A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

Rule #1

NEVER CHASE A GHOSTER DURING HURRICANE SEASON

CAI

I take a deep breath and sink deeper into my window seat, the armrest jabbing the softest part of my hip as if it is personally offended by my thighs.

Perfect. Just what I need, a little extra self-loathing. But with any luck, no one will sit next to me, and I’ll have the row to myself.

I used to love flying. The feel of the leather seats, the smell of recycled air—it always gave me that nostalgic rush from childhood trips to Europe and South America.

I remembered the excitement and anxiety on the plane when I flew to relocate to Arizona two years ago.

I haven’t been home to Miami since. Money is tight, pride is expensive, and I refused to let my family buy me a ticket.

Now I’ve blown every last dollar I’ve saved to visit my family for Christmas on this last-minute flight to Puerto Rico instead.

I tug my hoodie lower and cross my arms, trying to keep my hand from yanking out my phone and rereading Trevor’s texts for the hundredth time. If the messages were on paper, they’d be worn thin from handling.

It doesn’t matter; they are burned into my brain.

With sickening hindsight, I remembered how smug I’d felt staying cool and aloof during his trip to Puerto Rico for his friend Brad’s bachelor party.

I wanted to text constantly, but I limited myself to quick check-ins and good nights.

I thought he’d appreciate that I wasn’t like those nagging girls who pestered their boyfriends 24/7.

He’d appreciate the trust. He gave one- or two-word replies until yesterday, when he dropped the bomb:

Trevor

I’m extending my trip; maybe indefinitely.

I’d blinked at it incredulously. What did “indefinitely” mean? Every attempt to stay cool flew out the window, and I’d replied with a series of increasingly unhinged texts. He’d left me on read and then blocked me.

So here I am on a one-way flight to Puerto Rico to win him back. I have it all figured out:

Step 1: Go to Puerto Rico. I am already on my way, so I am kicking things off with a bang!

Step 2: Find out where he is staying. It’s possible that I may have played it a bit too aloof with the details.

Step 3: Confront him wearing my favorite dress, look amazing, smile big, and show up at the hotel bar or restaurant where he and all his friends will be. They’ll see me, and be like, “Oh dang! Who’s that hot babe?”

I’ll turn slowly, the wind blowing my hair back perfectly. Their jaws will drop. Trevor will say, “That’s my girl!” From somewhere, our song will start playing: “Stay with Me” by Sam Smith. He’ll think, “Is this fate?”

All the guys will look at him in disbelief and say something like, “You were considering staying here when you have her waiting at home?!”

He’ll go, “Oh my God, you’re so right. What was I thinking?!” Then he’ll beg me for forgiveness, and be so moved by my grand gesture that he’ll probably propose on the spot.

This is a solid plan and totally normal behavior. It was exactly what every heroine in every romance movie does for love; they fight for it! I am going to prove we are worth fighting for. This was going to be the beginning of our happily ever after.

I stare again at the empty seat next to me, feeling somewhat symbolic of my current status. I might take the opportunity to shed a few more tears into my hoodie and get it out of my system before the grand romantic gesture.

Then I hear a voice that crushes my plan.

A deep, low, frustrated voice arguing with the flight attendant a few rows up. He is saying something about a first-class downgrade, a booking error.

“I paid extra for this seat. There has to be a mistake.” The man was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, with a backpack slung over his back.

He looked more like he should be arguing about his college classes than a first-class airline ticket.

I clocked his ebony skin and athletic build before telling myself to stop being so nosy and forcing myself to look away.

Apparently, he gives up the fight, and as is my luck, he drops into the aisle seat next to me. He doesn’t even look my way, just sighs, long legs folding awkwardly, eyes darting around at the other passengers on the plane.

My stomach drops. I have probably invited this by staring at him so hard in the first place. Great. Even strangers have to be rerouted by fate just to end up near me; nobody would choose this voluntarily. My therapist would have a field day.

One positive is that he smells incredible. He carries the scent of expensive soap and faint ginger spice, warm and inviting against the plane’s sterile cleaner scent, and it makes my stomach do a small, annoying flip.

I put in my earbuds, telling myself to get a grip and stop smelling the stranger. I unwrap a piece of gum, pop it into my mouth, and chew as if my life depends on it. Headphones on, eyes half-closed, fake-napping activated.

Do not talk to me. Do not see me. Just let me disappear until I can fix this mess with Trevor.

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.