The laptop screen illuminates the mirth etched on her face as I slide the trifold back into its home.
A detailed calendar pops open, color coded for each type of activity, with bright-pink pockets of time titled “Jett’s shenanigans.” The excitement fizzles when the rest of the colors register.
“We’re doingallof that?”
Has she scheduled bathroom breaks, too?
She zooms in on tomorrow, or today, depending on what time zone we’re crossing.
“Yes and no. There are large chunks of time that are what I call ‘flex times.’” She points out a green block. “There’s nothingplanned or booked. The blue sections are times I allocated for you and Doug to work on processing your film and creating social media clips. Doug told me you work best at night.”
Appreciation blooms as she hovers her cursor over the blue time chunks. They’re followed by a sliver of purple.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the screen.
She gives me a coy smile. “Doug also said you have a horrible sleep schedule.”
“He’s a big fat liar.”
Ugh, he and I are going to have to chat about spilling my deep, dark secrets to Sofía.
“The purple is a reminder to get some sleep. You can ignore it, but it’s there.”
She takes my phone, holds it up to my face, and then taps through the apps. While she does whatever she’s doing, I pull out my laptop and editing software and work on the video I plan to post on social media tomorrow. We spent last week at a beach cleanup, picking up microplastics and remnants of ghost gear, and I threw together a short video about the organization that puts on the project.
“Now you have the calendar on your phone. It’s shared, so if we make any changes, we’ll both know.”
“We have a shared calendar?”
Fuck, that’s so romantic.
Doug and Molly probably share one. And Charlie and Mateo. I never shared one with Grace.
“Yes. And I logged into your social media to post and manage engagement so you can focus on other tasks.”
We review the remainder of the Sydney schedule, and I take note of the four “flex hours” we have the first afternoon. It will take some finesse, but I think I can convince her to go shopping for some new clothes then.
Flight attendants pass by, preparing for dinner service, and I make the last edits to the video, download it, and save it on my phone to post when we land.
Sofía fights to hide her giddy smile while the stewardess sets up her tray, complete with white linens and metal silverware.
“This is sofancy,” she whispers, kicking her feet back and forth with glee.
“Do you like fancy things?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” The first course is set in front of her, and she digs into the fruit.
“I don’t know. I think it depends on the type of fancy.”
She hums, and I rip off a piece of the roll and pop it into my mouth. I didn’t grow up with much flair in Indiana. My father worked as a tradesman, and my mom was a professor.
Fancywas Friday night dinners at Applebee’s with my family. It was a candy bar in the checkout line at the grocery store. A bike in front of the tree at Christmas. On one occasion, we drove all the way to Cedar Point and spent the day riding roller coasters.
And now myfancyis splurging on first class instead of economy and expensive linen bedsheets Molly convinced me to buy.
Oh, and my fancy ice cream machine. I have no regrets about that purchase.
The flight attendant collects my tray, and minutes later, the entrée is served. The aroma of spiced chicken fills the air, making my mouth water, but I wait until Sofía is served.
