There was a beat of silence—then, of course, he slid the divider open this time.
So I closed it again.
He sighed, scrolling through his phone like I wasn’t there, like I wasn’t clearly winning whatever weird psychological battle this was.
“Just say it,” I insisted.
“Say what?”
“That you’re scared.”
“I’mnotscared. Maybe if you spent less time dissecting my imaginary panic and more time managing one of your own spontaneous attitude flare-ups, we’d both make it off this plane alive.”
“Spontaneous attitude flare-ups?” I echoed. “Did you learn that term at a meeting for emotionally constipated men?”
“Nope. It was a support group for guys whose spouses have zero filter between brain and mouth. Thought I’d get some tips.”
Oh,okay.
Noted.
A dazzling cabin crew member glided past our row, and I sat up straighter. “Excuse me, Miss?” I called, cheerful as a children’s TV show host. “Do you have any drugs?”
Her eyebrows shot up so fast I thought they might detach.
“Lillian,” Khalifa warned under his breath.
But I was already committed.
“My sweet husband here—” I reached over and patted his cheek, possibly harder than necessary. “He’sdeathlyafraid of flying, and in a few minutes, he’s going to start projectile-ing from both ends. So anything hardcore you’ve got—preferably the illegal kind—that’ll knock him right out would be amazing.”
Khalifa went catastrophically crimson,his eyes cutting to me in a mortified glare. The flight attendant blinked. Twice. Her professional smile started to crack.
“Um,” she said carefully. “We don’t...carry anything like that on board, but—”
“I’m fine, ma’am,” Khalifa interrupted. “Please ignore my wife. She’s mentally unwell.”
She nodded far too quickly, like that explanation finally fit the situation, and hurried away. The image of Khalifa “projectile-ing from both ends” on a commercial flight replayedin my mind like a trailer for the world’s worst movie—and I lost it.
A full-body, shoulders-shaking, borderline-wheeze laugh ripped out of me. The bald guy in front of us half-turned, curious. The woman across the aisle gave me the tight grin people reserved for feral animals and untrained toddlers. Even the baby two seats down stopped wailing just to gape at me.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, which only made the sounds louder, somehow, like my laughter had decided to echo from inside my rib cage.
Khalifa closed his eyes. “Lillian,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’re drawing attention.”
I tried to swallow the rest of the laughter. It came out in little aftershocks—hiccup, snort, inhale.
“Okay,” I whispered, fanning my face. “Okay. I’m done. I’m composed. See?” Another tiny sputter escaped. “Mostly.”
He stared straight ahead, posture soldier-stiff, refusing to acknowledge we existed as a unit. Someone coughed. A soda can hissed open a few rows back. My breathing eventually evened out, the hysterics dissolving into a cheeky smile.
“Consider this karma for saying I have an attitude,” I said brazenly. “Besides, you forfeited your invisibility the moment we got hitched.”
“I didn’t realize public humiliation was included in the marriage contract.”
“Oh, it is. Right under ‘in sickness and in health.’ And also ‘in turbulence.’”
He gave me a long side-eye, but there was a reluctant spark behind it, like he was trying very, very hard not to laugh.
