Page 4 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

“Yeah, sure. We love that,” he says, smirking. “Just maybe skip the gum next time.”

SONNY

One second, she’s choking, pleading with me to save her, and the next, she’s spilling her life story to me. I don’t understand. Why is she chasing this guy? Why is she chasing anyone? I’ve only known her for a few minutes, and even I don’t want to walk away from her.

I try to understand, but she’s gotten defensive. Her face is red, and she’s crossing her arms. She looks so cute with her little pouty face, but I suppress a smile, not wanting to push her over the edge.

She is looking at me, wanting an answer to her question about what guys like. She doesn’t want my little jokes or cute responses. She wants me to justify her cause. Her expression isn’t performative or rehearsed. It’s raw and genuine. I get the urge to protect her; do whatever I can to comfort her, even if it means pushing her towards this jerk she’s chasing.

“Sorry, I default to jokes, even if the timing is bad. But seriously… he’ll probably appreciate it. Ignore me.”

This seems to soften her, and she uncrosses her arms and says, “No, it’s ok. I probably need to hear it. I just don’t like to. He’s not perfect, far from it! He’s lazy, never lifts a finger around the house, and wastes entire days, hell, weekends even, obsessed with those stupid video games. Like, grow up already. It’s not a hobby; it’s an addiction that turns him into this immature, checked-out man-child who would rather ‘grind levels’ than deal with real life. Or me.”

I swallow hard, averting my eyes. Great, she despises gamers, and my entire empire is based on playtesting all-nighters, min-maxing, and energy drinks. If only she knew, she would probably end the conversation right here. I’m not ready for that.

I can hear my mom’s voice in my head, yelling at me as a teen, “You need to put down those games! If you spent even half the time you spent on that Nintendo studying or playing outside, you’d be spending your weekends with friends instead of in study hall!”

The plane jolts. Passengers murmur; a few gasp. Cai looks at me with nervous hazel eyes, then exhales, still clutching the water I gave her. The silence stretches awkwardly, but the turbulence keeps us pinned together. There’s no escaping.

“You’re not worried?” she says.

“Well, we can’t both be scared,” I say. I find I’m always calmer and more confident when others are freaking out.

The plane dips again, and she reaches for the armrest but instead grips my hand. Hers feels cold, and I do my best to keep mine steady, fighting the urge to thread our fingers together to steady us both.

She freezes, then mutters, “Sorry. Cold hands. Very attractive.”

I keep my voice low. “I’ve had worse seatmates. At least you’re not screaming.”

She snorts softly. “Give it time.”

I want to tell her more. I want to return to the topic of her boyfriend and tell her he’s a tool and she deserves better. But I know she won’t thank me for it. She wants validation, not a reality check.

“So what do you do?” she asks, knuckles white on the armrest, face showing strain as if she’s trying not to look scared.

I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her to think I’m like her douchey boyfriend. I don’t want her to despise me. Sure, maybe I won’t see her again after this plane ride, but I still don’t want her to think badly of me, even if it’s just for a moment. More than that, I want to impress her. So I say, “Product development,” which is somewhat true.

I can see her next question poised on her lips. The captain cuts in before she can get it out: “Ladies and gentlemen, due to rapidly deteriorating weather in the Caribbean and Hurricane Olive shifting faster than expected, we’re diverting to Miami International. We’ll be landing shortly. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

“Oh no,” she whispers, eyes wide again.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, trying to comfort her. “Probably just an abundance of precaution.”

She looks at me. “That’s not what’s worrying me. I’ve been through many hurricanes. I could literally write a guide.”

“Oh? Then what?”

The look on her face is like she’s confessing an untold horror. “I’m from Miami. I haven’t told my family anything. Not about Trevor, about the flight, about… any of it. My family is Cuban, world-renowned for their talents in gossip and shaming others. The guilt trip coming is scarier than the hurricane and twice as loud.”

Rule #3

CAUTION: CUBAN FAMILY MIGHT BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR

CAI

The plane touches down with a hard thud, rain lashing the windows. The cabin lights brighten, and everyone starts unbuckling, murmuring about delays and connections. I stay glued to my seat, phone in hand, thumbs flying.

Cai