Chapter Seventeen. Mile High-Jinks
Chapter Seventeen
Mile High-Jinks
I yawn as I sink into the cushy armchair beside Felix’s in Toronto Pearson’s first-class lounge. He turns to me and jerks his head toward the snack station, where Necktie is trying (unsuccessfully) to eat a bagel while on a call.
“You want anything?” he asks. I shake my head. “Alrighty.”
As he considers the multitude of green juice options, I frown. Since I left him high and dry on the rooftop in Philly, I’ve been waiting for him to have some reaction to my sudden friendzoning, but it’s like nothing happened.
The morning after we almost kissed, he greeted me with iced coffee and a smile.
On our flight to Toronto two days ago, we practiced signs about Ava’s upcoming tennis season.
Backstage last night, we played a round of poker with Calum and Will.
(Which I won, taking home two packages of sour gummy worms, seven Slim Jims, and four bottles of Sprite.)
I’m confused by his refusal to acknowledge what happened, but also relieved. Denial is better than awkwardness.
After selecting a juice, Felix starts to return. Lachlan quickly relocates to the chair beside me. A fleeting frown crosses Felix’s face, but he doesn’t say anything and takes another empty seat.
Lachlan’s hands are primed to sign, but he’s cut off by Necktie, looking slightly less pissed than usual.
“There’s been a change of plans,” he announces. We all groan. “I’m sitting with Felix on the plane. Find a different seat, girlie.” He shoots me a dirty look.
Felix straightens, muscles going rigid. “We’re gonna practice. Besides, I’m the one who bought her ticket.”
“Do I look like I care?” Necktie snaps. Then he explains, rapid-fire, “VERSACE invited you— —Milan Fashion Week. We have— —conference call when we land. Donatella wants to speak to you. The head of PR and I— —brief you on the flight.”
Felix’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning, all traces of indignation and anxiety instantly gone. “Really?!” His eyes nearly bug out of his head. Necktie nods curtly. “Holy shit!”
Necktie pulls out his phone and makes another call, heading back toward the snack counter.
Calum claps Felix’s shoulder. “That’s awesome, dude.”
The others congratulate him, too, but when his focus shifts to me, he deflates slightly. “I’m sorr—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “Congrats!”
“You can sit with me and Cal. Our row isn’t full,” Lachlan says using SimCom. I glance at Calum, and he gives me a thumbs-up while slurping a Monster energy drink.
While we wait for boarding, Felix and I squeeze in some practice, but he’s distracted. I don’t hold it against him, though. If someone told me the Deaf Center won a once-in-a-lifetime renovation, I would be too thrilled to focus.
On the plane, Calum and Lachlan let me have the window seat and I tuck Ginger into the small footwell, but her tail spills over onto Lachlan’s feet. I rub an apologetic fist on my chest, but he assures me it’s fine, tapping his thumb, other fingers splayed, on his sternum.
Felix, Necktie, and the boys’ PR person are across from us. Felix can’t contain his joy while Necktie shows him an e-document I assume contains details of the VERSACE offer. I make out pictures of flashy runway outfits—they seem right up his alley.
I’m happy for him. Besides, this’ll give me a chance to catnap before we land in New Jersey. Unfortunately, my dreams of relaxation come crashing down when the plane starts taxiing down the runway, the forceful rumbling causing my heart to thunder and my ears to hurt.
Out of pure instinct, I grab the hand of the boy next to me but release it immediately when I remember it’s Lachlan, not Felix.
“Sorry,” I sign, holding on to the armrest instead.
“You scared of flying?” he asks. When I don’t reply, he holds his hand palm-out toward me, glancing at my iron grip on the armrest. I accept the offer and squeeze.
After what seems like an eternity, we’re in the air, and my anxiety fades alongside the rumbling. Lachlan clunkily pats my shoulder when I release his hand. “Are you scared of flying?” he repeats.
“Takeoff and landing always freak me out a little. Thanks for your help.”
“If you need to hold my hand during landing, you can.” He flashes a supportive smile.
Calum leans forward in his aisle seat, and his brown eyes dart between us. He smirks, and Lachlan jabs him in the ribs. Calum only laughs. After putting his hair into a unicorn horn ponytail, he asks, “Natalie, what’s bass in ASL?”
It’s my turn to smirk. “You’re not going to like it.
” He pre-emptively groans. I cup my left hand as if I’m holding the neck of the instrument and swipe an F-shaped hand in the air in front of my torso as if strumming with a pick, then I fingerspell bass.
“It’s just guitar and then bass spelled out to clarify. ”
“There’s not a separate sign?” He tsks. “That’s bassism.”
I stifle a laugh, and Lachlan face-palms before signing, “Don’t encourage him.”
Calum doesn’t dwell on the bassism for too long, and in true goldfish fashion, he suggests: “Let’s play a game.” He nudges Lachlan and looks at me hopefully.
“Aren’t we a little old for games?” Lachlan deadpans.
“Lach, someday you’re going— —be in a retirement home with memory loss because— —didn’t keep your brain sharp in your youth— —you’ll think, ‘I should’ve played that damn game with Cal and Nat.’”
I bite back a grin. They interact like siblings. It reminds me of Jo and me and almost makes me wish I was at home bickering with her. Almost. “I’m down,” I say.
“See? We’ll age gracefully, but you’ll be like— —potato left in the sun.”
Lachlan pinches the bridge of his nose before reluctantly saying and signing, “Fine.”
“Two truths and a lie?” Calum suggests.
“Hell no,” I interject. “You’ve known each other over a decade! That’s basically cheating.”
“Okay, okay. How about Lach and I tell— —fact about a band member, and you have to guess who? If— —get three out of five correct, we give you our snacks. If you get less— —three, you give me your snacks.”
“That only benefits you,” Lachlan argues.
“Do you really want— —extra bag of stale plane popcorn?” Lachlan doesn’t reply. “Exactly.”
They spend a few minutes whisper-conferring and write everything down on Calum’s phone.
When they emerge, Calum flips his phone toward me and presents the first question: Who memorized hangul—the Korean alphabet—and can sound out words but doesn’t understand them since he doesn’t actually know any Korean?
I was hoping their questions would be things I’d read online, but that was clearly na?ve.
I mentally run through everything I know about them.
Will is smart, but so is Lachlan, plus he’s Felix’s best friend.
I doubt Calum would dedicate precious brain cells to learning a different alphabet, and Mateo’s only been in the group a year … “Lachlan?”
“Will.”
Damn it.
“Ready?” Lachlan asks after Calum passes him his phone. I nod.
Who was the only member who took formal vocal lessons, pre–record deal?
Immediately, Felix comes to mind. He has an angelic voice. The other boys are extremely talented, too, but I trust my gut instinct. “Felix?”
“No.” Lachlan’s lips twist in a lopsided frown. “Me.”
I internally cringe. It was bad enough the label stripped him of his lead singer role, but when he was the only member who received actual lessons? That must’ve cut deep.
“For what it’s worth, you have a great voice. I can tell you’ve worked really hard,” I murmur, not sure what else to say.
“Thanks…” he breathes.
Calum quickly moves on to the next question, breaking through the lingering awkwardness: Whose first instrument was the glockenspiel?
“What the hell is a glockenspiel?” I ask, bewildered.
“I don’t have to tell you. That wasn’t in the terms and agreements.”
I’m relieved when Lachlan grabs his own phone from the seat pocket in front of him and flips it toward me after a quick Google search.
On the screen are photos of a vaguely triangle-shaped instrument with a wooden frame and metal bars laid out biggest to smallest. What catches my attention, though, are two wooden mallets I assume are used to strike the bars.
Based on the mallets alone, I guess, “Mateo?”
The hitting-glockenspiel-bars-to-hitting-drums pipeline seems plausible.
Calum heaves a disappointed sigh.
When I signal I’m ready, Lachlan flips Calum’s phone toward me. Who had four hedgehogs as a kid that were named after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?
I’m taken aback by the sheer absurdity of this lore. How am I supposed to know who had childhood hedgehogs? But then I remember the times I’ve seen Calum’s Ninja Turtle boxers. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t have a better guess. “Cal?”
Lachlan gives me a thumbs-up. Calum shows me the next question in his Notes app immediately. Possibly in an attempt to frazzle me.
Who volunteered at a dog shelter during middle and high school?
I freeze. Felix is the only member who hasn’t been an answer, so by default, it should be him … But I can’t imagine Mr. “cats are superior” at a dog shelter.
“It’s one fact per member, right?” I clarify.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“What? You shouldn’t repeat members!”
“I never said anything— —fact per member,” Calum defends.
“This whole band is full of cheats and tricksters!” I cry. Lachlan chuckles.
“That’s showbiz, baby.” Calum winks.
I mentally remind myself to not play games with him again. Felix may be a suspected cheater, but at least he’s not Rumpelstiltskin incarnate.
I’ve gotten two wrong and two right. The fate of my snacks hinges on this. “Will? It has to be Will.”
A shit-eating grin creeps onto Calum’s face. “Nope.”
“Damn! Mateo?”
“Nope!” He cackles, then pokes Lachlan’s cheek. “This guy.”
“What?!” I exclaim louder than intended, and Felix peers across the aisle with a concerned look. I rub a fist on my chest, then focus on Lachlan. “You’re kidding.”
“I started struggling with depression— —seventh grade, and my therapist suggested spending time with animals. So I volunteered— —weekends.”
A flight attendant stops by our row and hands us each popcorn, a granola bar, and a fresh fruit cup. Calum extends his hand toward me. I give him my snacks with a defeated sigh. He pops in AirPods and opens Spotify.
“You don’t strike me as an animal person. Maybe a fish person,” I say, still shocked.
He hands me his fruit cup. “I love dogs.”
“Really? You’ve never so much as glanced at Ginger.”
“I’m not supposed to look at her,” he says before taking a bite of his granola bar. I look at her vest, which, next to a large red STOP sign, says in bold embroidered letters: NO TALK, NO TOUCH, NO EYE CONTACT. Fair enough.
I squint suspiciously.
“I’m not lying!” he insists with a hearty laugh.
I’m not sure I’ve seen him laugh like this.
It’s a direct juxtaposition to his typical stoicism.
I like this side of him. “I try to not get too attached anymore. At— —shelter, they’d get adopted or put down, and either way, I’d never see them again.
You can’t break— —heart like that, Natalie. ”
“Well, we could see each other after the tour.”
He lifts an eyebrow, his silver piercing rising with it. “Oh?”
My eyes dart across the aisle as Felix heads for the bathroom. Lachlan tracks my line of sight, and a muscle in his jaw leaps. When he looks back to me, his lips are set in a hard line. I frown. There’s the short fuse Calum and Will mentioned.
“We’d see each other because of you and Lix?” he asks.
“What? No. You’re from Seattle, too. I don’t know, I thought we could run into each other. Or you could come by my Deaf Center,” I explain. “Or we could stay friends. I understand if you’re too busy, but it’s been nice getting to know you.”
His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, considering me before signing, “That’d be great.” He pauses, wheels turning, before asking, “So … how are things between you two? You never said where you disappeared to— —his birthday.”
I hesitate—just long enough for his brows to furrow, suspicion creeping onto his face.
Lachlan’s become someone I trust, but this is …
complicated. Unlike Jo or Bhavani, Lachlan has stakes at play, personal and professional.
It’s safer and smarter to keep the whole truth about Felix’s and my … whatever-ship to myself.
“We went to the rooftop to get some fresh air and watch the fireworks,” I lie by omission. “Things are fine. We’re friends now.”
He doesn’t respond right away, simply stares at me as if he’s trying to read between the lines. After a long beat, he simply signs, “Good.”
His gaze shifts away a second later, but not before I catch the flicker of something behind his expression. Something a little too quiet, a little too knowing. I can’t shake the feeling that my answer wasn’t as “good” as he wants me to believe.