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“Norah, you’ve had the biggest glow-up I’ve ever seen IRL. Show it off a little.”

I roll my eyes, but she’s gotten me to smile.

“I suggest you pack that teal sweater you sent me pics of from your thrifting haul.”

That’s actually not a bad idea. I stand up and pull the oversized teal sweater off its hanger, tossing it into the suitcase.

“Wait, are you only packing now? It’s after midnight your time.”

“Frankie, it’s me.”

“I guess some things don’t change. Have a safe flight. I’ll see you at the reunion,” Frankie says, emphasizing those last few words with her dark brows.

I blow her a kiss and hang up.

Off Frankie’s encouragement, I add my favorite going-out jeans that are not meant for sitting. If I have to see a bunch of people who ruined my life, I can at least look hot and confident while doing so.

Chapter 2

As I sit squished into the middle seat on this completely full flight, I’m regretting every decision that brought me to this moment as the men on either side of me stake claim to their respective armrests. Every delay in purchasing tickets home for the holidays. Every time I thought Oh, it’d be nice to be back with Mom and Hannah. Every nagging text from Frankie, begging me to come to the reunion bar night she’d so meticulously planned.

The anxiety is only mildly quelled when our flight attendant returns with a tiny bottle of wine and a plastic cup to accompany it. I pour the bottle into the cup without a moment of hesitation, and clock a side-eye from the dude to my right. I glare at him and almost spill as the bottle empties and the deep purple liquid reaches the brim. He looks away, and I turn back to my cup.

Before I can even take a sip, the seat in front of me slams back, knocking at least half the wine onto my light gray sweater and jeans. Great.

I peer over the edge of the seat in front of me, trying to get the attention of its incredibly rude occupant. He’s reclined as far back as the seat allows, in a navy suit and a crisp white shirt. He’s got a sleep mask on over his eyes and earbuds in. He doesn’t respond to the few pokes I give him. I briefly consider pouring the rest of the cup’s contents onto his starchy shirt to try to get his attention, but I decide I need it more.

I settle back into my seat and look around for a napkin beyond the drenched one in my hand, but both men in my row have turned away from me.

I down the rest of my wine in one gulp, but not before “accidentally” kicking the seat of this rude man in front of me in the process.

I sit, boxed in on all sides and stewing, for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

As soon as we land, I’m beyond antsy to get off the plane. I keep trying, but I’m not able to get a look at the asshole in front of me. I spent the remaining two hours of the flight plotting out exactly what to say to him, how to lecture him on proper plane etiquette. I think I’ve got it down to a tight two minutes. It’s only when the man in the window seat clears his throat that I realize we can exit, and that I’ve completely missed my demon in well-tailored armor.

I scurry off the plane and look around for his navy suit at the terminal, but he’s nowhere to be found. I hurry into the bathroom to try to salvage my clothes, though the stain has already clearly set. I sigh. Maybe I can scold him at baggage claim, I reason.

Baggage claim itself is a nightmare, as it always is around the holidays. It’s been so long since I flew home at this time of year, I’d almost forgotten. I finally find the carousel for our flight, but I don’t see him. I position myself near a family with three kids under five, who are all screaming because they want to help get the bags off the conveyor belt, and their dad keeps saying they’re too small.

I have this memory of being here at O’Hare, probably about the same age as these kids, maybe even before Hannah was born. Dad lifting me up and putting me on top of the suitcases, placed haphazardly on the luggage cart. Mom yelling about how wildly unsafe it was, but laughing all the same. I’m giggling with pure glee as he slowly starts pushing the cart. I yell for him to go faster, but Mom says that’s enough. Dad winks at me, scooping me up into his arms. I think he’d forgotten his razor that trip, and he had more scruff than usual. I remember it scratching my forehead as I leaned my face on his cheek, but I didn’t even care.

I’m snapped back into reality by the buzz of the conveyor belt starting. I look around, and that’s when I see him. Fitted navy slacks. What I now can tell is a perfectly pressed white shirt. How did he manage that after sleeping on the plane? Navy suit jacket. No tie. My gaze rolls up until I realize he’s staring right at me. Maybe he has been this whole time.

Henry Cole.

He doesn’t even pretend to look away when we lock eyes. His are still that striking blue I could never get out of my head, only now they’re searing right through me. His thick dark hair is well coiffed.

I haven’t willingly spoken to him since the fall of our senior year of high school. The day my dad died, when it was unavoidable. Henry came to the house every day that we sat shiva after that. Even though he was missing school, just like I was, he was still there. Seven days, and we didn’t exchange a single word. I couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. I wouldn’t let myself.

This is worse than I thought.

Before my brain has connected with my feet, they’re already moving me into his space. He still doesn’t look away until I’m right in front of him, when he glances down to my stained sweater, then back up to meet my eyes.

“I know people like to travel comfortably, but Norah, come on.”

His voice runs like ice through my veins. I don’t like my name on his tongue.