That earns me a quiet laugh.
No one should look glamorous in the economy section, but the light glints off his mahogany hair. His shirtsleeves and slacks are exactly the comfortable shade of rumpled. His loafers still shine. Instead of seeming out of place among the scratchy fabric and cramped seating, he makes it seem like a stylish tableau.
People in business class would clamor to sit next to him if they could see him. Maybe he’s some kind of model who the airline uses for their in-flight magazine.
In contrast I feel brittle, as if the stale air has been stripping moisture from my skin while I slept. I wipe my eyes, trying to focus. The faint scent of coffee wafts from the back of the plane.
“Well, I appreciate the use of your shoulder.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’une jolie fille comme toi fait seule?”
The melody of his voice sinks into my bones. His meaning does not. The pocket dictionary I picked up at the airport taught me how to ask for the bathroom. I doubt that’s what he wants from me. “Sorry,” I say, sheepish. “I don’t speak French.”
Dark eyebrows go up. “Non? Who let you go off on this vacation without a guide?”
“It’s not a vacation.” I’m reluctant to share my reasons for buying the first ticket out of New York City. Then again, I did just use him as a pillow without his consent. “I’m looking for someone.”
“A lucky man.”
I don’t correct him. My sister is neither male nor lucky.
If there’s a hole, she’ll fall into it. If there’s a rake, she’ll step on it and run straight into the pole—cartoon-style. It’s almost impressive, her record for getting into scrapes.
She’s a travel writer and influencer on Instagram. Her posts featuring herself standing in front of an infinity pool in a bikini with the sunset behind her get a hundred thousand likes. Interesting meals and fun places. Every so often there will be a photo of her turned away from the camera, her hand being held by whoever takes the picture, some anonymous male hand. That’s the best way to describe my sister, London—always leaving.
The highlight reel never shows the side trips, the time she left her bag on the subway or got on the wrong train. We can never tell my parents about those mishaps, lest they completely lose their minds worrying about her. It’s part of the sister contract.
I always keep a few thousand dollars ready to wire her and the number for the embassy of whatever country she’s in. I’m always prepared for something to go wrong.
I wasn’t prepared for her to go completely missing.
A flight attendant appears with a cart, serving watery coffee and an oversweet muffin on a plastic plate. I scarf both of them down because I’m starving.
I moan in relief.
My neighbor takes a sip of his coffee with a pained expression. “For this you make sex sounds? A proper cup of French coffee and some crepes. That’s what you need.”
This banter thing is weirdly fun. And a good distraction from the dull panic that’s beat in my heart for the past few days. “Do you make sex sounds for crepes?” I ask.
“Why don’t you find out? I could show you around until you meet this mystery man.”
My smile fades. He’s really hitting on me. What a strange twenty-four hours this has turned out to be. “That sounds lovely, and really, any other time…”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Don’t explain, ma petite.”
That was a lie, of course. Any other time I wouldn’t be on this airplane. We never would have met. The thought gives me the courage to ask, “What’s your name?”
“Adam Bisset.” He says the name in that fluent accent. It’s almost obscene, the way it sounds on his tongue, as if it shouldn’t be spoken in front of a few hundred people, especially children.
“Holland,” I say in response, though I manage to stop myself before I share my last name. He doesn’t seem like the type of man with a brood of children at home. He’s too movie-star handsome to imagine in a real-world setting. I don’t want to take the chance.
“I’m so glad to meet you, Holland,” he says with such warmth it feels real. Not just something that people say to strangers they’ll never see again.
The pilot comes over the speakers. We’re starting our final descent.
I make sure my seat belt is buckled, that my tray is secured, that my seat is in its upright position. I use the plane’s Wi-Fi one last time to refresh my Instagram feed. There’s my sister smiling at me from two weeks ago when she was at the airport in Prague. Her destination is written into the post. I’ll see you in Paris, it says with a string of emojis: a plane, a heart, the Eiffel Tower, heart eyes, and a few more I don’t recognize.
There have been no new posts from her in those two weeks. No emails. No Facebook messages. I open the apps to check for the trillionth time, my heart dropping again to find them empty. I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s okay so I can kill her for making me worry like this.
And then I close my eyes, blocking out the flight attendant and the handsome man beside me. I block out everything except sensation. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air and dropping.
Is this what it feels like to fly? No, because this feels like nothing.
Or maybe that’s how birds feel.
My characters would know. My readers would know. Children always know. And when I’m writing them, when I’m Holland Frank, beloved author, I can feel the world through their eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
The airport itself feels sleepy, heavy shades drooping over dark windows. Workers push large floor cleaners across a floor that’s lost its gloss. Every other restaurant has bars over its entrance. Closed. Good thing I’m not hungry.
It’s four a.m. The embassy opens in a few hours.
Feeling numb, I lift my phone to check my messages. The last text message from my sister came two weeks ago. It’s a photo of her plane ticket to Paris, with the text, Heading to the most romantic city in the world. Remember that boy you met?
I responded with an emoji of me sticking out my tongue.
A few days later, I ask how she’s doing. A few days after that, I demand an answer, only half-jokingly. And a few days after that, I got really worried.
A lone suitcase circles the conveyor belt. A family with two children appears with a large stuffed elephant that probably needed its own seat. A selection of individual men and women, probably business travelers. A couple who are leaning on each other. Honeymoon?
We’re all too exhausted to do anything more than stare straight ahead.
There’s also a text message from my mother. It’s a photo of her hydrangeas, looking healthy and pink. How are you? she asks. How’s London? She didn’t reply to my text.
I can picture her in her quaint bungalow with cats sprawled across the patio while my dad fixes up cars in his garage. They live an idyllic life, and I know they wish my sister and I lived closer. I moved to New York City with London, where we share an apartment. I mostly live there while she explores the world and stops by every few months.
She’s busy with a new guy, I say, covering for her like I always do.
What about you? How’s the writing going?
I haven’t been able to write a word since my sister went off the grid. Writer’s block, I type. I’m working on fixing it, though.