“What the devil are you on about?” I blurt out. I don’t understand this conversation. At all. “I don’t think any of those phrases mean what you think they mean.”
Tilly’s face falls. “Oh, bugger,” she says, dropping her head back against her seat and crossing her arms over her chest.
“That one actually worked,” I say after a moment.
Tilly blinks, then turns to me, a smile breaking across her face. I can’t seem to hold my own back. It’s at this moment that I realize this odd stranger is actually rather … fit.
She’s a study in muted colors. Dusky pink lips. Olive undertones to her skin. Strong slashes of dark eyebrows. Upturned nose with a rosy tip. All of it complemented by inky black hair piled into two messy buns at the top of her head.
But what I find most fascinating is a cluster of three birthmarks at the top of her left cheek. I can tell each one has a slightly different pigment, and I want to lean in and identify them.
But I also know, to a stranger, that would be weird and massively inappropriate for me to do, so I check the urge and pull my headphones over my ears, turning back to the window.
I stare at the sky, enjoying the quiet. Absorbing the blue. Searching its nuances.
Less than a minute later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn, Tilly looking at me with those wide, owlish eyes. I pull off my headphones.
“Alright?” I ask.
“Your headphones seem nice,” she says.
This is … true?
“They are, thanks,” I say. “Noise canceling,” I add before slipping them back on and turning to the window.
I’m barely back into my lull before I get another tap on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I say, just lifting one ear this time.
“Umm, if you need to use the bathroom or anything, just let me know,” Tilly says, waving toward the aisle. “And I’ll … uh … move.”
“Right.” What else would she do? Block me?
Headphones on (again), I turn to the window (again).
And, two seconds later. There’s a tap on my shoulder. Again.
This is going to be a long flight.
Chapter 5
Flight from Hell and Satan’s My Seatmate
TILLY
Here’s a fun fact: ten-hour flights and ADHD do not mix. It’s hour five of this torture, and I feel pretty close to totally losing my (nonexistent) cool. I forgot how loud planes are, but in that, like, weird quiet way. There’s this constant hum and throb of complex noise that sets my teeth on edge and makes my entire body fidget and bounce. It’s the kind of noise you don’t register hearing, but it worms its way under your skin.
After two hours of attempting to start conversation after conversation with Oliver to help drown out the background noise, I finally gave up. The whole thing felt like the verbal equivalent of pulling out my own teeth.
Damn you, Hot Lad! Engage me in conversation so my brain doesn’t collapse in on itself from lack of stimulation! Also, you’re really good-looking and it would be a modern tragedy if we both leave this plane without creating a love connection that inspires a Netflix original movie.
But, alas, I couldn’t get him to take those headphones off long enough to charm the pants off him. Literally and figuratively, of course. I was able to nap for about an hour after that, but now I’m wired and squirmy and it feels like my brain is doing somersaults around my skull I’m so bored.
Thankfully, in-flight meals are being served, and I’m absolutely starving. The flight attendant moves down the aisle, stopping at our row. “Shepherd’s pie or cheeseburger, dear?” she asks, giving me a warm smile.
“Burger, please,” I say. “And a Sprite. Extra ketchup, too, if you don’t mind.”
The attendant nods, handing me the black plastic meal tray, my drink, and two packets of ketchup.
Oh, honey.
“Could I have a few more ketchup packets?” I ask, accidentally interrupting her as she’s about to ask Oliver his meal choice.
She blinks, looking at the two she handed me. “Of course,” she says, grabbing one more packet from the cart and handing it to me.
One? One extra packet? Do they have a shortage?
“Sorry,” I say, my voice rising two octaves so it comes out as a squeak. Asking for anything related to a meal makes me want to break out in hives, but I’m also apparently incapable of going without whatever I’m asking for. “Could I have a few more?”
The attendant fully frowns now. “Okay…” she says, drawing out the word. And handing me ONE more. I’m sorry I’m a monster that needs to basically only taste ketchup on my burger and fries but hot damn, why so stingy? A few means at least three, right?
I open my mouth again, but she cuts me off.
“Really?” she says, eyes wide. “More?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, sweat trickling down my neck. “Just … I don’t know. Can you give me a big handful? Or like … a small dish of them? I know it’s an obnoxious amount of ketchup but like … are there explicit rationing rules? Do I need to pay for more? I’m sorry to be such a pain. I just…”
She grabs two handfuls of ketchup packets and places them on my fold-out tray. “That enough for you?” she asks, her accent seeming to grow stronger as she shoots me a dirty look. But … do I deserve that look? Granted, it’s a metric ton of ketchup I’m asking for but also … who cares? All of it swirls into embarrassment that presses at my cheeks and chest.
I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“And you?” the attendant says, looking at Oliver, who’s observing the scene with a tilted head.
Oliver blinks. “I’ll have the burger, too,” he says.
“Need extra ketchup, do you?” she says with thinly veiled snark.
Oliver looks like he’s seriously contemplating her question. “Would you mind if I took one or two of those?” Oliver asks me.
I pause for a moment, ready to feel offended at this ridiculously blown out of proportion ketchup debacle, but I realize he’s not mocking me. He’s genuinely asking.
I nod, passing him a fistful of the bright red packets and slouching lower in my seat.
When the Keeper of Ketchup finally moves past our row, I straighten, ready to dig in. I open packet after packet, squeezing the contents onto my burger and fries.
I take a big bite, glad for something to do.
Eating sometimes feels like a hobby. Yes, I need food for nourishment, but, more than that, it’s fun. Eating holds my attention, calms my constantly spinning thoughts. I would try to sneak snacks during classes to stay focused, but teachers would always lose their shit over it. I might as well have been doing a striptease on top of my desk for how outraged they’d be over me having a tiny carrot stick.
The burger is pretty gross with a subtle sliminess that runs a real risk of making me gag, so I add one more packet of ketchup to the patty to try to get it down.
On my next bite, a wet, squelching sound precedes the feeling of something plopping on my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that what I think just happened didn’t just happen.
I force one eye open and, sure enough, there’s a fist-sized blob of ketchup trailing down my chest, leaving a vicious red smear across my white T-shirt.