Page 13 of Drawn to You

Dane takes the packet of pills from my hand, tears it open and dumps the pills out.

“Take them,” he orders.

I take the pills, put them in my mouth and chase them with a sip of water, my stomach churning. My hairline is wet with sweat and I don’t even want to think about how pathetic I must look.

Someone cheers loudly from the table where the card game is being played.

“Pay up!” a male voice yells.

“You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known,” someone grumbles.

I lift my head from the back of the seat and a powerful wave of nausea hits. We haven’t even taken off yet, and I’m already sick. Frantically, I open a bag and bring it up to my mouth just in time to hurl into it.

“That’s helpful,” Dane grumbles. “You just puked up the medicine.”

Like I did it on purpose or something. I want to punch him. Right in his smug face.

“Can you not?” I snap as Janet crouches beside me.

“What can I do for you?” she asks, passing me a wet washcloth.

I smile weakly as I take the washcloth and clean my mouth. “I don’t know. I’m hot and dizzy.”

“How about a little battery-operated fan and a clean, wet washcloth for the back of your neck?”

I nod gratefully. “Thank you.”

“I’m guessing you’ve had a bad experience with flying?”

“Yes. Really bad.”

She takes the bag I just used, folding it closed and sealing it. “It’s nerves. I see it all the time. People who have gotten sick are so convinced it’ll happen again that they make themselves sick before we even take off.”

Dane interjects himself into our conversation. “So you’re saying it’s all in her head?”

I reach for my seat belt and unfasten it. “I’m not sitting here.”

“I’m sorry, we’re too close to takeoff for you to move,” Janet says as the pilot makes an announcement. “I need you to put it back on. As soon as we’re in the air, I can bring you that fan.”

Reluctantly, I refasten my seat belt, leaning my head against the seat back and closing my eyes.

“How much are you getting paid for this?” Dane asks me.

“Not enough.”

The plane is rolling now, everyone around me carrying on conversations like everything is fine. I squeeze the armrests, telling myself to relax. Flights take off and land safely all the time. It’s supposed to be safer than driving a car.

I am a professional. I can do this.

“Go to your happy place,” Dane says dismissively. “Like a library. You always have a book with you; you must like libraries.”

My stomach lurches as the captain slows and announces we’re about to take off. Eyes still closed, I open another bag so it’s ready when I need it.

“Don’t puke again,” Dane says. “Come on, Nosy, where’s your happy place? Let’s talk it out.”

“She sick?” someone asks from nearby.

“Yep,” Dane answers.

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