Page 22 of Something Like Fate

“Thanks, Tel. But if it just so happens to make Sophie second-guess dumping you, that’s an added bonus.”

Teller loosens up over the next few hours once all the stressful parts of flying are behind us. We spend our time doing our usual—people watching and eating candy. Apparently Vacation Teller is okay with sweets at six in the morning. He even fetches us breakfast sandwiches and snacks because he doesn’t trust plane food.

All is going smoothly. Until it’s not.

First, the flight is delayed twenty minutes due to high winds. Then thirty. Then almost two hours by the time we’re actually allowed to board.

The plane is large, with seats in twos on either side, a wider row of three ribboning down the middle. Teller is less than impressed with our seats, which are in the middle. It doesn’t help that our arms are pressed against each other’s. Curse this airline for designing such tiny seats. I give Teller the aisle so he doesn’t have a panic attack.

While the rest of the passengers take their seats, Teller goes to town wiping his tray with a wet wipe. Once he’s satisfied, he extends a fresh wipe to me between pinched fingers. “Here. Airplane trays have three times more bacteria than the toilet flush button,” he rattles off like an encyclopedia.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the wipe. I note his knee is bouncing up and down too, a natural reflex when he’s feeling anxious. “You okay? You’re not scared of flying, are you?”

“No. Planes are safer than cars, statistically speaking. It’s just ... Sophie posted a story last night. With a guy ...” His voice trails.

“Really? Let me see!”

He turns his screen toward me. It’s a video clip of her arm, presumably, cheersing a foamy beer with someone across a small table.

“Is it a guy? It’s hard to tell from the clip.” I rewatch it a couple times, assuming there’s more.

“Look at the arm.” He leans in close, and his cheek grazes mine ever so slightly. He scrutinizes the screen like an FBI agent combing every pixel for evidence. “It’s hairy. Definitely a dude.”

“It does look that way,” I admit. “But don’t jump to conclusions. What if it’s like, her dad? Or brother? Or just some random friend?”

“Her dad lives in Panama. And she doesn’t have platonic one-on-one guy friends.” I already knew the latter bit. It’s the reason she never quite understood or trusted Teller’s friendship with me.

“Remember back in tenth grade when Tim Yates broke up with me and then made out with Danika Pressley that same night?”

He relaxes against the headrest and smirks. “That was the first night you drank.”

Teller’s being kind. Here’s the story: I decided chugging two strong drinks as fast as possible was a surefire way to get over Tim. This resulted in a dramatic public confrontation where I proceeded to topple into a beautifully decorated Christmas tree.

“Anyway, remember when he tried to get me back?”

Teller nods stiffly. “Yup.”

“He only wanted me back because I went dark over Christmas break. I stopped texting him, stopped posting on social media. And he saw me with you on New Year’s and got jealous.”

“Ah yes. When he threatened to rearrange my face. Sweet memories.”

I’d felt so vindicated, but I didn’t go back to him after that.

“Exactly. The point is, maybe you need to use this trip as an opportunity to—”

“Make Sophie jealous? I don’t know.”

I level him with a look. “Okay, maybe not jealous. But make her miss you a little! Don’t text her or like any of her posts.” I can tell he’s unsatisfied, so I add, “And if you decide to work the jealousy angle, wecan find you a hot Italian girl. You’ll take a bunch of mysterious photos with her, and I guarantee Sophie will text you.”

I couldn’t actually guarantee it. I didn’t know Sophie all that well, despite her dating my best friend for the past three years.

The first time we met was at the bus station when she visited him for the weekend. He’d planned some activities for us, like mini golf and a game night. I didn’t mind the idea of third-wheeling. After listening to Teller sing her praises for weeks, I couldn’t wait to meet her and become the best friends I thought we were destined to be.

She was exactly what I’d pictured—the perfect girl for Teller. She’d dressed her dainty frame in a minimalist capsule wardrobe filled with white, navy, subtle stripes, and a shit-ton of neutrals to match her clean fingernails and glossy, pin-straight hair. She was my polar opposite. A straight-A student and president of multiple clubs, but pleasant and just self-deprecating enough not to hate. She didn’t make penis jokes at the wrong times, nor did she scare strangers by asking to pet their dogs. She didn’t embarrass Teller with a tendency to break into song or dramatically quote films. She lived life by color-coded schedule, always early for everything. Basically, she was Teller’s dream girl.

She was sweet to me from that first awkward hug, remarking how it felt like we already knew each other, how she appreciated me keeping Teller in line (though it was really the opposite), and that she couldn’t wait to see me beat Teller at mini golf. She loved my “unique” style, said she could never pull off such bold floral prints and vintage pieces.

We made enthusiastic small talk for at least fifteen minutes in the parking lot before Teller insisted we get on the road before rush-hour traffic. My first instinct was to return to the passenger seat. My seat. The seat I’d spent hours in, next to Teller. But when we stepped toward the door, I realized for the first time that it wasn’tmyseat. If someone had dibs, it was the girlfriend.

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