The tense silence lingers before Efren stands and washes his plate. It’s a moment too long before he turns to look at me.
“Pack a bag,” he says, following with a sigh.
“For what?”
“You want answers? Then let’s go get them.”
_______
“Wow this is nioce,” I say, copying my favorite TikTok video as I step inside the massive jet.
Everything is velvet red and black leather. A black marble table divides the space where Ricky and the nut roll guy fromCurtis’s house sit, nut roll wrappers already splayed out in front of him.
“Almita!” Ricky exclaims.
“It’s Alma,” Efren says from behind me. His large hand envelopes mine.
The warmth causes a cyclone of emotions to stir in me. I jerk free and take the first seat across from Ricky. Efren sits next to me, his large figure taking up a suffocating amount of space.
“Hold my hand,” he commands and reaches again for mine.
“I’d rather die,” I whisper
“We can arrange for that. Dying while holding hands, isn’t that a movie?”
“Yup.The Notebook,” Ricky interrupts.
I turn to him, my face bunched up, but he’s reading a magazine and doesn’t look up to acknowledge me. Efren grabs my hand roughly, placing it back in his and threading his fingers through mine to lock our hands together. I think about fighting him again, but then the plane lurches backwards.
“What’s happening?” I panic, my hand squeezing his tightly.
“We’re just taxiing,” he replies.
In front of me, Ricky has put down the magazine, and his eyes are shut tight. Even Señor Nutroll has ceasedhis binge eating as we prepare for take-off. There is little time for me to prepare for this. Efren wasn’t too forthcoming about where we’re headed, other than he’s going to help me get answers. I’d packed a bag for a week in under thirty minutes and arranged for time off from the hotel, declaring it an emergency.
“They’re lining us up for takeoff. It’s normal,” Efren explains when my anxiety causes me to stiffen in the chair.
Normal?
Normal to who?
“I’ve never been on a plane before. No identification, remember?” I remind him through my shallow breaths.
My palm is slick with sweat against his. Efren nods, squeezing my hand back, and it’s firm enough to anchor me.
“Breathe, Alma.”
I try, but then the plane slows to a stop. The engine roars, and my pulse climbs into my throat.
“Ey. Look at me.Yo contigo.” The warmth in his eyes is like a blanket to my anxiety.
“Tu conmigo,” I repeat.
“That’s right, Kitten.”
I take several breaths, closing my eyes when I feel the plane lift into the air. The motion shoves me back into the seat, and my stomach drops. Every muscle in my body locks tight. I grip Efren’s hand harder until the pressure eases.
“Look,” he murmurs. “We’re flying.”
