Chapter 6
jett
“This is glorious.” Sofía lifts her legs and wiggles her shoeless feet. Compression socks with small pink flowers decorate her toes and match her fuzzy pink outfit. “Best surprise ever.”
“Even better than the shirts?”
She grunts in response.
I figured the matching shirts were an inside joke or something women related I didn’t understand.
I’m not sure I would have agreed had I known the term’s true origins.
Charlie bamboozled me into doing her dirty work, and now I’m left with this odd discomfort behind my sternum even after she accepted the embarrassed apology I word vomited as we boarded the plane.
There’s a chance she forgave me so I would stop speaking.
“Do you want to go over the itinerary before they serve dinner?” she asks. “We can discuss the plan for our first few days in Sydney and the first-episode premiere.”
As she rustles through her purse, her perfume fills the air. It’s tart like ripe cherries, with a soft layer of something sweeter. Strands of long brown hair fall in front of her face, and she pushes them away with perfectly manicured nails.
Her lips quirk upward into a small smile when she notices me staring. I tug the safety briefing out of the front pocket in a panic and pretend I’m reading the material.
Based on her laughter, I don’t think she buys it.
“You did add room for shenanigans, right?”
She rolls her eyes, fully ignores me, and lowers her tray table. The small dismissal gives me a thrill—a little extra incentive to make her smile.
“Right?” I ask, leaning closer to her.
The laptop screen illuminates the mirth etched on her face as I slide the trifold back into its home.
A detailed calendar pops open, color coded for each type of activity, with bright-pink pockets of time titled “Jett’s shenanigans.” The excitement fizzles when the rest of the colors register.
“We’re doing all of that?”
Has she scheduled bathroom breaks, too?
She zooms in on tomorrow, or today, depending on what time zone we’re crossing.
“Yes and no. There are large chunks of time that are what I call ‘flex times.’” She points out a green block.
“There’s nothing planned or booked. The blue sections are times I allocated for you and Doug to work on processing your film and creating social media clips. Doug told me you work best at night.”
Appreciation blooms as she hovers her cursor over the blue time chunks. They’re followed by a sliver of purple.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the screen.
She gives me a coy smile. “Doug also said you have a horrible sleep schedule.”
“He’s a big fat liar.”
Ugh, he and I are going to have to chat about spilling my deep, dark secrets to Sofía.
“The purple is a reminder to get some sleep. You can ignore it, but it’s there.”
She takes my phone, holds it up to my face, and then taps through the apps.
While she does whatever she’s doing, I pull out my laptop and editing software and work on the video I plan to post on social media tomorrow.
We spent last week at a beach cleanup, picking up microplastics and remnants of ghost gear, and I threw together a short video about the organization that puts on the project.
“Now you have the calendar on your phone. It’s shared, so if we make any changes, we’ll both know.”
“We have a shared calendar?”
Fuck, that’s so romantic.
Doug and Molly probably share one. And Charlie and Mateo. I never shared one with Grace.
“Yes. And I logged into your social media to post and manage engagement so you can focus on other tasks.”
We review the remainder of the Sydney schedule, and I take note of the four “flex hours” we have the first afternoon. It will take some finesse, but I think I can convince her to go shopping for some new clothes then.
Flight attendants pass by, preparing for dinner service, and I make the last edits to the video, download it, and save it on my phone to post when we land.
Sofía fights to hide her giddy smile while the stewardess sets up her tray, complete with white linens and metal silverware.
“This is so fancy,” she whispers, kicking her feet back and forth with glee.
“Do you like fancy things?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” The first course is set in front of her, and she digs into the fruit.
“I don’t know. I think it depends on the type of fancy.”
She hums, and I rip off a piece of the roll and pop it into my mouth. I didn’t grow up with much flair in Indiana. My father worked as a tradesman, and my mom was a professor.
Fancy was Friday night dinners at Applebee’s with my family. It was a candy bar in the checkout line at the grocery store. A bike in front of the tree at Christmas. On one occasion, we drove all the way to Cedar Point and spent the day riding roller coasters.
And now my fancy is splurging on first class instead of economy and expensive linen bedsheets Molly convinced me to buy.
Oh, and my fancy ice cream machine. I have no regrets about that purchase.
The flight attendant collects my tray, and minutes later, the entrée is served. The aroma of spiced chicken fills the air, making my mouth water, but I wait until Sofía is served.
“So, how did you and Doug meet?” she asks, cutting her meal into perfect bites.
“Film course.”
“In college?”
Embarrassment turns the food on my tongue ashen. I avoid talking about my education, or lack thereof, and most of the time I can get away with changing the subject. There’s no casual way to admit I’m a college dropout because the classes moved at a rapid pace and I couldn’t keep up and flunked out.
“Uh, no. I didn’t graduate. It was a paid course to learn about drones and documentary film.”
“And Molly?”
Her lack of probing stuns me, and the half-formed response I had fizzles away. “I, uh, hired her after Doug said she was an accountant. I don’t understand how taxes work.”
“They do that on purpose.” She stabs a green bean, spearing it on her fork. “I’ve made it my life’s purpose to beat them at their own game.”
Uh…what?
“Do you not pay taxes? I’m pretty sure that’s super illegal.”
“No,” she laughs. “I keep every receipt, invoice, and business expense. Then I deduct it all. Down to the penny.”
Her laughter is maniacal, like she finds joy in knowing some poor guy is sweating bullets when she files her taxes every year. Given the color-coded, tabbed binder she showed me, I think the fear is valid.
Our dishes are swept away, and as soon as the tray disappears, Sofía hauls her bag out from under the seat. It’s massive, deep and wide, and her entire forearm disappears into the open pocket.
A bag of tiny bottles appears, followed by a silk face mask and a…hat?
She swipes her face with a rag, the once-white towel now mottled with smears of brown, black, and ochre.
It takes longer than I’d like to admit to realize she’s removing her makeup, considering I didn’t know she was wearing any in the first place.
The cap of the first bottle pops open, and she dumps pink liquid onto her fingers, then dabs it onto her face.
Her hands wave through the air, creating a small breeze to dry it onto her skin.
“What are you doing?” I pick up a small glass tub full of cream, but she plucks it from my grip and unscrews the cap.
“My skincare routine.”
There are four more bottles in the bag, plus two tubs. I would call this an in-depth routine.
“You do this every night?”
Her fingers pause on her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Impressive.” I steal the next bottle she sets down. “Can I do it, too?”
Her head snaps to mine. “Huh?”
A sheepish smile tilts my lips. “I wash my face with bar soap. That pink stuff looks way better.”
“Bar soap?”
Her sharp gasp turns heads, and I blush, but she’s oblivious to the attention, her body turned to me. After digging through her things, she passes me hand sanitizer, a wipe, and the first bottle of the sparkly pink liquid.
“Sanitize, wipe, then pour a small amount of the toner on your fingers and dab it onto your skin,” she says, and I follow her steps. “Dab. Don’t rub.”
Dainty fingers wrap around my wrists and guide my movements like she’s the rat beneath my chef’s hat, pressing my fingers against my cheek, then pulling them away. When she’s confident I understand the motion and I’m close to choking on my laughter, she releases me.
Her cheeks are dewy and pink, and she hands me the next step of the routine. Under Sofía’s watchful eye, I complete the five remaining tasks. She packs away the vials before pulling out a new bag.
“How many bags do you have in there?”
“Seven? I’m not sure of the exact number.” She dips her pinky nail into a tub, then gestures it to me. “This is an overnight lip mask. Makes them soft.”
Time creeps to a halt as she drags the balm along her lower lip, drawing my gaze and causing my insides to tumble. She massages it in, and pulling air into my lungs is difficult.
I’m still staring at her mouth when I realize it’s moving and she’s speaking. “What?”
“Did you want some?”
Her brow furrows, and I take a small glob, rubbing it in the same way she did. She tosses it into her bag, while I attempt to slow the racing of my heart.
She’s hard to operate around. I get all flustered or tongue-tied, or I blurt out some nonsense that makes me look like a noob. It doesn’t happen around all girls—Charlie and Amy don’t ignite sparks along my skin—but when Sofía’s in the room, I have no problem focusing, as long as it’s on her.
She flattens her seat so she’s lying horizontal and slides the hat over her head, tying a knot at the top of her forehead. At my pulled brow, she chuckles and pats the fabric. “It’s a bonnet. It protects my hair while I sleep.”
“Oh.” I drag my fingers through my hair. It’s short again, but with added layers for volume. Part of my revamp with Mateo and Oliver. “Maybe I should get one, too. Unless that’s weird. Then I won’t.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” she mumbles, fluffing her pillow. “If anything, doing your skincare routine on a plane is kinda weird.”
She offers another small laugh, but it’s hollow and forced. I don’t like it—the way she says something self-deprecating, then laughs to shake off the low blow. That won’t do. We’ll need to work on having a more confident mindset—the both of us.
The cabin lights dim as the last passengers finish their meals and the flight attendants prepare for the long stretch across the Pacific.
I slip off my Vans and flip through the movies until Surf’s Up appears.
Score. Sofía has slipped the eye mask over her head, blocking out the world, and her body is curled up beneath the blanket.
Her breathing levels out while I finish working on the content I plan to post the first week of our trip. It takes over an hour to edit the last half of the video for the channel, plus another two to prep social media posts and write captions.
I’m adding the final touches and music to a short video, editing the clips to match the beat of the song, when Sofía rustles beside me.
She slips the eye mask up to uncover her right eye.
Squinting, she peers at the time, then at me.
Even sleepy, she’s full of fire, and I know I’m about to face it head-on.
“It’s time to sleep,” she says, raspy but firm. “If you don’t, then you’ll be exhausted when we land.”
“Ah, right.” Darkness invades after I shut my laptop. “How could I forget? We have such a busy day tomorrow.”
The lone eyebrow dips low. “No we don’t.”
“You haven’t forgotten already, have you?” I ask, lying down to sleep like instructed. “Tomorrow we’re going shopping.”
She groans. “I don’t need new clothes.”
“Ah, ah,” I chide. “Let’s not forget I’m the big boss.”
“You’re becoming a big pain in my ass,” she mutters, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was—”
I barely stifle my laugh, waving my hand in the air. “Perfect comeback. Ten out of ten.”
Her lips tug up, and the conversation fades until we’re both staring at each other. “One outfit,” she concedes. “I’ll buy one new thing.”
“Deal.”
I stretch my hand out, and she clasps it, a jolt of electricity zapping up my arm.
Joke’s on her. She said she would only buy one outfit. She made no mention of what I could or couldn’t buy.
Checkmate.