Chapter 2
TWO
I’M LIKE A BIRD — NELLY FURTADO
Stifling a yawn, I glance over at the man to my left.
His guttural snoring has been an unwelcome soundtrack for most of this flight.
Every few moments his head will loll forward…
then violently jerk back a second or two later.
I have to pee, but I’m slightly concerned that if I wake him he’ll give himself whiplash.
While I’ve been trying (and failing) to concentrate on the enemies-to-lovers romance blooming deliciously within the pages of my novel, I’m fading—fast. My hope for at least one cup of crappy airline coffee was dashed not even twenty minutes into the flight, when an apologetic flight attendant announced sheepishly to the cabin that there would be no coffee on the plane today.
Now all my tired, delusional brain can contemplate is just how close this man seems to snapping his head clean off his neck altogether with the force of its drooping and lolling.
And, more pressingly, how close I am to peeing myself.
As his head sags forward for the hundredth time, I finally decide that nudging him awake is now a life-or-death matter.
But before I must resort to physical contact I don’t want to make, he chokes out a gurgling snort from his slackened mouth and wakes with a jolt, blinking away the daze of sleep.
It takes everything in me not to laugh when I catch him wincing and massaging his neck firmly with the heel of his palm.
Instead, I stand and politely edge past him and his neighbor, heading toward the back of the plane and the long bathroom line currently snaking down the aisle.
I come to stop at the end of the line and find myself sandwiched between two of the young families I saw earlier at the gate.
A baby, cooing sweetly, rests on her mother’s shoulder, while the other mom is rubbing her sleepy toddler’s back as he watches a whimsical cartoon, featuring dogs wearing animal-print onesies, on an iPad.
I wish someone would rub my back to help me sleep.
Alas, I am an adult. And alone.
I’m lost in thought about how cartoons have changed since I was a kid when a petite young woman who looks like she just got out of college twists around in line and catches sight of me.
She does a double take as her big, brown doe eyes meet mine.
A spark of recognition flits across her face, then she exclaims, “Oh, I know you!”
I freeze, and I’m not quite sure what my face does next, but I have a feeling my expression contorts into a “who, me?” look of bewilderment.
“I, uh—” I stammer, feeling awkward. I’m nearly twice the size of this woman, my tall frame a near-comical contrast to her barely-five-foot self.
She has straight black hair cropped into a neat, layered, chin-length bob that flicks out at the ends—very early 2000s Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.
But the resemblance to the twins stops there.
Her dark eyes slope up gently at the corners, rimmed with black eyeliner and framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.
A broad grin pulls at her full lips, lighting up her face with genuine warmth.
Without missing a beat, she takes my hand and shakes it eagerly. From someone so small, I expect a weak grip, but it’s surprisingly firm.
“Sora Harumoto,” she states, beaming as she squeezes my hand. I blink, uncertain of what this name is supposed to mean to me. Is it hers? Does she think it’s mine?
Her face falls a bit when I don’t respond right away, and she backtracks.
“I’m a junior PA for Love at First Sail…we met last week on the Zoom call? We’re supposed to share a taxi when we land…”
It starts to click in my head. Production assistant. Taxi. Land. Right—the whole reason I’m here. I’m in an airplane, on my way to film a stupid reality TV show on a stupid cruise ship so I can pay my stupid rent.
How could I forget?
I think back to the Zoom production meeting last Wednesday.
I had been on-camera for all of five minutes to introduce myself, then turned it off, citing “connection problems” in the chat.
Really, I just wanted to continue snacking on Doritos while watching Grey’s Anatomy in the background with the sound off.
It’s not that I wasn’t paying attention to the meeting, I just…
wasn’t putting my whole self into it. I’ve done so many of these meetings in the past that I already had a vague idea of every important detail the executive producer might relay to us: Keep track of your schedule and call time; try not to get other cruise passengers in the shot if you don’t have a PA with you who can get them to sign a release; we’re not insured for reckless shit, so don’t do something stupid… the usual.
It’s not like I’m a DOP, or a producer—crew members who need to be tuned in to everything going on with the contestants.
I’ll probably spend half my time shooting close-ups of drinks being poured or getting wide shots of us sailing into port.
I was honestly more invested in what was happening at Seattle Grace Hospital in the Grey’s rerun than I was in what the executive producer was saying.
So, no, I didn’t recognize or remember this woman.
But I certainly wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Oh, yes! Hi!” I manage a laugh and squeeze her hand in return before she drops it. “Sorry, I’m half-asleep and didn’t manage to get a coffee before we took off. I’m a little out of it. I’m Chloe Hill.”
She smiles again, and I can’t help but think of my sister.
They’re probably about the same age. Although, unlike Kyla, Sora seems to be more confident.
Despite her short height, her shoulders are squared and she’s standing up straight—and not in a way that suggests she’s trying too hard or overthinking it, like I would look.
She’s comfortable in her skin, and it shows.
“Yes, I know,” she chuckles.
“Right!” I say awkwardly.
“Where are you sitting? I didn’t see you board the flight.
I’m right over there—next to the bathroom.
” She gives me a disgusted look before miming puking, then pauses briefly before adding a second, more graphic, gesture that I think is supposed to be representative of using a toilet.
My brain practically short-circuits as she giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world, a little snort only adding to the effect. A small smile tugs at my lips.
What a charming little weirdo.
“Oh, uh, up there somewhere.” I motion toward the front of the plane. “I guess I got the better seat. Except the man next to me is an…aggressive sleeper.” She looks confused, but I wave her off.
“I am so ready for this flight to be over,” she groans. “Who knew flying was so uncomfortable? I sure didn’t! I can’t wait to get to the hotel and take a long shower and maybe grab some food. Have you been to Italy before? I haven’t. Actually, I’ve never even been out of the country!”
I can barely keep up with Sora’s rapid-fire, stream-of-consciousness chatter. Is it possible she’s the reason why there’s no coffee on the plane? Because she drank it all?
“Um, yeah. Once or twice. Actually, I think three times? But one of those was just the airport,” I mumble, edging aside to let the large man with the cowboy hat pass by.
His appearance is a little worse for wear now than it was at the gate—rumpled clothes, bags under his bloodshot eyes, and lines creasing his face.
I can’t imagine how torturous the rest of this flight will be for him and his seat companions.
The line shuffles closer to the bathroom.
“How can you not remember how many times you’ve been to Italy before, Chloe?” Sora asks, her tone bewildered.
I laugh awkwardly, thinking back to when I was this green in the film industry.
Back then, every gig, no matter how crappy, was a new adventure.
Every task from a cranky director was a challenge I knew I could rise to.
And when the job came with a plane ticket to somewhere I had never been before? I felt like I’d won the lottery.
“I guess eventually you get used to the travel, and then at some point it starts to feel like just another commute, you know? Kind of…loses its sparkle,” I say offhandedly with a shrug.
My memories from those first few years of my career are still so vivid, but I find that I can’t seem to recall the last time I truly looked forward to a gig that required travel.
When did that happen? And was it the travel that had lost its appeal, or was it that any sense of meaning and fulfillment in the job had faded?
I honestly had no idea anymore.
Sora’s eyes widen to saucers. “Wow, I can’t imagine this ever getting old! I’ve never even been on a plane before.”
“This is going to be such a great experience for you, then,” I remark. I try to put some enthusiasm behind the words, but it’s hard—a knot that feels a lot like jealousy coils tight in my chest.
“Yeah, I think it will be.” There’s an awkward pause, which seems to make Sora uncomfortable, as she blurts out, “Anyway, I’m really looking forward to working with you!
“Likewise,” I say, offering her a weary smile as she turns to face forward again.
My thoughts wander.
I envy Sora for being at the start of her career, optimistic and excited about the adventure ahead. When had I become so jaded that I can’t even psych myself up about flying to Italy? Or exploring the Mediterranean coast?
When I really think about it, though, I know it’s because that’s just not how this job will play out.
When I’m on the ship, I’ll yearn to be on shore.
And when I’m filming on shore—on an excursion, or in the port cities—I won’t be able to experience the things I want to, like enjoying new foods, seeing the sights, or soaking up the culture.
And I certainly won’t be capturing it on camera. Instead of framing a shot in just the right way that translates the awe-inducing grandeur of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona, my camera will be trained on a wannabe Instagram influencer as she blows a tiny misunderstanding way out of proportion.
Because we can’t miss a single minute of the drama, right?
The multibillion-dollar reality TV industry has been designed to churn out fame-hungry personalities with mass-market appeal, or to sell some idea of love that doesn’t feel real, instead of opening one’s mind to the wonders of the world.
That’s why travel has lost its sparkle. That’s why I can’t bring myself to care.
We’ve finally reached the bathrooms and the old lady who had been ahead of Sora is now vacating the one closest to her, ducking her head shyly as she scurries back to her seat. Sora glances at me with a pained expression, clearly bracing herself for the worst, and disappears behind the door.
Finally, the other bathroom door opens and a flustered mom, her toddler in tow, emerges—the toddler looking thrilled, while the mom looks what can only be described as battle-weary.
The corner of my mouth lifts as I let them pass.
While some day I would love to have kids, this is a good reminder that I’m definitely not there yet.
The cramped bathroom thankfully doesn’t smell as bad as I was expecting it to, and after I’ve managed to empty my bladder and wash my hands, I survey my reflection in the mirror.
The harsh overhead lighting certainly isn’t doing me any favors, but for a travel day, I admit that I don’t actually look half bad.
My mass of curly, dark brown hair is piled high on my head, with a few loose tendrils curling at my nape and temples.
The tousled attempt at a bun is held in place with a pink scrunchie that I stole from Kyla.
I generally prefer to wear black and…well, other shades of black, so pink is a little “out there” for me. But it reminds me of her. Of home.
Despite not having any coffee in my system and only having slept a few hours last night, my brown eyes are—surprisingly—not rimmed with red, and my skin is flushed in a way that actually seems intentional, as if I put on a touch of blush.
Which I definitely did not. Makeup, in my mind, is not for travel.
Who am I going to run into that I know? Other people who are equally exhausted and bedraggled from an international flight?
Once I’ve freshened up, I slip back into my seat just as the flight attendant announces that we’re preparing to land.
Which means that, at some point—high over the Atlantic Ocean, and without my even realizing it—my time of birth passed.
I guess I expected that I’d feel different when I passed through the threshold separating “young adult” from “middle-aged” (or would it be “quarter-aged”?), but it’s only now that the realization hits me: I’m officially thirty years old.
I gaze out the window, melancholic. Wistful.
Misty white clouds begin to clear as we descend, revealing the vibrant landscape below.
A patchwork of green and brown fields stretches across the horizon, soon giving way to tiny pinpricks of darker hues—houses and buildings, cars and people.
Towns soon become cities, and then, just like that, the mechanical whirring of the wheels extending out from the belly of the plane vibrates throughout the cabin.
Sora’s words echo in my mind.
I know, in the deepest part of me, that travel will always be sacred. It will always stoke that aching sense of wonder, fanning the flames into full-blown reverence as I wander a country not my own.
I just wish I could do it on my own terms.
Maybe that will be my dream for my thirties: to finally see the world as I want to see it. The warmth of this thought soothes my anxious brain. With a deep sigh, I pop in my earbuds and scroll through Spotify until I find my favorite travel playlist: Chloe’s ‘90s Hits.
So I like to live in the past, sue me.
I press play and the languid notes of one of my favorite power ballads fills my ears. I let my eyes flutter closed and the singer’s feminine rage drowns out my swirling thoughts as we approach the runway.
Six weeks.
I just have to get through the next six weeks, and then I can go home and never do this again.