Page 2 of The Significance of Moving On

She doesn’t go home until tomorrow.

Since she can’t go past check in with me, crying tears of wine and tequila, she hugs me tight.

People with luggage and loved ones scurry past us.

“Don’t have too much fun without me, Al. You and Tom going on your grand adventures before the summer’s up. I wonder what he has planned this year.”

“Come visit with us. Then you’ll know firsthand, babe,” I practically beg.

I have to get going. I don’t want to leave her behind but we’ll find a way for her to stay with us. Tom and I are like the Weasleys to her Dursleys. So yeah, wewillfigure it out.

One last hug and I walk through check in to stand in line at security.

“Bye bitch!” she calls out to me. There’s a laugh to her voice even as I hear it thick with tears.

Shoes, purse and carryon on the belt, I stop to pose in the x-ray machine for just a second. The TSA agent laughs and winks at me. He’s actually kind of cute.

But I move quickly because I don’t want to piss off the line behind me.

After collecting my shoes, purse and bag, I lean against an ugly beige wall to quickly slip on my shoes because they just announced boarding for my flight over the loudspeaker, then I take off running.

I get to the gate right after they’ve called first class passengers, which is after they call for special needs passengers.

Business class. That’s what I fly. Not as expensive as first class but has more legroom than coach.

“Good morning, Miss Bradley.” The attendant greets me as she checks my ticket. Once she determines everything to be cool, she hands it back to me. “I hope you enjoy your flight with National today.”

“Thanks,” I give her my chipper response. Because I find chipper always works best in social situations. For example, flight attendants are usually more inspired to toss me an extra bag of honey mustard peanuts midflight when I’m smiling and chipper.

And let’s face it, those honey mustard peanuts are the bomb. Wait—you can’t say bomb on a flight. I think they could throw me in jail for that. Honey mustard peanuts are thebest. There you go, Mr. Security Man. I changed it. They’re the best. Right.

Moving on.

The window seat already has its occupant when I arrive at my row. Ever since a lady got sucked out of the window when some plane’s engine exploded, I only do aisle.

It’s a man in—surprise, surprise—a gray business suit. He’s hunched over texting on his phone when I approach, but straightens up, laying his phone face down on his tray when I sit.

And the way he looks at me, it’s skeevy. The guy looks to be in his late forties. Sharp haircut. Sandy brown, no visible gray. Though probably not as thick as when he was in his twenties. But as I said, late forties—as if that would ever happen.

I mean, forties aren’t old, but I’m newly eighteen, and my guess is he’s texting his wife. There’s definitely a golden glint from his left ring finger.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he says.

Yes. As I thought, not just skeevy, but smarmy.

Ugh.

“Hi,” I casually answer, because it’s not usually safe to ignore these types of men.

He openly peruses my body, stopping to stare for long moments at my chest, and I’m not even showing any cleavage. Great. This should be a fun flight.

“Traveling alone?” he asks. Well, I could lie, except we’re on a plane. He’d know I lied when no one joined me.

“Yep.” God, I hate this part. My pits begin to sweat because I just know he’s going to say something inappropriate.

“Staying in Michigan or transferring flights?” he asks about our destination, right as his phone dings from a text he’s doing his best to keep me from seeing. He jots off some quick words, then turns his attention back to me, expectant look in his eyes.

“Getting off,” I tell him, immediately regretting my word choice. Tensing, I suck in a sharp breath, which draws his attention to my mouth.

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