Page 6 of In Flight

I swallow hard. “Are you going to be on these same flights every weekend?”

“Yes.” He’s sitting very still, his bag on his lap since he hasn’t managed to pull out his iPad yet. “Are you saying—”

“I’m flying to Boston every weekend for the next couple of months. My sister is getting married, and they need me to help with the preparations.”

“Every weekend?”

His dubious tone makes me stiffen. “Yes. There’s a lot to do. And I’m not sure how it’s any of your business anyway. From now on, just pick a different seat and you’ll never have to interact with me again.”

“Why should I be the one to choose a different seat?”

“Why wouldn’t you? These are the worst seats on the entire plane!”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem sitting elsewhere.”

There’s that smug tone again. The one that makes me want to scratch something. Hard. “I’m not going to sit elsewhere. This is my favorite seat. I always sit here.”

“Why the hell is that seat your favorite?”

“Because it is.”

He rolls his eyes as he slides out his iPad and then stands up to fit his messenger bag into the overhead compartment, pushing my small suitcase out of the way in the process.

Even that annoys me. He shouldn’t be touching my stuff.

“I should have known you’d be superstitious,” he mutters.

“I’m not superstitious!”

Maybe I am a little bit. I get attached to rituals in the same way I get attached to possessions. But it’s not because I genuinely believe doing certain things will turn fate in my favor. I just like my little rituals.

“Uh-huh.”

“I said it was my favorite seat. Not my lucky seat. I don’t sit here because I think it will bring me good fortune. But while we’re on the topic, why exactly do you insist on sitting right there?”

He’s been focused on his iPad, but now he turns his head to shoot me a lofty look. “You’re not the only one with preferences.”

“I thought you were all about reason and logic and deduction. I’m the one who gets emotionally attached to things. According to you, you’re far above such silliness. So exactly why are you in that seat?”

He doesn’t answer. Just aims another look at me—this one long-suffering.

I make a face back before I can stop myself. I had vague ideas of acting smooth and unconcerned with him—as if he’s irrelevant to me—but that never works out for me. I care too much. I get too excited. I’m too into things to maintain even a pretense of indifference.

“So neither one of us is going to change seats?” I ask at last.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“And we’re going to be flying to and from Boston every weekend for two months?”

“Evidently.”

I blow out a breath and take a long sip of my spiced tea for comfort. “Just perfect.”

***

BY MUTUAL ACCORD, WEsit in silence for the next hour.

He works on the laptop he retrieved after we reach cruising altitude while I knit until I get antsy and pull out my sketchbook instead.

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