Page 3 of At First Smile
Finding my gate, I fold myself into an uncomfortable plastic chair to devour my breakfast sandwich and fall into my latest audiobook.
The sultry timbre of Wesley Williamson – my favorite narrator – helps me escape into the world of thousand-year-old hot vampires with Mr. Darcy vibes.
The story being woven in my earbuds helps me leave the last week behind.
Leave why I came back to Buffalo, the tension with my mother, and the awkward meet-cute with Rowan.
Rowan. My stomach flip-flops between a sigh and a flutter at the thought of him.
I hope everything turns out okay with he and motherfucker.
It seemed to have turned the corner before he’d caught me listening in.
I scan the boarding area, wondering if he’s here.
He’s not. At least, I don’t see him which doesn’t mean he’s not here.
He’s bound for L.A. Are we on the same flight?
The Buffalo-Niagara Airport is small, but not that small.
There are several airlines flying direct to Los Angeles in this time window.
“Penelope Meadows, please see the agent at gate eleven’s counter.” A voice booms over the sound system, interrupting the vampire/awkward girl meet-cute.
Hitting pause, I sling my bag over my shoulder and shuffle with Cane Austen to the counter. “I’m Penelope,” I say, reaching the agent.
“Ms. Meadows.” The agent beams. “Your seat has been upgraded. I have a new boarding pass for you.”
“Upgraded?” I blink.
“You’re still in a window seat, but you’ve been moved to first class. Seat one-A. We’ll start pre-boarding in a few minutes for our passengers with disabilities. Would you like assistance going down the jetway?”
First class from Buffalo to Los Angeles? Perhaps I had earned some karma points after all. Thanking the agent and telling them I wouldn’t need assistance, I head back to my seat.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check my messages. Despite the frown, guilt swirls in my stomach at the four unread messages from my mother. Sighing, I open them and respond.
Me: I’m at my gate.
Mom: Good! Did you click on the links I sent you to those clinical trials?
Eyes closed, I release a hard breath. If it isn’t messages about my love life, it’s ones about studies to cure my eye condition. She means well , Aunt Bea’s cautious warning plays on repeat inside me. Opening my eyes, I reply.
Me: I’ll look at them when I get home, so I can see them on the larger screen. I’ll message when I’m home.
It’s a lie, but my energy for this familiar conversation is nonexistent.
I swipe to my message with JoJo, my West Coast bestie.
Trina is insistent that I’m allowed two best friends if I designate them by coasts.
Trina Lyons, who is two years older than me, was my first bestie due to close proximity.
She lived next door until I moved with Aunt Bea to California.
I met JoJo Rivers a year later as freshmen in undergrad.
Me: Flight is on time. You still picking me up at the airport?
JoJo: Does a hobby horse have a hickory dick?
Me: A simple yes would do.
JoJo: Then I wouldn’t be me. Tongue out emoji.
I snort just a bit. Even with the magnification program on my cell, I have the worst time with GIFs and emojis, so JoJo spells them out for me. It’s both sweet and totally self-serving because I’m a hundred percent positive that a majority of the GIFs and emojis that she spells out do not exist.
JoJo: How are you doing, BTW?
God, that’s a loaded question. My heart aches just thinking about the many, many responses rattling around in me. How does one respond when their entire world as they know it has been ripped away in a single moment?
Me: Okay.
JoJo: Acceptance smiley face when your friend is pretending they are okay when they’re not emoji.
Me: Middle finger emoji.
JoJo: Gasp emoji.
Me: These aren’t real emojis emoji.
JoJo: I love you emoji.
Me: I love you too emoji. We’ll have all the LAX to Orange County traffic to dig into how I’m doing. I promise.
JoJo: Excited social worker friend emoji.
Hearing them announce pre-boarding, I text goodbye to JoJo and slip my phone into the pocket of my denim jacket. The late June weather is warm, allowing me to sport my favorite pale pink cotton sundress, but the jacket will keep me warm on the plane.
I won’t pretend that excitement doesn’t crisscross inside me at turning left while boarding the plane.
The first-class lifestyle isn’t something I’ve indulged in.
Outside of that all-inclusive resort Aunt Bea took me to in celebration of my master’s degree.
As first-class as I typically get is getting to skip the wait at Bread, my favorite breakfast spot in downtown Seal Beach, because Aunt Bea and I’ve gone there every Saturday for the last nine years. Almost every Saturday.
Ignoring the twinge in my heart, I follow the flight attendant to my seat in the front row, which means more leg room.
It also means all my things have to go up top.
Pulling out the things I’ll want quick access to – bottled water, bag of trail mix, phone, and earbuds – I toss my bag into the overhead bin and plop into my seat.
Head pressed against the window, I lose myself in my audiobook which drowns out the flight’s boarding soundtrack – murmured apologies, cleared throats, and muttered, “I think that’s my seat,” and the repeated chastising of a passenger for blocking the aisle.
Someone takes the seat beside me. The furnace of their body laps against my skin. A fresh woodsy scent makes my eyelids flutter open. Straightening, I turn my face toward my seatmate.
“Pen,” Rowan drawls.