Chapter 14 #2
About to board. The guy in the blue hat and gray sweatpants gave me this before he got in line. What do I do?!
Her reply is instantaneous.
Lola
Mama approves. Does he give off serial killer vibes?
I’ve seen all the documentaries and serial killers can be charming. It’s how they lure people in. He was charming when I talked to him, so maybe?
Lola
A plane is a safe space, too many witnesses. Carpe the fuck out of this diem and take the seat!
Which instantly makes me sweat. But it also makes me want to do something out of character, something that scares me. After all, doing scary stuff is pretty much my life for the next month.
The call for group B inches up the anxiety, and as I move through the line and panic converges, I do my best to channel Lola. Fuck it, you can do this. Sit next to him, I tell myself.
By the time I enter the death machine, my Xanax muddled mind has convinced me that I can, indeed, do this. Eyes scanning the endless rows of people in front of me, I spot him midway. That damn grin shining like a beacon.
The bossy corner of my mind has taken up a bullhorn like she’s at a protest rally and is commanding through gritted teeth, So help me, Sophie, sit the fuck down or else.
He’s cute. And young. Too young. What would we talk about for three hours?
We probably don’t have anything in common.
Which makes me think of Good Guy and how much I like him even though we’re just friends.
And now I irrationally feel like I’m cheating on him because I think I’m flirting with this stranger. God, I’m so bad at this.
He’s still smiling as he stands to move into the middle seat so I can take the aisle seat.
He’s too big for the middle seat. He’ll be cramped and uncomfortable.
Which spirals into verbalizing the next excuse, because I read about it last night.
“I don’t want you to get blood clots in your legs.
” When he looks confused, as he should, I continue, “I’m sorry. ”
I keep walking. All the way to the last row. Where I stow my backpack in the overhead, tuck my camera bag under the seat in front of me, sit down, rest my head against the window, and promptly fall asleep as the adrenaline spike descends into a shame coma.
I’m never taking Lola’s drugs again.
I mean it this time.
Hours later, the jarring impact of wheels meeting tarmac jostles me awake.
I wait until we’ve taxied to the gate and the flight attendant welcomes us to Atlanta, before taking my phone out of my camera bag and turning airplane mode off.
My phone chimes repeatedly. And loudly. The volume must be turned all the way up.
There are multiple texts and a voicemail from Lola.
I open the voicemail first, tap the play icon, and fumble the phone.
It lands somewhere under my seat, out of reach, speaker on, as Lola’s voice resonates loud and clear.
“Well, what happened? How’d the airplane meet-cute with the serial killer go?
Joining the mile high club is on my bucket list, and since I’ll probably never fly, please tell me you two shoehorned in the bathroom and some Cirque de Soleil-level, naked contortion took place. ” She sighs dreamily.
“Please, make it stop,” I whisper. The seating area is compact, and appendages aren’t built to bend the way I need them to.
My fingers finally make contact with the phone as Lola says, “Hope you’re not dead. Love you.”
Head between my knees, I mutter, “Dead doesn’t sound so bad right about now.”
The gray-haired woman next to me is stowing her e-reader in her bag and unsuccessfully hiding a smile when I sit up. She leans close and whispers, “It’s on my bucket list too. Not the serial killer, the mile high club.”
I laugh, because I can’t do anything else, and apologize. “I’m sorry. That was my sister. She’s…”
“Fun?” she offers.
“I was going to say adventurous, but yeah, she’s definitely the fun sister.”
The exodus has reached our row, and as she stands, she smiles and says, “The world loves to pigeon-hole women: you’re the fun one or the boring one, the smart one or the creative one, the outspoken one or the kind one. Defy the labels. Be them all.”
She’s right. If only it were that easy. She’s almost to the exit before I collect my things and follow her.
I’m still groggy, but the walk through the airport is bringing me back to life with each step. Nerves are kicking in, but so is the hunger for a new challenge. Because that’s what this job is, a scary new challenge.
I follow the signs to baggage claim and ground transportation and text Lola as I go.
I chickened out. No bathroom sex. But the good news is my skin suit hasn’t been stripped away and used to make lampshades—I’m still wearing it. Serial killer averted. In other good news, the plane didn’t go down in a blazing inferno. So, double yay.
She responds instantly like she’s been waiting.
Lola
So happy to hear you dodged death, not once, but twice. And all before lunchtime. I’d tell you to buy a lottery ticket because it’s your lucky day, but since you didn’t have sex on an airplane with a hot AF, younger man, it clearly is not. Boo.
Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’m working up to the hard stuff.
Lola
You should always work up to the hard stuff. Foreplay is important.
I’m shaking my head, but I’m also smiling.
I gotta go. I need to call Hannah.
Lola
Share your location. I’m stalking your ass for the next 30 days.
I open my Maps app and do as she asked.
The ground is wet from recent rain, and the early July air outside feels like the inside of a rice steamer, hot and moist. No, just no.
I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life; humidity is a foreign phenomenon.
I thought maybe it was mythical, like Bigfoot or Nessie.
I immediately circle back through the sliding door into A/C to call Hannah.
She answers on the first ring and sounds a little harried. “Sophie?”
“Hi, Hannah. How are you? You sound stressed.” She’s usually so put-together. This current shift is concerning.
She sighs but then laughs and sounds more herself.
“It’s already been a day. Our flight was delayed, and the RV we reserved for the trip isn’t available.
They’ve upgraded us to a bigger model, which is fantastic, but it’s still being detailed.
Sorry, this is all kicking off with a clusterfuck from the get-go.
We should be on the road in about fifteen minutes, but it will take us about forty-five minutes to get there to pick you up. Are you okay waiting?”
I glance at the time on my phone and it’s almost noon. I know Hannah wanted to meet at the venue by one to check out the lighting and space. “Why don’t I grab an Uber and meet you at the venue? It will save everyone time.”
“If you’re sure? That would really help me salvage the morning and make up some time, and I’ll reimburse you the cost.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
I order an Uber and immediately share my location with Hannah, because it’s in my contract to do so.
This isn’t the first time I’ve wished I had Good Guy’s phone number so I could share it with him too.
I’ve hesitated to ask a few times because that would eventually lead to phone calls.
And hearing his voice would lead to wanting to know what he looks like, which would lead to Facetiming.
And that can only be a slippery slope. I don’t know if I want to risk changing the dynamic and jeopardizing our friendship because it’s the one thing that’s solid and concrete and reliable in my life right now. I like him so much.
While I wait, I message him instead.
First plane ride was a success. Phew.