“Absolutely not,” I say, leaping up from my seat. In a blur of jerky movements, I thrust my hands under her arms, lift her like a rag doll, and spin her to face the aisle, charging out of the row of seats and toward the restroom behind us.
With little couth or grace, I push the man vacating the bathroom out of the way, ripping the door wide open and giving Tilly an oh-so-subtle shove inside before slamming it shut again and pressing my back against it as I pant.
I should probably feel guilty about the manhandling, but as the echoes of her vomiting rumble through the door, I’m just grateful for my timing.
I compose myself by tapping my fingers at my side for a moment, then walk back to my seat, aggressively jamming the overhead attendant call button.
After what feels like an eternity, the attendant from earlier appears with a sour look on her face. “This better not have anything to do with condiments,” she says, before noticing Tilly’s empty seat.
I shake my head, pointing weakly at the vomit spot. “Someone had an accident,” I say, trying not to breathe. The attendant’s eyes flick to Tilly’s seat again. “Not her,” I say, gesturing next to me. “Some kid.”
The attendant lets out a loud sigh through her nose, closing her eyes. “Be right back,” she says.
A few moments later, I watch her and another attendant huddle around the puke. They’ve put on face masks and rubber gloves, and are aggressively whispering to each other as they point at the spot.
It seems like one of them loses the quiet argument, and bends over, using a single paper towel to wipe at the mess. Seemingly satisfied with that sub-par scrubbing, the other opens a silver package and sprinkles coffee grounds over the remaining smear. They then grab one of the thin airplane blankets, fluff it out, and drape it over the whole mess like it’s a dead body.
Gathering up their trash, they turn and move toward the back of the plane.
“Is that all you can do?” I ask, standing up and hitting my head on the ceiling. Again. “A blanket? Where’s the … I don’t know? Airplane carpet cleaner?”
“We don’t have everything we need to clean it properly right now,” the attendant says, shooting me a bland look. “We’re landing soon anyway. It’ll be fine.”
Fine? Fine? Absolutely no part of this circle of hell parading as an international flight has been fine.
I’m scrambling for words to keep arguing, but they walk away before any of the thoughts can form. Slouching back into my seat, I slowly bang my skull against the headrest.
After a few more minutes, Tilly drags herself down the aisle and crawls into her seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, eyes glued to the window and my fingers tapping away at my side.
She clears her throat. “Not to be dramatic,” she says, her voice quieter than it’s been the entire flight, “but I imagine there are exhumed corpses that are in better shape than me.”
I glance at Tilly, and I can’t say she’s wrong. Her twin alien buns are skewed, spiky black hair sticking out every which way. Her eyes are red-rimmed and skin a grayish green. I reason that agreeing with her verbally could potentially offend her.
Choosing the safest, most comfortable option, I stay quiet the rest of the flight.
Chapter 7
Ugh
TILLY
We finally touch down and my body/spirit feels like I’ve sprinted a marathon. This was not how I expected to start my grand European adventure.
When the plane comes to a stop and the overhead speaker dings with the OK to unfasten our seat belts, I hop up, wiggling out my legs and arms. Oliver is slower to unfold his long limbs from his seat, and I watch as he stands and stretches his neck from side to side.
Damn. He really is cute—tall and gangly with a soft but vibrant energy that has me believing countless thoughts are swirling under that quiet façade. Or, more likely, I’m just romanticizing the hell out of him as my too soft heart tends to do.
But I’m disappointed this tortuous flight did not a romance make. I don’t know why, but my brain is always hooking on to random people, wanting so badly to find a connection with someone, even when there’s no logical reason for one.
I’ve always had trouble relating to my peers, saying or doing the wrong thing no matter how hard I tried to be like them—observing the way they interact with each other and trying to mimic it with very little success. It’s exhausting trying to make friends while pretending to be someone you’re not.
As people toward the front of the plane slowly start to trickle out, I squeeze into the aisle, wrestling my suitcase down in the limited space, then duck back into the row.
I look at Oliver again, and he must feel my stare, because he glances at me.
And he tentatively smiles.
Ugh, that quick flick of his lips slaps my silly heart around my chest.
Something in me shifts. Determination, maybe? A hopeless need to make something monumental out of the disastrous flight? The past ten hours have been so bad, they literally couldn’t get worse, right?
Should I do it?
I think I should do it.
I’m gonna do it.
What’s the point of this summer if I don’t take my life into my own hands? I’m no longer the person squeezing herself into shapes and molds that don’t fit. I’m bold and brazen Tilly Twomley, and I will shoot my shot with hot airplane strangers, so help me God.
“CanIhaveyournumber,” I say (yell).
If words could sprint, mine would have just won an Olympic medal. I almost blow out my back with how hard I wince.
“I beg your pardon?” Oliver says, eyebrows arched.
I take a deep breath, squeezing my hands into tight fists at my sides. Calm, I tell myself. You can do this.
“I was … I wanted to know if I could have your number. Phone number. Or like … WhatsApp number or whatever…” Dead silence. “Since we’re in like … Europe. Or whatever.”
More silence.
Holy shit this is a lot of silence.
This silence is, quite possibly, worse than the complexity of airplane noise.
Oliver’s eyes go wide and his lips part, but in this painful, slow-motion type of way that forces me to watch him process what I said. He’s looking at me like … well, like he can’t quite believe I spoke those words out loud.
And, as the silence continues to destroy me, I do the only thing I can.
I whip around, accidentally whacking Oliver with my overstuffed backpack, and bolt.
Dead. Ass. Run.
I barrel down the aisle, hurdling over the puke puddle like an athlete, knocking people out of the way, rolling over toes with my ridiculous suitcase, not even caring about the brutal chaos I leave in my wake.
Screw being bold. Screw being brazen. That shit is for the birds, and I will absolutely never take another risk again.
Even when I’m off the plane, I continue sprinting through the airport, my suitcase and backpack banging around behind me. But I can’t slow down. If I slow down, people might see my embarrassed tears. If I stop to catch my breath, Oliver might accidentally catch up, that horrified look still on his pretty face. If I don’t get out of here as quickly as humanly possible, I might see him at customs or while I’m waiting for Mona.
And the last thing I ever want is to see Oliver again.