“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down, please,” the flight attendant with a French twist worked into her brownie-brown hair with uncomplimentary fuchsia lipstick that’s painted over her two front teeth, replies.
“Oh no, you aren’t blaming this on me. She’s the one threatening the plane,” the man continues. For someone who has been so quiet for so long, this is mildly shocking, and somewhat entertaining.
“Miss, we need all electronic devices to stay on airplane mode until we land. It’s just for the safety of our passengers.”
“See! It is for the safety of not taking the plane down.”
A man two rows in front of us, stands up from his seat. He’s dressed in business attire, sharply clothed with a stern look on his middle-aged face. He looks like a thinner version of John Cena.
The man leans over Grace. “Excuse me, miss, pardon my reach.” Grace, rather than looking horrified at what she’s kind of started, is blushing. “Is this part of my bachelorette weekend?” she mumbles.
“Stop,” I hush her. It’s obvious she knows nothing about air marshals.
“Sir, please come with me,” the deep-voiced man asserts.
That shut the guy up. He’s probably about to make his pants smell like the bathroom’s wafting odor. He’ll blend right in at least. I’ve always wondered where they take people like this jackass who can’t keep his mouth shut.
Now, I know. It’s exactly two rows up in the one empty seat on the plane next to the man who I assume to be the air marshal.
“See, now we can sit together,” Grace chirps. Grace quickly unlatches her seatbelt and scoots over. We both glance over at Macy who was lucky enough to land in a window seat. She’s been asleep for the last hour and is probably none the wiser that we have been flying in circles for the last thirty minutes. Grace’s knees are bouncing and her hands are tapping against he
r thighs. “I’m so excited.”
“You were just so nervous a minute ago. You need a drink,” I tell her.
Forty-Five Minutes Later.
“I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it!” Grace is singing into her mini-size water bottle as we follow the pack off the plane. “I know, I know, I know—”
“Grace,” I mumble. “People are staring.”
As if my words were motivation for her to take her show to the next level, she pokes her head into her small duffel bag and pulls out the sash Macy made for her and two for us. Grace’s says, “Bride-to-be.”
“I’m getting married, and I just can’t hide it!”
Macy is following behind the two of us, busy on her phone. “What are you doing back there?”
“Checking on our hotel transfer,” she says without lifting her head.
“Why don’t we just find a ride outside?” I ask.
“Transfers came with our hotel package.”
“Oh,” I respond, feeling like I should have asked a few more questions about the trip. I checked out the hotel and booked the flights. Macy said she was handling the hotel. I don’t recall ever staying in a hotel that came with transfers, but I also haven’t been to Mexico before.
“Hola, mi amigo. Me voy MARRIED!” I took my eyes off Grace for less than a minute, but I begged the flight attendant to pass us a couple of shots from the snack cart while we were circling. Nothing a twenty-dollar tip can’t take care of.
Grace has her hand on some guy’s chest. His downward dark brows, and attire to drive a bus, don’t give off the friendliest look. “Vamos a la Playa Grande Hotel,” he responds to her.
“That’s not where we’re going, Grace,” I tell her in case she didn’t pick up on the Spanish.
“We should go there! It would be fun,” she croons.
“No, no, we’re going to the hotel we booked, and our shuttle is just down there,” Macy says, waving back at the guy who is waving to us.
Macy has taken both our arms and is pulling us toward the man. “Benvenido muchachas!” At least he’s friendly, unlike the guy driving that bus back there.
“Veo que te vas a casar. ¿Quién es el afortunado?” I literally have no clue what he’s asking. I took Spanish classes from middle school through college, and I don’t know where most of the knowledge went. However, I don’t think I’m alone with that.