1
MILE HIGH MISHAPS
HARPER
The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
This morning started with my phone alarm dying (because I forgot to charge it while doom-scrolling job listings at 2 AM), continued with my mother calling in tears, and escalated to a philosophical encounter with a completely naked man on the F train back in New York who kept asking passengers if they'd "found their authentic selves."
I have not found my authentic self.
But I have found rock bottom, and apparently it's a middle seat on a flight to Las Vegas that I was supposed to board three hours ago.
My phone buzzes. The group chat—Beaumont Sisters: Vegas Edition.
Margot: Harper, where are you??? We're at the airport bar and Amelia just ordered her third mimosa
Amelia: It's MY bachelorette party weekend—and your new job week! And I have no regrets!
Margot: HARPER. TEXT US BACK.
Margot: She's probably re-organizing her carry-on by size, color, and likelihood of TSA confiscation
I type back.
ME: Slight problem. Missed the flight.
Margot: WHAT
Amelia: nooooo Harper you PROMISED
ME: I know. I'm so sorry. Subway situation involving a naked man and the F train. I'm on the next flight. I'll be there in 5 hours
Margot: OMG what. Did you call the police???
ME: I wasn’t in the mood for reporting unleashed schlong so early in the morning. But I’m currently boarding. Save me a mimosa.
Amelia: Declan just texted asking if you're okay. I told him you're fine but possibly cursed.
Margot: You're lucky we love you
I silence my phone and shove it into my bag, feeling the familiar twist of guilt in my stomach. The guilt is getting a workout today.
Missing the flight wasn't entirely the subway's fault—although the naked man incident did cost me a solid fifteen minutes of subway-car-switching and subsequent therapy.
The real problem started at 7 AM when Mom called, her voice doing that thing where it gets high and tight, trying to sound cheerful while delivering bad news.
I push that to the back of my mind, refocusing on the current bad news in my life—which is that I'm squished into seat 32B—middle seat, naturally—wedged between a man who's manspreading like he paid for two seats and a woman who's currently demolishing a family-size bag of Cheetos.
This is not how I wanted to start my baby sister's bachelorette weekend—being the Maid of Honor who can't even show up on time.
Good job, Harper.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've reached our cruising altitude," the pilot announces. "Feel free to move about the cabin."
Thank God.
My phone buzzes one more time.
