I let out a Moira Rose–worthy shriek of horror, nearly upending my meal tray in the process. I feel Oliver jump beside me at the noise, and I turn toward the aisle as though I can hide the massacre of my shirt.
“Mother fuuuuuuhhhh,” I growl, grabbing the world’s thinnest napkin from my utensil pack and dunking it in my Sprite. That’s what adults do, right? Dip the edge of their napkin in a clear drink and go to town scrubbing at a stain? The problem is, the sheer amount of ketchup that landed on my chest turns the whole thing into a red puddle embedding itself farther into the fabric.
“Sonofabitch,” I say as the napkin dissolves in my hand. Getting desperate, I look at Oliver. He’s staring at me with wide-eyed horror, a look I’m far too accustomed with for only knowing him a few hours.
“Can I use your napkin?” I say, already reaching for it and opening the plastic packet with my teeth. I move to dunk the square inch of tissue that they’re trying to pass as a cleaning tool in my Sprite, but a bump of turbulence causes my arm to swing wildly forward and spill my cup (and my burger and one thousand ketchup packets and also somehow invade Oliver’s space and spill all his stuff, too) onto both of us.
“Oh, Christ!” Oliver bolts to standing, catching his knees on his tray and banging his head on the ceiling in the process. A dark wet drink mark is spreading across his shirt and crotch and I stare at it like I’m watching a train crash.
“Excuse me,” he says gruffly, bear-crawling over me to get out of the row. Once he’s untangled himself, he reaches back across me—accidentally punching me in the boob in the process and getting ketchup on his arm—to grab his backpack and pull it to him. He makes a mad dash to the bathroom a few rows back, the door rattling with the force of him slamming it shut.
I’m frozen for a moment, the pure chaos of the last minute looping through my skull like a swarm of aggressive gnats. Then, I groan, burrowing my face in my hands as the ketchup stain spreads like blood across my shirt, which, at this point, is virtually see-through and plastered to my body.
I consider trying to grab a change of clothes from my bag overhead, but I’d have to, yet again, unpack my ridiculous amount of underwear in a very public forum.
If this were a cartoon, the thought-bubble hovering over my head would be filled with bold punctuation and an aggressive use of the letter F.
A few minutes later, Oliver’s legs appear in my peripheral vision. I sneak a quick peek at his crotch—purely out of altruism to see how his wet spot was drying—and realize he’d changed into … a nearly identical all-black outfit? Maybe he really is a lovely-looking Lucifer.
I take a deep breath. This moment is important. We can either allow the madness to be common ground and laugh this off, or we can sit in stunned silence at how horribly freaking wrong everything has gone.
I glance up to his face, and he has a resigned look and tired eyes. I sigh, then stand, and he shuffles past me and plops into his seat.
Silence it is.
We both stare straight ahead for a while, then I catch Oliver glancing at his watch.
“Four hours and twenty-seven minutes left,” I whisper.
Oliver nods. “This might be the longest flight of my life.”
“Keep calm and carry on, right, mate?” I say with another weak attempt at a British accent.
His eyes close slowly, like he’s searching for strength, then he grabs his headphones, slips them on, and turns fully away from me.
Chapter 6
It’s the Puke for Me
OLIVER
The end is near.
Not in the apocalyptic sense, despite how many times I’ve wished for it on this flight, but there’s only ninety minutes before landing. The worst has to be behind us.
“We must be getting close,” Tilly says, stretching her arms out in front of her and twisting her wrists side to side. “I can’t wait to get out of this seat,” she adds, squirming some more to emphasize her point. “Are you from London?”
“Surrey,” I answer, fiddling with my headphones. “I take it you’re from Cleveland?”
Tilly nods. “They call it the London of the Midwest. Our giant, red Free Stamp actually rivals Big Ben in landmarks of cultural significance,” she says, referencing a humongous forty-nine-foot statue of a rubber stamp with the word FREE printed on the bottom that sits in a random park in Cleveland.
The designer I reported to for my internship showed it to me on a tour around the city. When I politely asked her what the giant red eyesore was supposed to symbolize, she didn’t have an answer for me.
“Right,” I say, nodding. “I actually had an art print of the stamp hanging on my bedroom wall growing up. That was the sole reason I visited Cleveland.”
Tilly’s eyes twinkle as she picks up on my attempt at sarcasm. Which is rather terrifying. I don’t usually joke or talk with strangers like this, preferring the safety and comfort of people I know well and can trust to understand me.
“I hope you at least got to see our river catch fire while you were there. Also of huge Cleveland cultural significance.”
I blink at her. “What?”
Tilly snorts, waving her hand. “Sorry, that was very niche. Our river caught on fire in the sixties or something, and it’s contributed to our ‘Mistake on the Lake’ status. It’s probably better not to globally spread that nugget of information.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “Is this your first time visiting the UK?”
She gives a haughty sniff and pretends to flip her hair off her shoulder. “I’m quite cultured and well traveled, I’ll have you know.” Tilly follows it up with an exaggerated wink.
“Right. Your sparing use of ketchup really exemplifies your European disposition,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide a smile as I glance at the jarring red stain on her shirt. Tilly drops her head into her hands and groans, then laughs. I laugh, too.
And that’s when it hits me how … weird this is. I’m actually enjoying myself? Talking to someone? Perhaps I’m sick. But I decide to keep going. “What brings you to Lon—”
My words are cut off by a guttural wet noise a few feet from us, followed by a panicked “Uh-oh … I think…”
Our heads twist in unison toward the noise like wild animals hearing the approach of a stealthy predator.
A green-faced boy, probably about nine or ten, doubles over in the aisle a couple rows ahead. I can no longer see his face, but there’s no mistaking the earth-shattering sound of someone puking their brains out.
Tilly gasps, her hand flying out and clutching my arm. Our eyes swivel to each other, both of us too afraid to look at anything else.
The smell hits me next, and it’s like every nerve ending in my body starts weeping.
“Oh no,” Tilly says, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.
It takes me a moment, but I realize what that oh no signals.
“Tilly,” I say, my voice a raw plea. “No. Please, no.”
Tilly starts shaking her head rapidly. “There’s no stopping it. I’m a goner.”
“Resist! Resist!”
“I can’t!”
Christ. Here it comes.
Eyes stuck on me, Tilly starts dry-heaving.