Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
FLETCH
The weird tiny woman who smiled at me is in my row.
Nope, not in my row, right next to me.
Great.
I don’t do smiley people, but even if I did, this earnest little elf of a woman in her green denim jacket, plaid brown pants, and bubbly smile would be … a lot.
Doesn’t matter if she has a knockout smile or hazel eyes that shine way too bright.
In fact, those are part of the problem.
I shove my backpack beneath my seat while she stops in front of our row and drops the handle to her small rolling suitcase.
Then she glances up and wrinkles her nose.
What grown woman wrinkles her nose? Is she straight out of the North Pole?
She looks around her, like she’s checking that the aisle is clear. Then she squats, grabs her bag, and launches herself up, practically throwing it into the overhead compartment.
It’s like watching a clumsy puppy finally figure out stairs. Almost annoyingly endearing.
Almost.
She drops into the middle seat with a satisfied sigh and grins again.
If she starts talking …
I’m about to put in my earbuds when the woman says, “I have a charging cord if you need.”
I look at her in confusion. She smiles and points at the red light on my earbud case.
Out of battery.
I huff. “I’ve got one.”
“Cool. If you need an extra, just let me know.” Her light brown hair bounces just above her shoulders.
“Sure.” It comes out less sarcastic than I intended. Then I look at that absurd smile and can’t stop myself from adding, “Thanks.”
I grab my charger and plug it into the armrest port. But then I check my phone and notice that my downloads didn’t complete. And I only have one bar in here.
Crap.
“What do you like to listen to?” she asks, her voice light, her eyes curious. “I’m Poppy, by the way.”
No way is her name Poppy. Why would her parents do that to her? Was she not this obnoxiously tiny and cute as a baby?
“True crime,” I tell her. “And I’m Fletch. Well, Ollie. Ollie Fletcher.” At that, her eyebrows pull together and her eyes scan my face for just a moment.
“Good to meet you … Fletch? Ollie? What do I call you?”
“Doesn’t really matter,” I say.
She nods. “I used to love true crime. I was obsessed with Beyond Justice for a while.”
“Was?” I ask. I’m not being defensive. Beyond Justice has been the top podcast for the last two years. “What changed?”
“Nothing, really. I’m just burned out on it.” She looks past me, out the window. “It’s hard hearing all the aftermath the families deal with.”
I bristle. We’re close in that way sitting on a plane demands, but I lean my back into the window to get a better look at her. “But it’s real life.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her eyes tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re saying that other people’s pain was too hard for you. Do you have any idea what a luxury that is?” I realize too late how harsh I sound, but the damage is done. Her mouth falls open and her eyes well with tears.
“Shoot, I’m sorry,” I tell her, guilt making my chest cavity feel like a dirty, slimy swamp. “It’s a personal topic for me. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her head bobs in movements so small, I doubt she’s aware she’s making them.
“Wow,” she whispers.
The swamp in my chest swells into my throat until I’m almost choking. “I shouldn’t have said it,” I repeat. “I’m really sorry.”
She just nods and looks forward. And when the last passenger on our row drops to Poppy’s other side, she doesn’t even say hi to him.
I broke Poppy.
She keeps her head down through takeoff, and when the drink cart comes, I have to elbow her to get her attention.
She looks at me like a wounded puppy.
A puppy I wounded right after it figured out stairs.
I didn’t know I could dislike myself more. But is what I said really so bad?
Don’t answer that.
“Sorry, did you, uh, want a drink?” I ask, pointing at the flight attendant.
Her head whips over and I hear her sniff as she asks the attendant for a root beer.
A root beer.
I take a Dr Pepper and bag of peanuts and listen to nothing on my earbuds while I watch Poppy out of the corner of my eye.
I’m this close to apologizing again when the guy on her other side shifts in his seat. I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye—he’s sliding his wedding ring off and slipping it into his pocket.
My jaw tightens.
And then he starts talking to her.
Nope, flirting with her.
“I don’t usually talk to strangers on planes, but something tells me you’re different,” he says, his eyes lingering on her face too long.
I bet that’s what Ted Bundy told all his victims, I think with an internal side eye.
But Poppy just laughs. “I don’t know about that.”
“So, are you going to Denver for work or pleasure?” he asks.
My nostrils flare. He’s mid-30s, wearing a suit. I bet he’s got two kids … in addition to the wife he’s hiding from Poppy.
“Actually, I’m on the connecting flight to Rochester,” she says.
“Funny, I go to Rochester for work a lot.”
“Oh, that is funny,” she says.
His eyes are all over her face, like he’s hungry. “Are you meeting up with family?” he asks. “Or friends?”
Every alarm goes off in my head. His questions are coming too fast, like he’s ticking off boxes on his “predator-preparation list.” I lean so far into Poppy’s space, I catch a hint of coconut on her hair. “Family. What about you?”
The man’s eyes flicker with surprise. “Uh, sorry, what?”
“You asked if we’re meeting up with family or friends,” I say. “So I answered.” Poppy’s head is on a swivel. It whips to mine, and pure annoyance flashes across her face.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you two were together,” the man says, his body language changing immediately.
“We’re not,” Poppy says.
“We’re just going the same direction. Together.” I purposefully sound irritated, trying to make it sound like we’re a quarreling couple.
“What are you doing?” Poppy hisses.
“If he’s a psychopath, you’ll thank me later,” I say through my teeth.
“Yeah? And what if you’re the psychopath?” she shoots back.
“Psychopaths are charming. Is anything about me charming?” I’m trying to be self-deprecating, but I sound too annoyed. I’m trying to help the woman!
“Not all serial killers are psychopaths,” she mutters.
“Yeah, and they’re not all men, either,” I grumble.
In the whole time that we’ve been squabbling like angry exes, the man on the other side has put on his headphones and is already watching a movie.
When Poppy sees this, she glares.
I suppress a groan.
She’s fuming as she cracks her root beer and downs half of it. Frustrated, I take a sip of my Dr Pepper. And then the plane seems to jump, and a wave of soda spills down my chin and hoodie.
A snort of laughter sounds next to me. “I’m sorry,” Poppy says, still laughing.
She dabs her napkin against my chest, and I flex instinctively at her touch. And then I kick myself mentally, because I see the corner of her mouth curl.
I use my napkin next. “No you’re not.” I dab the small square against my hoodie, and it’s quickly soaked without having done almost anything.
“I am,” she insists. “I mean, you had it coming, but I’m sorry the universe made you pay for what you did.”
On Poppy’s other side, the man is now firmly engrossed in his movie. I’m 99% sure it’s Boiler Room.
“What I did was keep you safe from that guy,” I say.
“Safe?” She sounds bewildered.
“Yeah. He starts with flattery—gets you to drop your guard—and then he asks questions like he’s going through a checklist. Trying to see if anyone will notice when you disappear.”
“When? You’re so sure of his intentions it’s not even if we’re talking about—it’s when.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe you need to stop listening to true crime, already.”
“Right, and listen to ‘The Non-Toxic Optimism Revolution?’”
“Oh, I’ve been wondering about that one! Is it good?”
I actually roll my eyes. “I made it up.”
“I know.” Her smile looks sweet, but the glint in her eyes … doesn’t. “So to recap, you think I lack empathy, can’t recognize danger, and am so vain, I’d rather pretend to know a fictional podcast than admit I’ve never heard of it. Did I get that right?”
I wince, irritated with myself. And maybe with her. “That’s not what I meant.”
She laughs more darkly than I’d have thought possible. Or maybe it’s the drone of the engine. “I don’t believe you. I think you assumed I’d also be either too stupid to notice or too much of a pushover to call you on it.”
I don’t answer right away. “I didn’t think you were stupid.”
“Just someone you could step all over.” She snorts. “You know what’s funny? You’d usually be right. But with you waking up this morning and choosing violence—”
“Whoa,” I stop her, sitting up straighter. “I’m not violent. I would never hurt you.”
She puts her hands up between us. “Okay, first of all, it’s an expression. Like when that dictionary app posted on their Instagram feed that ‘irregardless’ is actually a word.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is. I was as shocked as anyone.”
I’ll have to look that one up later. “What was the second thing?”
“Hmm?”
Why am I still engaging? Why haven’t I just shrugged and stuck my earbuds back in? But even knowing I should stop, I don’t. “You said, ‘first of all.’ Meaning you had a second point.”
“Oh, right. Second, you absolutely chose violence. Figuratively.”
“How?”
“You accused me of lacking empathy because I find survivor stories so painful. That was presumptuous and rude.”
I feel my shoulders slump. The wetness on my hoodie combined with the cold cabin has made me break out in goosebumps. “You’re right. That’s why I said sorry.”
“Yeah, sorry isn’t good enough.”
My hands fly out. “What else do you want me to say?”
“You told me it was a personal topic for you …”
“I’m not telling you my story.”
“In that case, I reject your apology and reiterate: you woke up and chose violence.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, looking around me to make sure no one in the surrounding rows can hear her.
“I already did.”
“You’re not getting my story.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “I don’t want it.”
“You do, too—you just said I needed to give it to you or you’d reject my apology.”
“Yeah. But you’re inferring I want it.”
My nostrils flare. “Because you implied that.”
“Did I?”
I feel like my head is filled with Pop Rocks. My brain is fizzing and spitting. “Are you a lawyer, or something?”
“No, but I have a master’s in criminal psychology and work in the field.” She folds her arms, waiting for that to sink in.
The Pop Rocks in my head abruptly fizzle out. And my ego shrinks just as rapidly.
I’m the absolute worst. I rub my hands over my face, wanting to disappear into my seat.
“So you probably have a good idea what life is like for victims’ families, after all,” I say weakly.
She inclines her head up toward mine and whispers like she’s being conspiratorial. “And the families of the accused, if you can believe it.”
“I’m a jerk.”
“Yeah, the jury’s definitely in on that one,” she says, but she has a half-smile on her face. “I forgive you.”
I could remind her that I didn’t technically ask for her forgiveness, but I’m not that big of a jerk.
Instead, I nod stupidly. I look at her delicate hand wrapped around her soda can, noticing for the first time how pretty her fingers are. “You have long fingers for your height.”
A laugh bursts from her lips. “Quite the non sequitur. Do you think before you speak?”
“Usually, I just avoid speaking at all.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Fine,” I admit. “I try to avoid speaking. But I typically get too worked up to actually hold back.”
“Well, you know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed …”
I snort. “Words to live by.”
She gives me a wry smile and takes a drink from her soda.
The PA system hisses.
“Good afternoon, folks. This is your captain speaking from the flight deck. We’re currently about halfway through our journey to Denver, cruising at 35,000 feet.
I wanted to give you a quick update on conditions ahead.
Our dispatch team has alerted us to some significant weather systems moving through the Northeast, which may affect connecting flights once we land. ”
Great. Weather problems are exactly what I need.
If I miss Granddad’s holiday showcase tonight, I’ll never hear the end of it.
The showcase is his annual opportunity to parade the three generations of Fletcher baseball around to convince rich parents to drop fifteen grand on his academy.
Yeah, I’m the cautionary tale who only lasted one game, but I’m still proof that his system works “as long as you don’t crowd the plate! ”
He adds that little joke every time.
Hilarious.
The captain continues:
“At this time, there’s no change to our current flight plan, and we expect to arrive in Denver on schedule.
We’ll keep monitoring the situation closely and pass along any important updates as soon as we get them.
Thanks for flying with us today, and please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened while we continue cruising. ”
I’m spiraling into family resentment when I notice Poppy beside me. She’s stopped tossing peanuts into her mouth and is listening with her head tilted. When the captain finishes, she takes a slow breath and nods to herself. What is that on her face? Resignation? Relief?
She grabs her root beer can, and her knuckles are white.
I know that grip. That’s not someone nervous about a delay. That’s someone holding themselves together.
She flashes me a smile, but her jaw is tight.
“Well, thanks for the chat, Fletch. Ollie,” she adds, “I hope you don’t mind if I listen to my ‘Certified Non-Toxic Positivity’ podcast now.”
“Non-Toxic Optimism Revolution,” I correct her with a forced laugh. She’s polite enough to return it. “And no problem.”
She puts her earbuds in.
I put mine in, too.
We both stare straight ahead. Two people pretending to be fine, pretending we’re not dreading whatever’s coming when we land. At least she has something to listen to.
All I have are my thoughts.
And they’re not pretty.