Page 41 of In Flight

“You’re welcome.”

“Let’s let it sit for the weekend.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.”

Nine

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, it feels like I’m about to go out on a date.

A good one. With a guy who has a lot of potential.

As much as I tell myself to cool it, I still find myself showering and shaving and doing my nails and blow-drying my hair so it’s smooth and curled into beachy waves instead of its normal wild mess.

I bought a new dress yesterday—entirely incidental to today’s flight—and I put it on merely so it doesn’t wrinkle in my luggage. It’s a dark red that brings out the color in my cheeks and emphasizes the hazel color of my eyes. It’s long and made of a thick, stretchy knit that’s perfectly comfortable for a flight. Yes, it’s got some cool-looking lacing under the breasts that really make the most of my figure, but that’s definitely not why I chose the dress. I pair it with my favorite high boots and then cover the ensemble with a soft, sherpa-lined sweater-jacket since it’s cold outside and it makes me feel less dressed up.

My sister comments on how nice I look. My mother questions my choice of dress for a flight. My dad glances up from his desk to say goodbye and that I look pretty today.

I’m second-guessing my ensemble as the driver from my dad’s car service takes me to the airport, but it’s too late now to make a change.

I button my jacket before I get out of the car. It’s fine. It’s all fine. No one is going to assume I dressed up special to see Isaac. And if they do, oh well.

They’ll be wrong.

Kind of wrong.

Okay, maybe not wrong at all.

Isaac doesn’t show up until I’ve boarded the plane and taken my seat, but he’s not as late as he sometimes is.

I can’t help but smile when his face appears at the front of the aisle and he gives a friendly greeting to the flight attendant who nearly always works this flight.

When he’s halfway down the aisle, I can tell that underneath his jacket, he’s not wearing the jeans and sweater or basic top he usually wears on Sundays. His trousers are black, and his shirt has a collar and buttons. He’s rolling his small suitcase and has his regular laptop bag on his shoulder, but he’s also carrying a large paper shopping bag.

“What’s in there?” I ask, craning so I can see inside the bag when he sets it on his seat.

With a disapproving frown, he snatches the bag away and puts it on the floor instead as he takes off his jacket and stows it above us with his suitcase.

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