“Doesn’t really matter,” I say.
She nods. “I used to love true crime. I was obsessed withBeyond Justicefor a while.”
“Was?” I ask. I’m not being defensive.Beyond Justicehas been the top podcast for the last two years. “What changed?”
“Nothing, really. I’m just burned out on it.” She looks past me, out the window. “It’s hard hearing all the aftermath the families deal with.”
I bristle. We’re close in that way sitting on a plane demands, but I lean my back into the window to get a better look at her. “But it’s real life.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her eyes tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re saying thatother people’spain was too hard foryou.Do you have any idea what a luxury that is?” I realize too late how harsh I sound, but the damage is done. Her mouth falls open and her eyes well with tears.
“Shoot, I’m sorry,” I tell her, guilt making my chest cavity feel like a dirty, slimy swamp. “It’s a personal topic for me. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her head bobs in movements so small, I doubt she’s aware she’s making them.
“Wow,” she whispers.
The swamp in my chest swells into my throat until I’m almost choking. “I shouldn’t have said it,” I repeat. “I’m really sorry.”
She just nods and looks forward. And when the last passenger on our row drops to Poppy’s other side, she doesn’t even say hi to him.
I broke Poppy.
She keeps her head down through takeoff, and when the drink cart comes, I have to elbow her to get her attention.
She looks at me like a wounded puppy.
A puppy I wounded right after it figured out stairs.
I didn’t know I could dislike myself more. But is what I said really so bad?
Don’t answer that.
“Sorry, did you, uh, want a drink?” I ask, pointing at the flight attendant.
Her head whips over and I hear her sniff as she asks the attendant for a root beer.
A root beer.
I take a Dr Pepper and bag of peanuts and listen to nothing on my earbuds while I watch Poppy out of the corner of my eye.
I’mthis closeto apologizing again when the guy on her other side shifts in his seat. I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye—he’s sliding his wedding ring off and slipping it into his pocket.
My jaw tightens.
And then he starts talking to her.
Nope,flirtingwith her.
“I don’t usually talk to strangers on planes, but something tells me you’re different,” he says, his eyes lingering on her face too long.
I bet that’s what Ted Bundy told all his victims, I think with an internal side eye.
