Oliver vows to make the forty dollar upcharge “worth it.” At eight bucks a cocktail, that’s—
Well, let’s just say I know he’s good for it.
He flirts with the flight attendant as she drops off two tiny bottles of whiskey and two tiny glasses of ice. He pours one. Drinks it in three gulps.
Starts on the other.
Daisy averts her eyes.
Her friend Luna makes a show of pouting. Not over Oliver’s drinking—I’m not sure she cares about that. Over the whole we’re not in Mexico yet, you can’t drink yet thing.
She’s a tall, expressive girl with silver-blond hair, painted red lips, and trendy clothes. Between her curvy figure and her pouty lips, she’s a certifiable babe.
I try to tell my cock to want her. I try to stare at her considerable cleavage—she’s chesty yeah, but she’s also making an effort to show off—and conjure images of her tits in my hands.
It wouldn’t be that much better to want Daisy’s best friend. If anything, it would break her heart faster.
But it would prove I’m capable of controlling my fucking cock.
I try, hard, to imagine her light hair in my hands, her round ass against my crotch, her red lips around my cock.
The images come.
But they shift to Daisy like that.
I’m only making the situation worse.
I steal Oliver’s drink.
He shoots me a dirty look but he doesn’t stop me. Just hails the flight attendant, flirts through a request for another.
I press my palm into the arm rest. I’m not getting out of my seat, crossing the aisle, comforting Daisy.
She’s used to her brother drinking.
She has her friend by her side.
They’re already onto another subject, sharing a pair of headphones, closing their eyes, losing themselves in the music.
“You need another?” Oliver taps my shoulder. Motions to his plastic cup full of ice and brown liquor.
“It’s ten a.m.”
“It’s free.” He shoots me an obviously look.
I turn to the flight attendant. She’s still here. Still smiling at him.
“Could I get a black tea?” I ask.
She nods of course. “Cream and sugar?”
“Plain.” My gaze shifts to the window. “Thanks.” I’m in the window seat. Oliver’s in the aisle. We got lucky. No one took the middle.
The girls are on the opposite side of the aisle. They’re sitting aisle and middle. There’s a stranger in the window seat with her eyes closed and her head on the window.
They chose to sit next to each other. To sit close enough to share headphones, coffee, blankets.
They’re sharing a blanket.
Fuck, it’s sweet.
She’s sweet.
Way too sweet for me.
Not that it matters.
I’m showing her a good time. Making sure she has fun.
Whatever happens, I’m making her birthday something to remember.
Yeah, I’ll have to find a way to ditch Oliver. I’ll have to spend the whole day alone with her without touching her.
But I’m capable.
In theory.
The four of us are good fliers. No complaints of boredom, hunger, thirst, coldness.
We keep to ourselves. Oliver reads one of those thrillers he loves. I don’t know how he can concentrate on words after so many drinks, but he’s a man of many talents.
Luna and Daisy share headphones the entire flight. They switch from talking to staring at screens—Daisy reads on her Kindle, Luna plays a game on her phone—but they stay in sync.
I lie back, close my eyes, focus on my playlist of eighties jams. They were Mom’s favorite. Not that I remember, not really. I have the vaguest sense of sunny days, warm hugs, heaping scoops of whipped cream on hot chocolate.
A big smile—one exactly like Ariel’s.
A soft laugh.
This look of love as grown-ups danced to a sappy song.
This song.
Just Like Heaven
I’m not sure how this music found its way into my head. Or my heart.
There isn’t shit in my heart.
But there’s something about the artsy electronic sound.
It takes me back to that feeling of love.
One big family. A house brimming with happiness. A mom with a warm smile.
I was a kid when mom died. I remember her in a hospital bed, tiny and frail, forcing a smile, promising she’d love us forever.
Dad falling apart. Spending every night in his room, alone, only emerging for work.
Forest forcing him to eat.
Taking Ariel to school.
Lecturing me about anything and everything. Then lecturing me again, for good measure.
My sister was always playing their songs. Mom’s songs. They found their way into my head, my heart, my soul.
It’s supposed to be empty.
There’s not supposed to be anything there.
I’m not supposed to be in touch with this shit.
Maybe it’s a good thing. To remember all this pain. The pain that comes with love.
I’m not feeling that again.
I’m not subjecting Daisy to that.
I listen until the flight attendant insists we turn off our electronic devices—a Mexican regulation, apparently—then I stare out the window, watch the clouds and blue sky fade into little houses, long stretches of ocean, sandy deserts.
Our landing is bumpy.
Nausea spreads over Oliver’s face.