Page 32 of In Flight

I frown and peer at him. “Is everything okay with you?”

“What?” He blinks like I woke him from sleep. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

I don’t believe him. Something is different. Something has changed.

Something is wrong, and I need to know what it is.

Because I have a tendency to dramatize my intuitive recognitions, I bite back an immediate demand for information on his mood and life situation and whether a loved one has died.

It might be nothing. It might be work stress or a generic bad day.

He’ll probably perk up once he relaxes.

So when he looks over to check why I’m staring at him, I smile at him and then focus on my knitting. “How was your week?”

“What?” It feels like he’s blinking again, but I don’t turn to verify. “Oh, it was fine. What about yours?”

“Mine was fine too.”

I wait, but he doesn’t ask about Cash. About whether I broke up with him.

The omission worries me. A lot.

Either he doesn’t care about it as much as I believed or something is so wrong that it’s blocking everything else in his mind.

It’s not right that something is the matter with Isaac. And that he won’t tell me what it is.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask lightly, keeping my eyes on my needles so I don’t appear too pushy or presumptuous.

“Yes. Of course. Why?” He sounds confused.

And slightly bad-tempered.

I don’t ask anything else as the plane starts taxiing and the seat belt and mask instructions sound through the speakers. Takeoff is a little bumpy, and I check covertly to see that Isaac is gripping his armrest with a stony expression on his face until we reach a cruising altitude and the turbulence smooths out.

We’ve been flying for thirty minutes without speaking, and it’s really upsetting me. My heart is racing like there’s a crisis. My stomach is twisted in knots. My eyes feel swollen like I could start crying at any moment.

Isaac is staring at his laptop screen, his fingers occasionally moving on the keyboard. But I know—I know—he’s not really working. He’s focused on whatever is wrong rather than the spreadsheet in front of him.

I’m not sure he shaved this morning. He’s got more stubble than usual. And his hair needs to be cut again. Or at least smoothed down. It’s an absolute wreck.

I hold out for ten more minutes before there’s no way to hold it back. “Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

He stiffens. Turns his head slowly to face me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, soft and brittle.

“Yes, you do. Maybe we’re not best friends, but we’ve flown together enough for me to recognize the difference. Something is wrong with you. If you don’t want to tell me what, that’s your choice. But at least do me the courtesy of not lying to my face.”

His eyes narrow. His jaw tenses.

I’ve made him angry and defensive now. My heart sinks.

Without answering, he turns back toward his laptop and taps away on the keys.

When I check the screen to see if he’s actually writing something coherent, he adjusts the angle so I can’t see it.

I let out a gusty sigh and roll my eyes.

Fine.

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