Page 7 of Fly with Me

“I had to work today.”

“You couldn’t get your shift covered?”

Was this woman trying to make her feel worse?

“I forgot to request off in time, and it’s the last weekend we can take leave until after Christmas.”

“Oh.” Stella’s facial expression made it perfectly clear that forgetting to do something was completely outside her realm of experience. Well, good for her.

“Is that from the last time you ran the race?” Stella pointed to Jake’s medal.

“No.” Olive slipped it back into the front pocket of her backpack. “It’s—it was my—never mind.”

“I’m sorry we had to divert.” Her expression softened enough to make Olive hyperaware of her own surliness.

“I’m just bummed. Happy I could help that man, and obviously, getting him the medical care he needed was more important. I just… I had a plan.”

“I get really upset when my plans don’t work out too.” Stella pushed her fancy rolly suitcase in a circle, like she was—what? Nervous? Excited? “You know, you could still make the race if you drove? You could get there by three A.M.”

“I—don’t think I could drive all night and then run. I was hoping to sleep some on the plane, but…”

“You’re right. That’s super impractical.” She pursed her plump lips and focused on the blank wall beside Olive as if contemplating the meaning of life. She seemed more casual now, less of the snob she’d seemed on the plane, but Olive still had no idea how to read her. And, indeed, it was difficult to think about anything else standing near this woman beyond that she was beautiful, a bit weird, and probably straight—because, as established: Murphy’s Law. Not that it mattered.

“Welp.” Olive widened her eyes and pointed at the rest of the terminal. “I’m going to go try to find something to eat and a seat to camp out in.”

“You’re not going to get a hotel room? Didn’t the airline offer to get you one?”

“They did, but honestly I just want to sit down somewhere for a while. I’ll find a room if I decide to take one.”

She hadn’t turned her phone back on yet. She didn’t want to field a passive-aggressive good-luck text from Lindsay and have to respond and tell her she wasn’t going to make the race so the luck was unnecessary. The text back from her ex would probably involve a tacit told-you-so that would make Olive feel worse. It wasn’t completely fair to blame Lindsay for Olive skipping the race last year, but all her jabs about having a more respectable first half-marathon time sure hadn’t helped.

A sudden brightness flooded Stella’s dark eyes, as if a cartoon light bulb had appeared above her head. She looked like a student government president struck by an inspiration about a prom theme or smoothie machine in the cafeteria. Honestly, everything about this woman screamed Most Likely to Succeed. “Let’s go.” Stella pointed to Olive’s suitcase.

“Let’s? What? Go where?”

“I’m going to drive you to Orlando,” she said, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But I don’t know you.”

“We met two hours ago. I’m Allied Airlines pilot Stella Soriano.” She grinned.

Olive wrinkled her nose skeptically. “You could be a serial killer.”

“I’m not a serial killer. Google me. I have a”—she lifted her fingers in air quotes—“social media presence.” She gestured to her phone. As a nearby gate opened, arriving travelers spilled into the terminal, the sounds of shoes and rolling suitcases making it difficult for Olive to concentrate.

“Um. What?”

“Stellaflies.”

“Your?”

“Instagram handle.” Stella made a tiny tsking noise through her nose. “The airline likes to trot me and the other female pilots out whenever they want to pretend they have a commitment to gender equity in hiring practices. It was highly encouraged that I maintain an account.”

Olive chuckled and grabbed her phone before she remembered the battery was dead. Stella handed Olive her phone, already open to Instagram. Stella did have twenty thousand followers. Rolling her eyes at the grid, she lifted the phone to face Stella. “There are five pictures of you and you’re in the pilot uniform in all of them. If you weren’t standing in front of me, I’d think you were a bot who bought followers from a click farm. And these were all stock photos.” With tags like hot woman pilot.

“But I am standing in front of you, offering to rent a car from Budget and drive you to Orlando.”

Olive handed the phone back to Stella. “But why?”

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