Page 1 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

Rule #1

NEVER CHASE A GHOSTER DURING HURRICANE SEASON

CAI

I take a deep breath and sink deeper into my window seat, the armrest jabbing the softest part of my hip as if it is personally offended by my thighs.

Perfect. Just what I need, a little extra self-loathing. But with any luck, no one will sit next to me, and I’ll have the row to myself.

I used to love flying. The feel of the leather seats, the smell of recycled air—it always gave me that nostalgic rush from childhood trips to Europe and South America. I remembered the excitement and anxiety on the plane when I flew to relocate to Arizona two years ago. I haven’t been home to Miami since. Money is tight, pride is expensive, and I refused to let my family buy me a ticket.

Now I’ve blown every last dollar I’ve saved to visit my family for Christmas on this last-minute flight to Puerto Rico instead.

I tug my hoodie lower and cross my arms, trying to keep my hand from yanking out my phone and rereading Trevor’s texts for the hundredth time. If the messages were on paper, they’d be worn thin from handling.

It doesn’t matter; they are burned into my brain.

With sickening hindsight, I remembered how smug I’d felt staying cool and aloof during his trip to Puerto Rico for his friend Brad’s bachelor party. I wanted to text constantly, but I limited myself to quick check-ins and good nights. I thought he’d appreciate that I wasn’t like those nagging girls who pestered their boyfriends 24/7. He’d appreciate the trust. He gave one- or two-word replies until yesterday, when he dropped the bomb:

Trevor

I’m extending my trip; maybe indefinitely.

I’d blinked at it incredulously. What did “indefinitely” mean? Every attempt to stay cool flew out the window, and I’d replied with a series of increasingly unhinged texts. He’d left me on read and then blocked me.

So here I am on a one-way flight to Puerto Rico to win him back. I have it all figured out:

Step 1: Go to Puerto Rico. I am already on my way, so I am kicking things off with a bang!

Step 2: Find out where he is staying. It’s possible that I may have played it a bit too aloof with the details.

Step 3: Confront him wearing my favorite dress, look amazing, smile big, and show up at the hotel bar or restaurant where he and all his friends will be. They’ll see me, and be like, “Oh dang! Who’s that hot babe?”

I’ll turn slowly, the wind blowing my hair back perfectly. Their jaws will drop. Trevor will say, “That’s my girl!” From somewhere, our song will start playing: “Stay with Me” by Sam Smith. He’ll think, “Is this fate?”

All the guys will look at him in disbelief and say something like, “You were considering staying here when you have her waiting at home?!”

He’ll go, “Oh my God, you’re so right. What was I thinking?!” Then he’ll beg me for forgiveness, and be so moved by my grand gesture that he’ll probably propose on the spot.

This is a solid plan and totally normal behavior. It was exactly what every heroine in every romance movie does for love; they fight for it! I am going to prove we are worth fighting for. This was going to be the beginning of our happily ever after.

I stare again at the empty seat next to me, feeling somewhat symbolic of my current status. I might take the opportunity to shed a few more tears into my hoodie and get it out of my system before the grand romantic gesture.

Then I hear a voice that crushes my plan.

A deep, low, frustrated voice arguing with the flight attendant a few rows up. He is saying something about a first-class downgrade, a booking error.

“I paid extra for this seat. There has to be a mistake.” The man was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, with a backpack slung over his back. He looked more like he should be arguing about his college classes than a first-class airline ticket. I clocked his ebony skin and athletic build before telling myself to stop being so nosy and forcing myself to look away.

Apparently, he gives up the fight, and as is my luck, he drops into the aisle seat next to me. He doesn’t even look my way, just sighs, long legs folding awkwardly, eyes darting around at the other passengers on the plane.

My stomach drops. I have probably invited this by staring at him so hard in the first place. Great. Even strangers have to be rerouted by fate just to end up near me; nobody would choose this voluntarily. My therapist would have a field day.

One positive is that he smells incredible. He carries the scent of expensive soap and faint ginger spice, warm and inviting against the plane’s sterile cleaner scent, and it makes my stomach do a small, annoying flip.

I put in my earbuds, telling myself to get a grip and stop smelling the stranger. I unwrap a piece of gum, pop it into my mouth, and chew as if my life depends on it. Headphones on, eyes half-closed, fake-napping activated.

Do not talk to me. Do not see me. Just let me disappear until I can fix this mess with Trevor.