Someone bumps my leg, and I hear a quiet “Sorry.”
The voice sounds young and feminine. Not like a kid young, but my age maybe. It’s tempting to sneak a peek just to see who’s next to me, but if she catches me looking, she might strike up a conversation. After our band tour, I am too peopled out for conversations with strangers.
Pretending like the ground crew is the most interesting thing in the world, I manage to avoid interaction with the girl, lady, or woman next to me. Whatever she is, she smells like summer with a hint of citrus. It’s pleasant, calming. And for the record, I’m not like sniffing her hair or anything, but smells waft, you know. And it’s a nice waft.
I file away the memory, thinking it might make its way into a song someday.
The screen on the back of the seat in front of me flashes to life, and flight instructions are given. I sneak a quick look at the screen, but then I look out the window again.
When the engines rev and the plane starts moving, I relax into my seat with my hands on the armrests. This is when I love the window seat. The pavement swooshes by as we pick up speed, and anticipating takeoff, I close my eyes. Just as the plane lifts off, the lady beside me grips my hand. Tight.
My seat neighbor whispers, “I think I’m going to be sick,” and I give up not looking at her.
Red curls frame a very panicked face. A beautiful face. She’s shown up in my dreams many times, but my imagination didn’t do a good job of capturing how pretty she’d grow up to be.
My brain is frozen, but unfortunately, my tongue is not. “You’re pretty.”
Clementine slaps her free hand over her mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s because I shocked her with what I said or if she really is about to be sick.
“Hang on.” I pry my hand out of hers, then get an empty Ziploc bag out of my backpack. Mom filled many of these bags with treats and encouraging notes. I finished the last of the treats as I was waiting for this flight. And I saved every last one of her notes. “Here. And sorry for being weird, but since the day you left, Clementine, I’ve regretted not telling you that you’re pretty. Beautiful actually.”
Blinking, she takes the bag.
I hold out my hand. “And I don’t mind if you want to hold onto me. Do you get motion sick?”
“Nerves. I’m terrified of flying.” She slips her hand into mine. “Mason, is it really you?”
Like a dork, I wave. “Hi.” On stage, I look like a cool bassist in an up-and-coming band, but in reality, I’m really awkward and goofy.
Things get bumpy, and her grip tightens. I’m hoping she doesn’t throw up in that bag because the sides are clear, and seeing vomit will, in all likelihood, make me sick. That will kick off a series of events that I’d much rather avoid.
We reach cruising altitude, and her hold on me loosens. But we still don’t talk. She has her eyes closed, probably concentrating on not getting sick.
After minutes of staring out at the open ocean, I stifle a gasp. There are flames coming out of the engine.
The speaker crackles, and the pilot says, “We’re having trouble with one of our engines. No need to panic, but we’ll be detouring and landing at the John Wayne airport. Agents there will help y’all find flights to your final destinations.”
Clementine shakes her head as she stares at the flaming engine. “I can’t do this.”
There is a ripple of quiet panic throughout the cabin, but all I can do is focus on keeping her calm. There is a tiny part of my brain that is concerned about the timing. I’ll be upset if I finally get to tell Clementine that she’s pretty, and then my ticket gets punched. That just seems very unfair. And dark.
I’m hoping for a happy ending to this flight.
