I’ve got to admit, the whole thing does make me feel glowy inside, knowing that we’ve made their day, maybe even their year.
After finishing with the couple, the gate agent assigns Rory and me new seats. “I’ve made sure you two are seated together,” she says, handing us fresh boarding passes. “But you’re a bit toward the back of the plane, I’m afraid.”
“No worries,” Rory says as I try my best not to pout.
It turns out that “a bit toward the back of the plane” is a British euphemism for the second-to-last row. I can’t remember the last time I’ve sat this far back. Probably never.
Rory lets me take the window. He’s wedged in the middle, pressed up close to me, as there’s nowhere else to go.
We’re both quiet as the plane taxis out to the runway. I’m catching up on BBC news podcasts, and Rory seems half asleep, no doubt drowsy from waking up at threeAMor whatever ridiculous hour he left for the airport. But as we start picking up speed on the runway, it strikes me that he’s nervous, not tired. He’s gripping the armrest with all his might, as if holding on for dear life, and I can viscerally feel him sending“Dear-Lord-please-keep-this-plane-from-crashing-and-I’ll-never-ever-sin-again”vibes up to Heaven.
I think back to how he said that moving to London was his first time abroad. He probably hasn’t flown too much in his life. A lot of people in Michigan haven’t. You can drive up to Traverse City in the summer and down to Orlando for a budget-friendly road trip in the winter, so there’s no real need to deal with the cost or hassle of airplanes.
I’ve flown so many times since graduating from college that I’ve forgotten how nervous I used to be too.
“It’ll be okay, Rory,” I say as the engines groan louder and louder. The front of plane tilts upward, then the back. “All the stats say flying is way safer than driving.”
Beads of sweat trickle from Rory’s hairline down onto his pasty forehead, and his veins are all but popping out. “But I’m in control when I’m driving,” he grits out. “Or at least, more in control than this.”
His body unclenches once we’ve reached a steady altitude, but at the first patch of turbulence, he’s back to gripping the armrest and holding his breath.
“Just pretend we’re on a boat,” I tell him, knowing he likes the water. “Rocking on the waves.” I take his sweaty palm and give it a squeeze. Just like at Thanksgiving dinner, it doesn’t feel weird to hold his hand—or perhaps it does feel weird in that it doesn’t feel weird. Still, I’m about to let go because he probably thinks it’s weird.
But before I can release my grip, he squeezes back, just slightly, like he’s telling me thank you. So I keep holding on until he manages to fall asleep, his head bobbing awkwardly in front of him.
There’s no actual meal service (the joys of coach), but the flight attendant comes by with bottled water and Biscoff cookies. I forgo the bottled water to reduce my plastic consumption, inspired by the recycled Christmas tree that Rory’s class made, but I scoop up the cookies and take a pack for Rory too.
Taking off my shoes to release my swollen feet, I spread the flimsy airline blanket over my lap and turn onLove Actuallyon the seat-back TV while crunching my way through the cookies.
They’re not the gourmet chocolate mousse of first class, but I’d forgotten how good Biscoff cookies are, with that satisfyinggingery snap. I’m tempted to eat Rory’s too while he’s sleeping—he’d never know the difference—but I decide to save them for him, which freaks me out a bit because it reveals how much I care about him. Saving someone the last cookie is as good a gauge as any of your level of affection.
I think about what it would be like right now if Alexander were the one sitting next to me, coming to meet my family over Christmas like I’d once imagined. How different it would be.
I’d feel too self-conscious about my smelly socks to take my shoes off, and so my feet would be throbbing. I’d be worried about dribbling crumbs down my chin, so I’d forgo snacking altogether, and I’d be watching some dry political documentary instead of a rom-com, just to try to impress him.
Traveling with Rory is far less romantic than traveling with Alexander would be, but so much more enjoyable. I don’t have to worry about being on my best behavior.
Even with Mateo, I was always trying to act just right to fit into his high-flying life and be the version of me that he wanted to see. I pruned and paraded the sides of myself that he liked and let the other ones fall away and atrophy.
Here, it feels like I can just sprawl out beside Rory exactly as I am, with none of the pressure to be shiny and desirable.
Perhaps induced by these thoughts, or the cookies I’ve just inhaled, a loud belch escapes me like a blow horn.
Waking at the sound, Rory looks over at me. “Was that you?” he asks.
“Oops,” I admit.
“Just glad it wasn’t the engine malfunctioning,” he says with a teasing smile, and goes back to sleep. A little while later, his headbobs sideways and rests on top of mine. He doesn’t yank it away, just leaves it there, like he’s found a safe place to land.
I stay very still so I won’t wake him, wishing, just for one absurd moment, that there wouldn’t be an Emily waiting for him. That it would just be the two of us, suspended forever up here in the sky that feels very much like Mala’s crayon-drawn picture of happiness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“That Rory certainly seems like a delightful young man,” Mom says on the car ride from the airport to my parents’ house, as I stare out the backseat window at the acres and acres of dormant cornfields adorned with red barns and green John Deere tractors, all blanketed by bright white snow. “And sohandsome.”
His parents were picking him up too, and our families did that classic Midwest bonding thing where you stand around and gab for an hour as if there’s nowhere else you need to be.
There’s absolutely nothing my mom would love more than for me to fall for a local guy and settle down on a house across the lake. She’s always dropping not so subtle hints about how great it would be if thewhole familylived nearby. I’m the only holdout, so no pressure.
