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Like I said, he’s not a small man.
My knees still brush his outer thigh as I edge past him with a flustered “Thank you.”
I try to tell myself my face only feels so hot because the migraine has all my wires crossed, especially when my blood pressure is likely plunging and I should feel cold.
But even with my distracting seatmate, it’s a relief to throw myself down in my seat.
I can’t be bothered to toss my bag in the overhead bin. Not when that would just piss off the horde behind me even more while I fumble to get my little carry-on packet of pills out.
Which I do now, hefting the bag into my lap and then digging inside.
Please. Please let me get this medicine down fast enough to stave off the worst of it.
I find the prescription bottle, fight with the childproof cap, then shake out a dose and gulp it down.
Closing my eyes, I go limp, hugging my bag close and idly listening to the caveman next to me moving back into position and the faint rainfall of his fingers on his keyboard.
The darkness behind my eyes is soothing.
The violent flashers slowly fade.
The worst is over.
I hope.
I can’t do anything about the noisy people settling in, but I can at least choose which noise to focus on. Jet Daddy’s typing is actually pretty soothing.
It’s rhythmic and predictable. As long as I focus on that, I won’t jolt every time a toddler shrieks like they’re trying to turn my head into a broken Easter egg.
Once we’re in the air, I’ll be fine.
I will.
Cabin pressure will even out, and, assuming the migraine hasn’t put me in a coma by then, I’ll be able to ride it out like I always do until this flying metal tube drops me off at SeaTac.
I stay still until the telltale ping tells me the Fasten seat belt lights have come on, and I wince as the captain’s voice rattles over a staticky loudspeaker.
Not helping, but at least some of the pounding has stopped. Enough that I feel more human and less like a reanimated corpse.
Opening my eyes, I fish my laptop out, then tuck the bag under the seat and the laptop against my hip while I fasten my seat belt.
Next to me, Jet Daddy has finally closed his laptop, put his tray table up, and tucked the laptop away in the seat pocket in front of him so he can fasten his own seat belt.
I could almost live with the migraine just to watch him move.
There’s a flexing flow under his suit that’s fascinating. He’s thick enough in the waist—no, thicc, like muscle thicc—that he has to yank the seat belt tight just to fasten it comfortably.
I catch his head starting to turn slightly toward me when I realize I’m staring again.
Yikes.
I look away quickly, riveting my eyes on the window and holding my breath. It’s at least a solid thirty seconds before I dare to glance back at him.
Now, he’s not looking at me at all.
Welp.
So much for hoping I could distract myself with a little light flirting.
