Page 1 of In Flight

One

IDROPPED MYsketchbook somewhere between Cash’s truck and the airport gate.

Where exactly I lost it, I have no idea. I don’t even realize it’s gone until I search through my knit tote so I can draw for a few minutes before we start boarding.

I used to always be frazzled as a girl—constantly worried about falling behind or keeping hold of my possessions or maintaining my outfit without straps showing and buttons undone—but over the years, I’ve learned to take my time and go through a series of mental checks before I leave the house. Now I’m only a mess like this when I have external deadlines that can’t be changed.

Like an airline flight time.

Last night I got involved in a new knitting pattern and waited too late to start packing. I rushed through the process before bed and checked my suitcase this morning before work, but all day I’ve worried about forgetting something. Then I left work late because I got caught up in a conversation with a coworker about the new photography exhibit in the library.

It’s a miracle the only thing I’ve lost is my sketchbook.

My therapist is always telling me to keep things in their proper perspective. Objects are not people, and they don’t hold the same value. Of course, I know that’s true. But I get attached to things. I always have—since all the way back in preschool when I found a pretty rock and carried it around like a baby, even putting it to bed every night.

I had several drawings in my sketchbook I’m really proud of. The thought of it tossed on the pavement to get kicked or driven over or rained on makes me want to cry.

I don’t, even though I’ve always been and still am an easy crier. That’s another thing I’ve learned over the years. Not to fall apart openly even when I’m sobbing on the inside.

The gate attendant has started calling out boarding groups, so I wouldn’t have time to draw anyway. Instead, I take a few minutes to make sure my essentials are still in their proper places. Wallet. License. Keys. Phone with the boarding pass pulled up and ready. My favorite colored pencils. My yarn and needles. Oatmeal cookies for sweets emergencies. My travel mug of spiced tea I made with a tea bag and hot water from a coffee stand just past security.

Everything else is where it should be as I get at the end of the line for the final boarding group.

My seat is in the back row.

I know that’s supposed to be the worst place on the whole plane, but it’s never bothered me at all. On my very first flight—a trip to the Caribbean with the family of one of my friends—I sat in the window seat in the back row on the right. Ever since then, it’s always been the seat I’ve chosen. On two flights when that seat was already taken, I was uncomfortable and fidgety the entire time.

That seat is mine. I’m attached to it the same way I’m attached to my sketchbook and my preschool rock. (I still have the rock, by the way, safely stowed away in my memento drawer.)

This flight—from Savannah to Boston—is one I’ve flown many times because Boston is my hometown and my parents and sister still live there. The plane is usually smallish, and today it’s one with the seat configuration of three on one side of the aisle and two on the other.

My seat is on the side with two. I perk up as I reach it. No one is in the seat next to me yet. Maybe it will stay empty so I can spread out.

After stowing my purple roller case in the overhead compartment, I settle in my seat, adjusting the seatback and lowering the tray table before I remember I’ll have to put it up at takeoff, so I hook it back in place against the seat in front of me. Between my lap and my left armrest, I organize my tea, my phone, my knitting, and a couple of torn sheets of lined paper from my journal in case I feel the need to sketch.

I really want my sketchbook.

Why the heck wasn’t I paying more attention?

It’s then—just then—that my sketchpad appears on my tray table.

Like a miracle or a magic trick.

I’m so stunned I stare at it for a minute before processing that the man who sat down in the seat beside me is the one who put it there.

When I look over, he’s not paying any attention to me. He’s wearing a dark gray suit that looks expensive and is pulling a superthin iPad out of his leather bag. It’s not a regular briefcase. More like an expensive messenger bag with a shoulder strap.

“Thank you.” I smile at him, still feeling flustered and bemused by the sudden appearance of my treasured possession. “Where did you find it?”

“You dropped it getting out of the pickup,” he says, still focused on his iPad (holding it in one hand since he’s clearly not the kind to forget about the tray tables) rather than looking at me. “I tried to catch you, but you disappeared. I was about to turn it in to lost and found when I saw you boarding my plane.”

He looks around my age—definitely in his thirties. He’s got thick, rumpled brown hair and brown eyes and a five-o’clock shadow. It’s hard to judge his height when he’s slouched in the seat with one of his legs stretched into the aisle, but he’s for sure taller than my five six. Probably several inches taller.

“Well, thank you for picking it up.” The cover is slightly damp from being dropped on wet pavement, and several of the pages are bent or wrinkled. I work on smoothing them down.

“Your boyfriend should have noticed you dropped it,” he says, pulling a document up on his tablet. “He was standing right there.” He still hasn’t looked at me directly, and it’s starting to bug me. So is his slightly condescending tone.

“Well, he didn’t.” I frown at the man. He smells faintly like coffee and faintly like soap, and it’s a warm, pleasant combination. A disorienting contrast to his attitude. “So thank you for noticing and giving it back to me.”

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