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The next sleep killer is Colleen’s soft whisper. “Are you awake?”
I must be pulling off a halfway decent job of faking sleep for her to ask. Guilt drives me to open my eyes to slits. Colleen is my rock, the friend holding my hand through the soul-ripping job of leaving my Manhattan rooftop apartment behind and the mindfuck of swapping Ella O’Dwyer for Eala Duir. She insisted the info from Timothy Yew makes up for my failure at passing DNA tests. At least I have my authentic name to trace after I suffer this trip to Ireland.
I couldn’t punch holes in Colleen’s insistence that taking on the duties of the Irish study trip is key to edge out my competition for the last full-time faculty position I want so badly. Truthfully, her logic is only half the reason I finally gave in and agreed to obliterate my comfort zone. The find me message on Máthair’s ring and her final request in the letter that I go to Ireland sealed the deal.
Colleen crouches in the aisle, nudging me with her elbow. She abandoned her middle seat next to me an hour ago to bop down the cabin and socialize with others in our group. “I need you to do a seat swap.”
My eyes pop open the rest of the way. “Why?”
“I’m clicking with one of the PhD candidates from Boston. I’d like to keep clicking, but I’m sick of standing in the aisle. Come meet Charlie.”
I suppose one aisle seat is the same as any other, and once I assume my official duties as co-tour leader, I’ll meet this Charlie person anyway, especially if Colleen is clicking with him. When I undo my seat belt, she chirps like a finch. “I knew you loved me.”
“Am I that obvious?” I hug my backpack, a wave of unease washing over me as I vacate the tiny cocoon of my aisle seat. “Lead on to…?”
She points toward the front of the plane. “Thirty-four B.”
A tall twig with spiky chocolate brown hair, presumably Charlie, waves his arms above his head. I freeze. B—shit. That’s a damn middle seat.
I grab the nearest seat back, earning a dirty look from its occupant, a middle-aged man with an almost perfectly circular bald patch. My jostle tears his attention away from the exploding helicopter scene playing on his tablet. Who in their right mind watches air disasters while on a plane?
I release his seat as if it burned me. “Sorry.”
Helicopter guy acknowledges me with a glare and pissy grunt before returning to his airborne mayhem.
I grab Colleen’s hands. “I can’t do this. Charlie’s in a middle seat. I’m sorry. It’s too close to the window.” I only do aisle seats, as far from a window as possible. Looking down at the ocean, or worse land, as a frame of reference to height is unthinkable.
Colleen pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s okay, sweetie. I scoped it out. The guy in the window seat is asleep, and most of the shades in that section are down. No triggers.”
Of course, my bestie has her swap case prepared. Judging by the level of her frenetic energy and the way her Charlie guy shimmies into the aisle, they may be a match ordained by the spirit of St. Patrick himself. Just because I drift in a gray haze of unease, doesn’t mean Colleen is obligated to join me.
We work our way down the aisle toward Charlie who’s approaching at double my speed.
“Hey Eala, I’m Charlie,” he says as we execute an awkward, cramped slide-by in the aisle. “Thanks for swapping.”
I’m so concentrated on staying steady on my feet, all I manage is a rapid head nod. Luckily, the passenger in the aisle seat used Charlie’s exit to head to the back of the plane for snacks or a personal pit stop. I squish into thirty-four B and attempt to jam my backpack under the seat in front of me. There’s so little room I can’t lean far enough to shove it into place. A foot nudge is required to complete the task. As advertised, shades in the rows around and across from me are lowered while people sleep. I understand why the buzz of a Charlie/Colleen convo would not be welcome here in the snoozy section.
The guy in the window seat wedged his coat against the side of the plane as a pillow. Round-framed glasses park crookedly atop tousled hair. The light is too dim for me to tell if it's brown or black. A few strands stick straight up from the crown of his head like feathers. Add the gentle curves of his features, a smallish nose, and light beard stubble scattered in the vicinity of a round chin, and he gives off a slightly scattered, non-threatening vibe I can deal with. Due to my last-minute arrival at the airport, I had zero time to meet anyone. No clue if he’s with our group.
When I reach to twist the air nozzle in my direction, my leg bumps a file folder balanced on window guy’s knee. Luckily, I catch it before the stack of papers inside slides free.
“Charlie, how different you look in this light.”
“I’m so sorry.” The fire running across my cheeks probably brightens the cabin. I hold the rescued file out to him.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Clearly those are scintillating enough to put me right out.” There’s the tiniest hint of an Irish lilt hiding under his Boston accent. “Please—feel free to grade them.”
“I traded seats with Charlie.” I thrust the file into his hands. “I hope that’s cool.”
His lower lip curves into a slight pout when he smiles. “It’s a dream come true. Charlie didn’t sit still for two minutes together since takeoff.” He flips the folder open and squares its contents before offering me his hand to shake. “Jeremy Olk.”
I’m so surprised, I don’t move. Colleen can be wily. Charlie wasn’t her solo motivation to get me out of my seat. She took the first opportunity to connect me with my new colleague before the hubbub of our full itinerary is set in motion. Colleen knows my wish list for the ideal guy. Clearly, she believes Jeremy Olk checks all the boxes. Maybe he does. “The study team lead.”
His smile widens. “The very one.”
This guy looks younger and far less serious than his picture online. “But you’re so?—”
I chomp on my tongue before I say he looks too young to be my job-stealing nemesis.
