps I took of Falkenberg by the swans. My thumb hovers over the delete button—there’s no reason to keep them—but for some reason, I do. He looks handsome, with his dirty blond hair tousled by the wind and his cheeks cold-stung. Candid like this, he almost looks relaxed.
Our documentary, I realize upon review, is shaping up to be uninspiring. It lacks personal connection. I’m going to have to make it more personal and less sporty if I really want to draw audiences. I need to make it more theatrical.
“Can I show you something?” someone interrupts me. I look up and see Thompson looming over me. He’s spoken in a low voice, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. He looks nervous for once.
“Sure.” I close my laptop and gesture for him to sit next to me.
“Is this better?” He shoves his phone in my face, which I take to find his revamped dating profile. He’s replaced the gym selfie with a cute picture taken of him outside our Stockholm hotel, where he looks like he’s genuinely smiling. I swipe through his profile, no longer finding any manosphere-adjacent rhetoric.
“Wow, Thompson. You almost look dateable,” I remark.
He gives me a victorious smile. “Not as good as your profile, of course, but I didn’t have any fake blood—”
I elbow him. “Run along now. I’m busy trying to make people buy tickets to your sorry games.”
Thompson flips me the bird and disappears.
My eyes seek out Falkenberg, wondering if he’s heard Thompson. He’s seated up front and hasn’t come back here all flight. Avoiding me, I think. My mind tracks back to meeting Micke, wondering what it was they discussed without me. Micke's accent's thicker than his brother's, but conversation with him was way easier. He was so friendly and kind, the mere memory of his grin makes me smile. I wonder where their mother was. Their father’s passed, but Falkenberg didn’t say anything about their mom.
Why wasn’t she at the game?
“The fuck is this?” I hear Ryan say halfway through the flight back. He’s skewered a dripping piece of smoked salmon on his fork.
SomethingI learned from our brief jaunt to Scandinavia is that Ryan loathes fish. From the looks of it, somebody dropped it in his wine while he wasn’t looking. From the way Westergren and Poirier are giggling like schoolboys, I have a strong suspicion who’s to blame.
“Dickheads,” Ryan says, flinging the piece of salmon over the seat at Poirier’s cheek. It lands with asplat, making Poirier and Westergren erupt with laughter. They laugh even harder when it becomes apparent Ryan is actually mad.
Parker glances up from the book they’re reading two seats over. “Don’t play with your dinner, Ryan. It’s upsetting enough that you only eat baby food, I don’t need to see it flying through the air, too.”
