But it is me, and it isn’t fucking funny. I wipe my free hand on the thigh of my jeans and shiver. It’s colder than usual for November and according to the weather report there’s a storm brewing but it can’t make up its mind whether it’s going to hit Iowa, Illinois, or Minnesota. Maybe it’ll coat all three states with a thick layer of snow.
You’d think with the advances in technology we’ve made as a species over the decades that the weather people could predict accurate weather.
I feel like I’d be better informed if I’d consulted my Magic 8 ball.
That thing has helped me make some of the most challenging decisions of my life.
Anyway, when I bolted out of bed at four this morning to pack at the last minute, it seemed like a good idea to leave my winter coat in Iowa to save from having to drag it around the airport. Travel light. It was such a great idea at the time.
Like I said, I have regrets. And they seem to be multiplying.
I find a chair as far away fromhimas possible but keep my eyes on him like a cat chasing a laser. Not that he seems like he’s going to move, but just in case. I can’t risk him seeing me and having to make small talk with him.
There are fifty seats on our tiny plane, but I can still work with that. With any luck we’ll be at opposite ends of the plane, and he won’t even know I’m there. I’m glad I usually wait until the end to board rather than being one of those eager beaver travelers who jumps up as soon as boarding starts.
Hell no. I don’t want to be on that damn bird for a single minute longer than I have to, so I wait. I stay out of sight until the last possible minute before handing the desk agent my phone.
Part of me hopes it’s rejected, that there’s some issue with my ticket and I won’t have to walk down that jet bridge. I’m drenched in sweat and probably look somewhat deranged. It ain’t pretty.
At least I have an aisle seat so I won’t feel trapped against the window, and I won’t be able to fixate on whatever is below the clouds.
At the bottom of the bridge I hand my small case to the guy loading baggage and smile my thanks at him despite my nerves. I hesitate at the last step before boarding, staring at the edge of the plane like it might move if I pick up my foot.
The flight attendant grins at me. She’s way too fucking cheery for 6:30am. She bids me good morning and steps back like I don’t have enough space to board. I try to press down my terror, paralyzing every muscle in my body, and smile back at her, but all my energy is currently being used to not run, or puke, or pass out.
The fight or flight response is in high gear, and I really need to get my ass onto the plane before I make a scene. She checks my boarding pass and points to row four. I’m on the left-hand side of the plane, and the poor son of a bitch who has to witness my nervous breakdown over air travel is—fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, motherfucking fuck, of course it fucking is.
Justin lifts his head as I approach the empty seat next to him, and his eyes darken. Not in a sexy kind of way, but in an almost murderous kind of way. He doesn’t seem to even try to hide his dismay as I move closer. Huh. So I guess he remembers me after all.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. I clear my throat and turn to the flight attendant. “Excuse me?” I can’t sit next to him. There doesn’t seem to be another free seat, but it’s worth a shot. I need to move. “Can I sit somewhere else?”
Justin’s grunt pulls my attention back to him as his nostrils flare, but he says nothing.
“I’m sorry, but there are no other seats.” She gives me a look through her smile. A look that says I must be out of my ever loving mind to want to move away from the hockey boy who smells like sunshine and looks like he belongs on a different kind of runway.
It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I have my book, it’s just a seventy-minute flight, I can absolutely, positively ignore Justin Ass for an hour. It’s not the end of the world.
Okay, fine. It’s not like Molly and I have stayed besties over the years. I came to Cedar Rapids and we drifted a bit. But we’re still friends, we still catch up from time to time, and I follow her Twitter account daily. I don’t care how hot he is. I’m still loyal to her, and loyalty means something to me, even if it doesn’t mean jack shit to the guy to my right.
The plane door slams shut, and I swallow down the yelp at the back of my throat. He shifts in his seat beside me but I don’t look at him. I can’t. He’s about to witness one of my biggest embarrassments and greatest fears, and I’d rather have a colonoscopy than be here.
It might be the end of the world.
I should have driven. Sure, it’s just over a four-hour drive home, but right now I’d drive to the fucking moon and back if it meant I could be away from this situation. My leg is bouncing so hard it feels like the whole plane is vibrating because of me. Beads of sweat prickle across my hairline, my shirt is damp under my arms and in the small of my back, and my chest is pulsating with quick breaths.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It’s just an hour. It’s just an hour. It’s just an hour.
The chances of us having an accident are slim. There is plenty of space for all of us, it’s not really the tiny tin can it seems to be. There is enough air for everyone. We aren’t going to suffocate or crash. It’s all going to be okay.
It’s just an hour.
The hard plastic of the arm rests is comforting, and I hold on for dear life. My fingertips hurt as my grip tightens with each passing second.
The funniest part about all this is that the plane hasn’t even started moving yet. That’s when the real fun begins. It’s not funny at all. By funny I mean sheer terror. Why did I do this to myself? I say every time that I’m never flying again, and I mean it every single time. But this time Ireallymean it. I do. I’m never flying again.
“Are you okay?” Justin’s voice is soft and somehow right next to my ear, sending a shiver snaking up my spine.
