“You hit me in the face!” I tell him.
“Oh, shit,” he says. “Sorry. Can I see?”
I pull my hand away from my throbbing cheekbone, and Alex leans in close, his fingers hovering over my skin. His hand falls away without ever landing. “It looks okay. Maybe we should see if a flight attendant can bring some ice.”
“Good idea,” I say. “We can call her over and tell her you hit me in the face, but I’m sure it was an accident and also it’s not your fault—you were surprised and—”
“God, Poppy,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad.” I nudge his elbow with mine. “Why didn’t you tell me you were afraid of flying?”
“I didn’t know I was.”
“Meaning?”
He tips his head back against the headrest. “I hadn’t flown before tonight.”
“Oh.” My stomach clenches guiltily. “I wish you’d told me.”
“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“I wouldn’t have made it a thing.”
He looks over at me skeptically. “And what do you call this?”
“Okay, fine, yes, I made it a thing. But look.” I slide my hand under his and tentatively fold my fingers into his. “I’m here with you, and if you want to sleep for a little, I’ll stay awake to make sure the plane doesn’t crash. Which it won’t. Because this is safer than driving.”
“I hate driving too,” he says.
“I know you do. But my point is, this is better than that. Like, way better. And I’m here with you, and I’ve flown before, so if there’s a reason to panic, I’ll know. And I promise you, in that situation, I will panic and you’ll know something’s wrong. Until then, you can relax.”
He stares at me through the dark of the cabin for a few seconds.?
Then his hand relaxes into mine, his warm, rough fingers settling.?
It gives me a surprising thrill to hold his hand.?
Ninety-five percent of the time, I see Alex Nilsen in a purely platonic way, and I’d guess his number hovers a bit higher.?
But for that other five percent of the time, there’s this what-if.
It never lasts long or pushes too hard.?
It just sits there, cupped between our hands, a gentle thought without much weight behind it: What would it be like to kiss him? How would he touch me? Would he taste the way he smells? No one has better dental hygiene(habits and practices that are conducive to maintaining or improving the health of the teeth) than Alex, which isn’t exactly a sexy thought but certainly sexier than the opposite end of the spectrum.
And that’s about as far as the thought ever goes, which is perfect, because I like Alex way too much to date him. Plus we’re entirely incompatible.
The plane judders through another quick stretch of turbulence, and Alex’s grip tightens.
“Time to panic?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “Try to sleep.”
“Because I need to be well rested when I meet Death.”
“Because you need to be well rested when I get tired in Butchart Gardens and make you carry me the rest of the way.”
“I knew there was a reason you brought me with you.”
“I didn’t bring you with me to be my mule,” I argue.
“I brought you with me to be my patsy. You’re gonna cause a diversion as I run through the dining room of the Empress Hotel during high tea, stealing tiny sandwiches and priceless bracelets off unsuspecting guests.”
He squeezes my hand. “I guess I’d better sleep, then.”
I squeeze back. “Guess so.”
“Wake me up when it’s time to panic.”
“Always.”
He rests his head on my shoulder and pretends to sleep.
When we land, he will have a horrible kink(a sharp twist) in his neck and my shoulder will ache from sitting in this position for so long, but right now I don’t mind. I have five glorious days of travel with my best friend ahead of me, and deep down, I know: nothing can go wrong, not really.
It’s not time to panic.
9
This Summer
DO WE HAVE a rental car?” Alex asks as we head out of the airport into the windy heat.
“Sort of.” I chew on my lip as I fish my phone out to call a cab. “I sourced a ride from a Facebook group.”
Alex’s eyes narrow, the jet-induced gusts rolling through the arrivals area making his hair flap against his forehead. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“Remember?” I say. “It’s what we did on our first trip. To Vancouver? When we were too young to legally rent a car?”
He stares at me.
“You know,” I say, “that women’s online travel group I’ve been in for, like, fifteen years? Where people post their apartments for sublet and list their cars for rent? Remember? We had to take a bus to pick up the car outside the city and walk, like, five miles with our luggage?”
“I remember,” he says. “I’ve just never stopped to wonder why anyone would rent their car to a stranger before this moment.”
《People We Meet on Vacation》
by Emily Henry? 從朋友到戀人
只是搬運工加個人筆記笙僚。
