Chapter Two
Still, I’m curious and can’t help taking a peek.
Next to me, Tyler goes back to getting settled.
He looks the same as he did a week or two ago when I saw him in the cafeteria and breezed right past him as he tried to say hello—long, slender frame, slouchy black hoodie, his signature dark brown flip of hair that matches the muddy brown of his eyes.
Eyes he always said were boring but I used to find endlessly fascinating when the light hit them just right and lit up all the flecks of gold nestled there.
Eyes that still track my movements whenever I catch a glimpse of him across our school hallway, instead of us walking side by side like we used to.
He’s usually laughing with Delia about some inside joke, the kind that I used to be a part of.
I can’t force myself to look in Tyler’s direction any longer, instead staring down at my hands in my lap, the petal-pink polish now chipped and gnawed away from the stress of the last few days.
The soul-sucking panic after leaving Jack voicemail after voicemail after voicemail, text after text after text, and not hearing anything back.
The kind of stress that makes you do something irrational, like convince your mom to let you start your spring break a week early and fly nearly halfway across the world.
Yeah, that kind of stress could wreak havoc on even the best manicure.
I was already exhausted, and now I’m really not in the mood to have an awkward, stilted conversation on what is now becoming the Flight from Hell. Next to me, Tyler says nothing, giving me the floor to get my feelings out, like he always does.
Or, rather, like he always used to.
I stare hard at my hands until I weaken and take out my phone, not blinking for so long that the letters of the podcast episode title start to blur together in front of me.
In my peripheral vision, I see Tyler taking out his own phone.
My mind immediately starts swimming with possibilities.
Is he texting his friends about this? Has he given up on trying to talk to me?
Two seconds ago, I was considering emptying my wallet to the woman next to me to avoid having to speak to Tyler, so I’m surprised by the painful twist in my gut at the thought that maybe he’d already given up trying.
Before I can open my mouth and finally force myself to say something, the screens on the in-seat televisions all synchronize and start their safety demonstration.
“Aloha and welcome aboard.” The screen flashes through examples of how to tighten your seat belt, use your oxygen mask, find the emergency exits—all wonderful things to put into your mind right when you’re about to take off into the skies in a giant metal death tube.
Another scene: an awkward (and scarily in sync) group of rowers slicing through the churning ocean, all of the men turning to the camera at once and saying in cultish unison, “It is a federal offense to remove any vests from the aircraft.”
It’s so creepy and campy that Tyler and I both snort in surprise at the same time.
He turns to me, eyes skimming over mine before quickly jerking away at the intense contact, pocketing his phone.
“That’s mildly disturbing for nearly six in the morning, huh?
” His tone is light and easy, clearly letting me off the hook for not answering his previous statement.
It’s a gift that I’m not sure I deserve, but I feel my shoulders relax in relief anyway.
“Yep,” I mumble, angling myself away from him.
After another second, from the corner of my eye, I see Tyler turn back toward his own screen, getting the hint that the conversation is over. “Well, it’s good to see you, Olive.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I jam my eyes shut in a weak attempt to fake sleep, praying the hot flush of my cheeks isn’t visible.
Of course he’d actually try to make small talk with me—I must be out of my mind to think he’d pretend to be semi-strangers for this entire journey.
But that never stopped me from being irrational when it comes to Tyler Ferris and my stupid, fickle heart.
And now, Olive Austin, you’re well and truly fucked.