Page 23 of Something Like Fate

And so began a war of apologies and insisting the other take the front seat, despite both of us clearly wanting it. A battle of niceties, which I learned was her thing. She always apologized, even if she wasn’tat fault, like if I unintentionally cut her off midsentence. Anyway, she won the car-seat battle. For the rest of the weekend, and every other time she visited, I was in the back seat.

Despite how “fine” things were between us, I never got the sense that she truly wanted to be friends. That she truly wanted to know me. There was an invisible barrier I couldn’t seem to break down. Over time, it felt as though everything I did or said was too much, too loud for her (fair). Let’s be real, I’m a lot to handle sometimes, but I worried that with Sophie’s influence, Teller would finally realize he didn’t want to be my friend. In reality, he probably didn’t talk or think about me all that much when he was with her.

He doesn’t seem sure about my plan to make her jealous. “I don’t know. It seems a little juvenile, don’t you think?”

“True. But you have to promise you’ll actually enjoy this trip. Put the phone down and leave your baggage here in the US. I won’t tolerate pouting.”

“You’re right. Officially putting the phone away,” he says, tucking it into his pocket.

“Good. Just think, in seven hours, we’ll be in Italy. The most beautiful country on the planet. You won’t even have time to think about Sophie.”

6

We are not in Italy in seven hours.

For the next hour, we freeze our butts off on the tarmac under the blasting AC. Teller is getting anxious about the tight quarters and lack of cleanliness in the bathroom. Not that I blame him. It’s not comfortable to sit for so long with your thigh pushed against someone else’s, even if said thigh happens to belong to your best friend. Just when I think he’s going to lose it and demand to get off the plane, the wheels start moving and we’re in flight. Bless.

I wish I could say things got better from there. That we fell asleep over the Atlantic. That we woke up refreshed and ready to embrace all Italy had to offer. But things got worse. Much worse.

For the hour we’re actually in flight, the turbulence is awful. The plane dips and jostles from side to side so often, we don’t have time for our stomachs to recover. It gets so bad, people request barf bags from the flight attendants, who are eventually ordered to take their seats too.

I’m the type of person who loves roller coasters, but even I can’t hold in my gasps. I white-knuckle the armrest, teeth clenched. My insides feel like scrambled eggs.

“Hey, we’re going to be okay,” Teller assures me, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

I shake my head. “I—I don’t believe you.”

“Look at me,” he instructs, shifting closer.

I focus on his steady gaze. The little flecks of hunter green in his eyes. The rings of bronze surrounding the pupils. It’s an instant source of comfort. If Teller, of all people, is calm, I can be too. At least, I think.

“Take a big inhale,” he says, waiting for me to do so. “Count to seven, and slowly let it out for seven.”

I repeat his instructions several times as he drags the smooth pads of his fingers over the soft part of my forearm, leaving a tingly feeling in their wake. By the final exhale, I’m far less tense. There’s still a stubborn knot in my gut, but I’m no longer gripping the armrest, bracing for impact. My knee is no longer bouncing up and down. “Where’d you learn that?”

“One of my mindfulness podcasts,” he says. “I use it almost every day—”

He’s interrupted by a ding, followed by a voice over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I regret to inform you that due to severe weather conditions on our flight path, we have to divert to the nearest airport.”

Angry, nervous chatter erupts as a flight attendant goes on about prioritizing safety, fastening seat belts securely, and putting trays in an upright position as we prepare for the descent.

Teller rubs his temple, trying to make sense of it all. “Is it just me, or is this flight cursed?”

“Definitely cursed. But we’ll get another one tonight once the weather clears,” I say confidently.

Unfortunately, the weather does not improve.

“There are no more flights to Venice tonight,” Miranda, one of the airport staff, informs us impatiently when we deboard at a midsize airport in Nowhere, America. I don’t fully blame her. She has to deal with hundreds of cranky customers in this humungous line, which appears to be growing exponentially by the minute.

“What about Rome?” Teller asks.

A bored blink. “Nope.”

“Florence?”

“Nope.”

“Are there any flights at all to Italy? Or Europe in general?” he asks, eyes alight with something that looks a lot like desperation.

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