Page 2 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

SONNY

Worst travel day ever.

My first-class seat was gone, and I’ve been downgraded to coach. My best friend, John, got sick and had to bail on the trip at the last minute. Now, I am crammed in here like a sardine. I want to call someone to complain about the mistake, but I’d booked my own travel for the first time in years. So there is no one to blame except myself.

I pull the brim of my cap down a bit more to shield my face, scanning the plane for people filming me with their phones, and feel relief when I see none. I don’t need a new Reddit community with someone posting, “Game Developer Acts Like an Entitled Bitch Over Minor Inconvenience.” With my face becoming more recognizable, I have to be careful in public.

It hasn’t been that long since I’ve traveled coach, but I’ve quickly grown used to first class. Some luxuries are superfluous in my newfound wealth, like fancy clothes or jewelry, but traveling comfortably? That is one perk I really enjoy. I squirm in my seat, already regretting every life choice that led me here.

That’s when I notice her.

The woman sitting next to me is curvy and soft, with wild dark curls streaked with gold that catch the overhead light. She has big hazel-green eyes that flick away the second I look over. She hunches and pulls her legs in, like she was trying to make herself smaller. She is chewing gum aggressively, headphones in, pretending to sleep before I’ve even said hello.

Something about her tugs at me. The way she curls toward the window, protective, as if she is used to being judged and wants to escape.

I look over again; no glance back or bright eyes of recognition asking, “Are you the Lawson Jones?”

It has been happening more and more since my game, Silent Knights, became a big hit almost two years ago. In the last few months, with the sequel set to release and the non-stop magazine covers and podcast appearances, it feels like I can’t avoid being recognized. Even in the airport, fans stopped me multiple times.

But to my seatmate, I am just a guy who booked the wrong seat. Someone she approaches with gum-chewing avoidance. I open my mouth to say something, maybe crack a joke about the downgrade to ease the tension, but she turns farther toward the window.

Okay. Message received.

She shifts again, turning forward, eyes closed. Her thigh pushes up against mine. It spread warmth through me. It comforted me in this cramped metal tube.

I am usually uncomfortable with being touched by strangers, so it surprises me how at ease I feel next to this woman, who gives me standoffish vibes. Something about her strikes me as different from the women I’ve met recently. She exudes authenticity.

I lean back, exhale, and pull out my phone. This flight is going to be long. But weirdly… not the worst thing in the world.

The captain’s voice crackles over the speakers: “Folks, we’re monitoring some weather ahead in the Caribbean. Possible turbulence and a route adjustment. Sit tight.”

The plane gives a small, ominous shudder, as if agreeing with the forecast.

I glance over at the woman sitting beside me. She still has headphones in, mouth parted slightly, breathing softly, asleep.

She is distracting, pleasantly so. Usually, I’d be head down, moving on autopilot—staring at projection charts or growth analysis by now —but instead I am sitting here, enjoying the thought of what the beautiful woman sleeping beside me is like.

She has no idea how much she’s already changed the day for me. I wish I could tell her; I don’t know if she’ll stay in her hoodie cocoon the whole flight or not, but either way, I can’t figure out how to tell a stranger how much her genuine presence means to me without coming off like a total creep.

Best not to obsess over a stranger who might never be interested in me. Or who might completely shatter my made-up image of her by the time we land.

Still, I can’t shake the strangest feeling that we are flying into more than just bad weather. Something bigger is waiting: new complications, unknown destinations, and the smallest, most dangerous spark of excitement.

Before I can put on my headphones and close myself off for the rest of the flight, I risk one more glance at the curvy woman seated next to me. She is no longer turned away. Instead, her hands are clutched at her throat, her eyes wide and red, filled with tears and silently begging for help.

Rule #2

BEWARE OF GUM AND TURBULENCE

CAI

I must have actually dozed off. The exhaustion from crying and the adrenaline crash are finally winning out. The gum is still there, still minty and extra sticky, lodged somewhere in my cheek, feeling like a bad decision. Then the plane drops. Not a gentle dip; a hard, stomach-lurching slam that feels like the floor vanishes. My body jerks against the seatbelt, and the gum shoots straight into the back of my throat.

I choke. Hard. Eyes watering, hands flying to my neck. The world narrows to the burn in my airway and the panic that this is how it ends, choking on Extra spearmint while chasing a guy who ghosted me. Poetic.

I freeze, unable to figure out what I should do next. Can I use the Heimlich maneuver against the fold-down tray? I need help, but aside from some guttural noises and the initial coughs, I can’t seem to get anyone’s attention. My eyes dart around, but I can’t seem to find anyone to make eye contact with.

Suddenly, strong hands are on my shoulders. The guy next to me, Mr. Downgraded-First-Class, twists toward me, one hand patting my back firmly, the other reaching to loosen my seatbelt a fraction. “Easy, easy. Spit it out if you can,” he says, his voice calm but urgent. “Breathe through your nose.”