I run to the newsstand in front of my gate to grab a few magazines, but the only offerings are various Kardashians and Sabrina Parker, so I grab three mini snow globes for the triplets and a bottle of water. Hovering around the gate is a cluster of men in slacks and sport coats, like someone might try to steal their business-class seats if they don’t claim them first. My stepmom, Erica, sent me enough money to upgrade to first class. It was supposed to be a graduation gift, but I used the cash to ship most of my shoe collection across the country instead. Erica probably would’ve just paid for that too, but there’s no handbook on cultivating a relationship with your stepmother and asking her for money after the sudden death of your father.
After Dad died, I spent six months living with my stepmom and stepsisters. Even though we’d moved in with Erica back when she and Dad got married the summer before ninth grade, those six months after he died felt like I’d been dropped in someone else’s life. Erica and her daughters, Anna and Drew, knew how to exist without Dad. I…didn’t. After I left for college, Erica began to build a new house that she finally finished last year. The only place that feels like home anymore is the apartment I just packed up.
My phone rings, and I expect it to be Sierra already checking in on me, but it’s not. “Hey,” I say.
“Darling,” Erica croons. “Did you make it through security okay? We’ve got to get you signed up for CLEAR. TSA pre-check is almost always more crowded than the actual TSA line these days.”
“I really don’t fly that much,” I say.
“The triplets are chomping at the bit, waiting for you. Can you believe they’re turning four this summer? I’m sending my driver to fetch you.”
“I can just take a Lyft,” I say as I tiptoe through a clump of teenagers on a high school trip. “Excuse—” I teeter before losing my balance and catching myself on a random person’s armrest.
A hand braces my arm, steadying me, and when I look up, I’m practically in the lap of a guy who could double as Prince Charming. Dark hair and deep brown eyes with flecks of amber and a hint of olive in his complexion. Our gazes lock, frozen for a moment.
“A Lyft!” Erica shudders. “The new rideshare pickup at LAX is an absolute disaster. An actual regression in evolution. I insist—”
“Hey, Erica? Sorry. I gotta go.”
I push myself back up as the heat in my cheeks flares. “I’m so, so sorry,” I tell Prince Charming.
He grins back at me, and his teeth are so white they could be photoshopped, except this is real life. “Ahhh!” he quietly fake screams. “Don’t step on the lava!”
My brow furrows as I try to make sense of what he’s talking about.
His smile droops. “You know lava? Like when you were little? The floor is made of lava! Jump from cushion to cushion!”
“Ohhhhh! Right, yeah, I was more of a reader, I guess?”
“I read,” he says immediately.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that you don’t,” I say, trying to recover.
“Now boarding Group A,” says the gate agent through the static of the intercom.
Prince Charming stands, and of course he’s tall too. “That’s me. Uh, excuse me.”
I double back. “Watch out for the lava!” I call as he circles around the row of seats to where the rest of the first-class passengers are lined up.
“Watch out for the lava?” I say back to myself.
Below me a group of teenagers chuckle. “Real smooth,” says a white girl with thick brown curls slicked back into a ponytail.
“Could you not?” I snap back at her as I shuffle down the aisle and wait for my boarding group. I feel immediately bad for being a grumpy spinster. Mean teenage girls and awkward interactions with living, breathing Prince Charmings. Some things never change.
The minute I get on the plane, I immediately regret my decision to forgo business class. I shimmy down the aisle sideways so that my hips don’t hit any of the business-class passengers while they enjoy their mimosas and Bloody Marys. When I make it to my row, a small, elderly women gets up from the aisle seat as I hoist my bag into the overhead compartment with a grunt.
Sitting in my window seat is the king of all bros—a white guy in a polo shirt with the collar popped and sunglasses with lenses so reflective, I can see my own disappointment staring back at me. Delightful.
“Excuse me,” I say to King Bro, “but I think you’re in my seat.” I hold my phone out so he can see my digital ticket.
He doesn’t budge. “Oh, we’re going to the same place, sweetheart.”
I can feel the crowd behind me losing their patience, and so am I. “That’s right,” I say in my best kindergarten teacher voice. “We are. In our assigned seats.”
The guy grumbles and yanks the armrest up as he slides into his rightful middle seat. I’m forced to contort my body over his, which is no small feat for anyone, much less a plus-size girl in a flying tuna can.
I sit down and say a prayer that the seat belt will fit. You never know on planes. Sometimes the seat belts are just fine, other times I swear that the only people the manufacturers had in mind were children. Luckily, though, this time I’m able to safely buckle up without having to ask the flight attendant for a seat-belt extender.
I close my eyes and press my body into the wall of the plane. Either I’m going to sleep for the next six hours or I’m going to pretend to, because I’m not talking to this man-spreader any more than I have to.
Call it exhaustion or determination, but I pass out for the first two hours, and when I finally look out the window, we’re somewhere over the sprawling plains of the Midwest. What wakes me, however, is my King Bro seatmate standing up to go to the bathroom.
The woman in the aisle seat looks over to me as he wiggles past her, and we share a knowing look.
I take the moment of freedom to reach into my bag for headphones and see what the airline has to offer in regard to entertainment.
“Excuse me? Miss?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up to find Prince Charming holding my Balenciaga slide out to me from the aisle. He looks down to the woman in the aisle seat. “Pardon my reach.” And then back to me. “I think you might have lost this in our…kerfuffle.”
I let out a snort. “Is that what you call it?”
He smiles. “I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, okay?”
“Oh, really? Are you more of a Downton Abbey fan, or does Poldark really scratch that itch for you?”
“Well, since you asked, I’m ride or die for Death Comes to Pemberley.”
“Okay, you really are an old woman.”
The woman in the aisle seat eyes me.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that!” I say too loudly, and find myself very grateful for the roar of the jet.
Just then King Bro is back. He looks to Prince Charming and squares his shoulders, nostrils flaring. Men like him are a species I have no interest in acquainting myself with.
“Hey, man,” says Prince Charming.
King Bro tilts his chin upward. “Sup.”
Prince Charming points to the middle seat. “That your seat?”
King Bro nods once, and I’m surprised he doesn’t beat his chest to claim his territory.