8. Ok, but who was that other guy?
CHAPTER EIGHT
ok, but who was that other guy?
PRESENT
Our goodbye with my parents would be quick and easy—the happy pre-trip excitement mixed with the kinda sad I’ll-miss-you feeling—if not for Mom’s very suggestive eyebrow waggle when she says she hopes Forrest and I have the best time. I ignore it and pray Forrest doesn’t see.
I’m usually running up to my gate as they’re calling my boarding group, but we planned today for Forrest’s timeline, which apparently includes getting to the airport early enough to take a flight somewhere else, come back, and still have time to get a snack before we get on our plane.
After we check our bags, we head through security and get two seats right in front of the gate—since nobody is here.
Then we wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
Just when I start getting jittery, Forrest reaches into his bag and pulls out a brand-new book of games.
Silently, he hands it to me. When we were little, these were my favorites.
I’d sit in our treehouse for hours going page by page through books just like this one.
There are probably still boxes of half-finished ones somewhere in the attic at the house.
Word searches, sudoku, logic games. I love them all, except for crosswords.
“Ooh! Thank you!” I say, doing a little happy dance in my seat as I take it. His eyes crinkle when he smiles back at me. He sets his elbow on the armrest between us, a light weight against the side of my forearm.
As I flip through the pages to see what options we’ve got, I notice some are ripped out. When I look back at Forrest, I see him unfold a stack of torn-out crosswords and prop them on his knee.
Forrest once said we’re like pieces of a puzzle, fitting together around each other.
I wonder if this is what he meant. I wonder if he still thinks it.
Considering how much he’s grown and how his life has changed since our breakup, plus the fact that he now dates women who aren’t me, I expect not. I expect he tries to think very little about the things he said when we were together.
But I think it’s still there. Even just as friends, I think we go together.
Getting to the airport so early does leave time for us to get food and eat before the flight, a good thing since we’ll be in the air for dinnertime.
There are no rules for food on travel days, so we share a hodgepodge of hot cheese puffs, salty fries, a BLT, and a Caesar salad.
Forrest is getting rid of the remnants of our feast when boarding finally starts.
I’ve also completed three sudoku puzzles and a word search.
When we get to our row, I pull my laptop out before Forrest slides the messenger bag into the overhead bin for me, right beside his backpack.
He keeps a book and his crosswords with him, and that’s it.
I still have my over-stuffed purse full of things I won’t need but couldn’t imagine not having within arms-reach, and Forrest’s over here practically rawdogging a cross-country flight.
What’s he going to do? Sit alone with his thoughts? I could never.
As we slide into opposite sides of our row, I theatrically salute him.
“See you in six hours, soldier,” I say.
Forrest shakes his head at my antics but smiles nonetheless.
Shortly after we sit, a couple that had been happily chatting away as they boarded takes the two aisle seats between us.
Whenever they can, they continue leaning across the aisle to whisper to each other, the woman beside me giggling and blushing like a new bride when the man beside Forrest tenderly brushes her hair out of her face.
It’s incredibly sweet if still disruptive to the boarding process.
The woman checks something on her phone that seems to displease her before returning to her canoodling.
Across the way, Forrest leans forward just enough for me to catch his uncomfortable expression, and I have to basically shove my fist in my mouth to keep from laughing. Even though these two are in public, it does feel a bit like we’re intruding.
“No, you should. Really,” the man’s whispers get a little louder.
“Ok. Fine… I will,” she acquiesces before they part, and she turns toward me.
“I’m so sorry to be that person, and it’s completely ok to say no.
I’m not a crazy person or anything who’s going to go off.
But would you mind switching seats with my husband so we can sit together?
It’ll get you out of the middle seat and into an aisle.
He can ask a flight attendant if it’s ok,” she says, her voice light and airy like it’s made of candy, and her eyes wide with anticipation after she finishes her request.
“Oh my god, I wouldn’t mind at all,” I agree quickly, grinning at my good luck. It’s actually perfect.
Boarding is practically finished, so I collect my purse and laptop and am getting up as she’s profusely thanking me.
She stands to let me out, and I’m confused when the man beside Forrest pops in headphones and opens a book, not at all looking like he’s ready to swap seats.
I’m about to tap him on his shoulder when the woman points to a completely different man standing a dozen rows up the plane.
“That’s him right up there. Exit row aisle seat on the right,” the woman says, leaving me completely baffled.
Say what now?
“Oh! Um… right.” With a very confused glance at Forrest, who looks just as uncertain, I start heading up the aisle. I kind of want to take back my agreement to switch seats, but that feels like a dick move at this point.
The man who is apparently the husband thanks me stiffly as we squeeze past one another.
His aisle seat with extra leg room is objectively superior to my middle seat way back in the plane, but I’d switch back in a heartbeat.
It’s dumb because Forrest and I weren’t even sitting together, but at least we were closer than this.
My phone buzzes.
Forrest
What the hell is happening right now. Who is this guy if that’s her husband?
Literally what is happening? I lean out from my new seat to look back and find the woman leaning against her husband. The man beside Forrest is still engrossed in his book.
Forrest is usually king of minding his own business, so I am a little amused he’s as interested in this dynamic as I am, and I hope he’ll report back once we land.
Maybe they’re all together. Or maybe the first man is the woman’s mistress.
Or maybe it’s a really uncomfortable brother-sister situation.
Me
You’ve got six hours to find out
We take off, and I’ve got six hours to sit beside these seemingly ordinary strangers and write.
I put it off for a while, distracting myself with the book Forrest brought for me.
When I feel like I can procrastinate no more, I flip open my laptop and see it didn’t charge nearly as much as I’d hoped it would before we left, but these seats have outlets, so it’ll be fine.
I’ve long since given up on trying to plot anything.
Instead, I start by typing whatever pops into my head.
Quotes. Things I need to do. Interesting names I like.
Random plot questions. I scroll through random pages on Pinterest, look at pretty pictures of nature, and pop on Reddit to see what people are discussing.
At this point, I’ll look anywhere for a story idea.
I keep coming back to the three people from the back of the plane. Then I start thinking about love. And secrets. Forbidden love. For dangerous reasons.
The low battery alert pops up on my screen. At least I now have an excuse to slip to the back of the plane where my messenger bag is so I can get my charger and—
Shit.
I mentally run through my last few moments before leaving the house. I got my purse, unplugged my laptop, slipped it into the laptop bag… and said goodbye to Jigsaw.
I never got the charger from the wall.
I pick up my phone, praying Forrest connected to the Wi-Fi after takeoff too.
Me
I’m so screwed. I left my laptop charger at home, and it’s about to die again. And I might have almost been thinking of an idea. Maybe.
The message shows as delivered, but Forrest doesn’t seem to be responding. Maybe he fell asleep.
I feel like such a fucking idiot.
Then, something bops me on the top of my head. I look up, and there’s Forrest with the notebook that he just tapped me with and a pen in his hand.
“You don’t need a computer to write. You just need you,” he says, holding them out for me.
It’s a thin, plain black notebook, definitely well-loved with all the corners curling just a little bit. I recognize it instantly, the same kind of notebook he’s carried since we were schoolchildren. I bought him his first one.
I told him it was a safe place to keep his thoughts. One look at the notebook tells me he’s been writing something in at least the first quarter of it. Of course I’m curious, but I’d never invade his privacy and look.
“Forrest, I can’t take that,” I protest.
“You can, and you will. Just start from the back and use as much as you need. We can buy another one when we land or buy you a new laptop charger. Or both.”
When he says it like that, I realize leaving the charger really isn’t as big of a deal as it felt a moment ago. Forrest does that for me. Brings perspective. Reminds me things are going to be alright. Aren’t I the one who just told him Arizona has stores for forgotten items?
I take the book and pen, but snag on his sweater sleeve when he goes to return to his seat. I tug on it until he bends over.
“What’s going on back there? With our new friends?” I whisper urgently, eager for any hint of news.
“I have no clue.” He shakes his head. “She hasn’t even looked at the first guy since her husband sat down.”
“Huh,” is the only response I can come up with. Because for the first time in over a year, the hint of an idea tickles the back of my brain.