Page 24

WILLOW

S itting in the middle seat on a full flight is a unique kind of hell on Earth. but of course, since it’s me, I end up right in the center of the inferno. Out of all the seats on this plane, of course I would be sitting next to him.

I’m going to be trapped between Tyler Chesterfield and Blaise Dalton for the next four hours.

Many girls at Crestwood would die if they were in this predicament, yet I’m wondering if the same fate would take me out of my misery permanently.

Tyler's already got his headphones on, blissfully unaware of my internal meltdown as he stares out the window.

Blaise is pretending to read something on his phone, but I can feel the tension and awkwardness of this situation radiating off him.

"Ms. Sanchez, there's been a slight change to the seating arrangements," she'd said, adjusting her glasses. "A family with a young child needed to sit together, and since you were one of our last additions to the trip..."

I'd nodded, already dreading whatever was coming next.

"Your new seat is 14B, between Mr. Chesterfield and Mr. Dalton."

I'd almost laughed, because of course. Of course the universe would stick me next to my brother's best friend. And now I’m trying to wrap my brain around what I could have done to deserve this.

Now I'm hyperaware of every inch where my elbows might accidentally touch either of them. I've tucked myself in as tightly as possible, arms crossed, hoodie pulled down over my head. The middle seat has approximately six inches of personal space, and I'm determined to use every millimeter of it.

Tyler shifts in his seat, pressing his shoulder against the window and giving me an extra inch or two of space. Blaise, on the other hand, is grasping the armrest between us in a death grip. His knuckles are white, and I can't tell if it's from anxiety or from trying not to touch me.

Who am I kidding? It’s the former.

When I shift my body slightly and let out a deep sigh, some of the tension shifts from my shoulders to my chest, particularly near my heart.

To help combat it, I pull my phone out because I’m desperate for distraction.

And with the way my luck is going, the flight attendant's voice crackles over the intercom.

"Please ensure all electronic devices are in airplane mode for takeoff."

Great. Even my digital escape route is blocked.

"You okay?" Blaise's voice is so quiet I almost think I imagined it.

"Fine," I mutter, not looking at him. "Just love being sandwiched between strangers for four hours."

"We're not exactly strangers," he points out.

"That makes it worse."

He doesn't respond to that, and I immediately regret what I said. It's not his fault Professor Wallace rearranged the seating. It's not his fault we're both here. It's not even his fault that my heart is racing from being this close to him.

The plane begins to taxi, and I swear my stomach is ready to leave my body. I hate takeoffs. Always have. I grip the edges of my seat as the engines roar louder.

"You can take the armrest," Blaise says suddenly.

I glance at him. "What?"

"The armrest. You can have it. Middle seat gets both armrests. It's the rule."

"There's a rule?" I ask, momentarily distracted from my takeoff anxiety.

"Unwritten airplane etiquette. Window gets the view, aisle gets the legroom, middle gets both armrests. It's the only fair compensation."

Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. "Is that in the airline constitution somewhere?"

"Should be."

The plane accelerates down the runway, and I instinctively tense up. Without thinking, I grab the armrest and it’s then that I quickly realize Blaise’s hand is still there. His skin is warm against mine, and for a split second, neither of us moves a muscle.

Then I snatch my hand back like I've been burned.

"Sorry," I mumble, mortified because of what I’ve done.

"It's fine," he says, but he moves his hand away, giving me what I am owed.

The plane lifts off, and so does my stomach. I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing. In, out. In, out. Don't think about how you're in a metal tube hurtling through the sky. Don't think about the guy sitting next to you who's pretending this isn't awkward.

"Not a fan of flying?" Blaise asks after a moment.

"What gave it away?" I say through gritted teeth. "The fact that I'm barely breathing?"

"Yep."

I crack one eye open and find him watching me. One eyebrow is raised as if he’s surprised by my reaction, but I’m disarmed by the fact that there is a certain amount of tenderness in his gaze. Something I haven’t seen in years at this point.

"Takeoffs are the worst part," he offers. "Statistically speaking."

"Thanks for the reassurance," I say, but I’m not trying to be a complete asshole this time. "I'll be fine once we are in the sky."

Tyler moves again beside me, completely oblivious to our conversation as he continues to stare out the window. The plane finally reaches cruising altitude, and the seatbelt sign dings off. My death grip on the seat eases slightly.

"Better?" Blaise asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The fact that he noticed, that he cared enough to ask, is doing weird things to my insides that have nothing to do with turbulence.

"So," Blaise says after a moment, "did you get all your finals wrapped up okay?"

Small talk. He's making small talk. Which means either he's as uncomfortable as I am or he's taking pity on me. Neither option is particularly appealing.

"Yeah," I reply. "You?"

"More than okay," he says as he runs a hand through his blond hair. "Glad it’s over, but also ready to jump back into things in a couple of weeks."

I nod as I reach for my EarPods, desperate for a wall between us. I pause when I realize how rude it is of me to put these in my ears while he’s actively talking to me. The goal is now to complete the conversation so that I can have peace as quickly as possible.

"Same." I force myself to continue the conversation even though every cell in my body screams to escape it. "One more semester and then I'm done with my junior year."

"And then you have your internship in New York this summer."

The fact that he knows about it catches me off guard. "Knox told you?"

"He mentioned it." Blaise's eyes drop to his hands for a moment before returning to my face. "Sounds like a great opportunity."

"It is. A great learning opportunity that will hopefully lead to many more, including a job after graduation. Plus, it’s a paid one so that’s a relief.”

"Paid internships are unicorns," Blaise says. "I spent last summer working for free at a political consulting firm. Great experience, terrible for my finances, but things are slowly getting better in terms of paying versus not paying interns."

"What about you?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Any post-graduation plans yet?"

"A few possibilities." He taps his fingers lightly against his thigh. "I’m hoping I get drafted, but I do have an interview with a think tank in D.C. when we get back. And Coach knows someone at the NHL Players' Association and there might be an opening there."

"Both sound very...you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Structured. Strategic. Places where your color-coded notebooks would be appreciated."

This time he chuckles and it tickles my brain and other places. "You make me sound like a robot."

"Not a robot," I reply quickly. "Just...methodical."

Two flight attendants interrupt us because they’re wheeling the beverage cart down the aisle. Tyler finally removes his headphones when one asks what he'd like to drink.

"Water, please," he says before immediately putting his headphones back on and returning to his window gazing.

"For you?" she asks me.

"Ginger ale, if you have it." My stomach's finally settled, but I'm not taking chances.

"Same," Blaise says when she turns to him.

The flight attendant hands us each our drinks, and I'm suddenly conscious of how I need to lower my tray table without accidentally elbowing Blaise in the process. I manage it with minimal awkwardness, though I feel him watching my movements carefully.

"Thanks again,” I say as I give the flight attendant a small smile. Blaise does the same and then we sit in silence for a moment, both sipping our drinks. This is the perfect opportunity to put my EarPods in.

As I make a move to do so, Blaise speaks up. “How’d the senior hockey spotlight article go? The one you interviewed me and the rest of the guys for?”

I hate that it takes me a few seconds to realize what he’s talking about, but this small talk with him is throwing me for a loop."It turned out well, actually. It got published right before finals." I take a sip of my ginger ale. "My editor said it was one of my strongest pieces."

"I'd like to read it sometime," he says. “When I have the time, that is.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear and shrug. "It's online. Crestwood Chronicle website. Your quotes worked well with the brotherhood angle I ended up going with."

He nods. "Brotherhood. That's...fitting."

I don’t get a chance to ask him what he meant by that because the plane hits a small pocket of turbulence.The shift in tempo sends my ginger ale dangerously close to the rim of the cup. I grip it tighter as I brace for another bump that thankfully doesn't come.

"Sorry about that, folks," the captain's voice comes through a couple of moments later. "Just a little turbulence. We should be through it shortly."

“Thank fuck for that,” I whisper, but clearly it’s not low enough because Blaise chuckles and shakes his head.

As I'm about to plan what I should do next to entertain myself, Tyler adjusts his position.

His movement forces me closer to Blaise, shrinking the already limited space between us.

Great. Now I'm practically wedged between two human bookends with no room to breathe.

I take another sip of my ginger ale and try to focus on something, anything, instead of how Blaise's arm is suddenly two inches closer to mine. Blaise doesn’t say a word and neither do I.

The cabin lights dim slightly, and the flight attendants begin collecting trash.

I hand over my empty cup and ignore the self-consciousness I feel as a result of having to pass my garbage over Blaise.

Once that is out of the way, I finally grab my EarPods again and hope that music will drown out the static in my brain.

I scroll through my playlists, unable to decide what would help most. Something loud to block everything out?

Something calm to settle my nerves? I can also start brainstorming new article ideas or stream a show if I so dare.

My finger hovers indecisively over the screen as I wonder what to choose.

It’s then I notice Tyler’s head bobbing and realize he didn’t try to give any trash to the flight attendants. I glance over to find his eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Great. He's asleep and he's slumped in a way that pushes me further into the middle, which means closer to Blaise.

I shift my body in an effort to reclaim my space without disturbing Tyler. I quickly find out that it’s useless and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be leaning on my shoulder.

"You can lean this way if you need to," Blaise says and I swear I almost jump out of my skin.

I look over at him briefly and say, "I'm fine," but I’m not. I just don’t want to have to deal with being even closer to him on top of everything else.

I hit play on a random playlist and try to lose myself in the music and ignore everything else around me.

It doesn't work. Instead of focusing on the lyrics, all I can think about is how Blaise shifts in his seat every few minutes and how his fingers occasionally drum against his thigh as if he wants to get off this plane just as much as I do. What I do appreciate is that he’s not trying to crowd me on this already space-constricting plane.

A memory flashes unbidden: Leo sitting next to me on his couch, his arm slung possessively around my shoulders, fingers digging in just a little too tight. Always hovering, always controlling, always performing. Even when we were alone.

Blaise shifts again beside me, and his elbow brushes mine. He immediately pulls back, giving me space. The contrast is so stark it makes my throat tight.

Leo never gave space. He took it.

No. I am not doing this. I am not comparing them. I'm not thinking about either of them that way. However, my thoughts return to Blaise when I watch him unbuckle his seatbelt and rise to his feet.

I do my best to hide the fact that all my attention is on him when I spot a sliver of skin peeking out from underneath his hoodie as he rifles through what I assume is his bookbag in the overhead bin.

It only takes him a minute tops to pull a paperback out of his bag and settle back down in his seat.

When he starts reading, I find myself counting the seconds between each page turn.

Seventeen. Twenty-two. Nineteen. Either he reads at an inconsistent pace, or I'm losing my mind.

Probably both.

I turn my attention back to my phone and try to find a podcast to listen to, but it irritates me more than anything. I return to music, something with a heavy bass that might help me drown out my thoughts. It doesn't work.

When I feel a tap on my left shoulder, I already know who it is. I take out one of my EarPods and say, “Yeah?”

"Are you always this restless?" Blaise asks quietly.

It takes me a second longer than it should to come up with a response. "Are you always this observant?" I toss back.

I can see a smile starting to form on his lips before he stops himself. "Occupational hazard. Defense means watching everything."

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. I put my EarPod back in its rightful place and return to my phone, but my brain is still doing too much and not enough at the same time.

And we still have three more hours until Puerto Rico.