Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Got anything stronger?” I asked. But I unscrewed the cap and chugged half of it down.
“Such as?”
“I wouldn’t say no to some vodka.” Hiccup!
“Just vodka?”
“Maybe with soda.” I looked toward the galley. “But it might be too late. They already came around and asked us if we wanted anything before takeoff.”
“I can probably make it happen.” He put his hand up and made eye contact with one of the female flight attendants, who wasted no time in approaching him with an eager-to-please smile. She was pretty and young, with cascading waves of beachy blond hair, long black eyelashes, and a golden tan. Flight attendant Barbie. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Lupo?”
“Yes.” He looked at me. “My friend here would like a vodka soda, and I’ll take a whiskey neat.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t by any chance have a lemon, do you?” He looked at me and explained, “My mom always made us suck on a lemon if we got hiccups.”
“We don’t,” said the flight attendant, clearly sad to disappoint him. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Just the drinks, then. Thanks.”
“You got it.” She managed to tear her eyes off him and give me a tiny nod before hurrying away.
“See?” He looked at me and shrugged. “Easy.”
I had a feeling that kind of thing was always easy for him.
The flight attendant had called him Mr. Lupo. The name was slightly familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure how. Outside the window, lightning flashed again, and I jumped. A small squeaky sound escaped my throat.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I fly through thunderstorms all the time.”
And before I could stop myself, I was blurting out facts, which I tend to do when I’m nervous. “But thunderstorms can contain fierce updrafts and—hic!—downdrafts that can cause violent turbulence and potential structural damage. And the high concentrations of—hic!—supercooled water droplets can instantly freeze upon contact with the aircraft, causing a—hic!—rapid buildup of ice on wings, engines, and other surfaces, affecting the aircraft’s aerodynamics and performance.”
He laughed again. “Are you a meteorologist or something?”
“No. I’m a museum curator.” Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I gripped my knees. “I’m just really, really afraid of flying.”
“I can tell.”
“When I was in middle school, this kid who said he could read palms told me I would die in a plane crash.”
He shrank back a little, his expression skeptical. “I hope you didn’t pay him.”
“I had to. Everyone else was doing it, and I didn’t want to be left out. But it scared the bejesus out of me. I thought he was just going to tell me, like, who I’d marry or how many kids I’d have.”
He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he did not have any of that intel.”
“You’re right. I’m sure you’re right,” I said, knowing I was babbling to a complete stranger, but unable to stop myself. “But ever since then, I’ve been afraid of flying. And while I was sitting at the bar waiting out the delay on this flight, I Googled ‘flying through thunderstorms.’”
“That was probably a bad idea,” he said, as the flight attendant appeared with our drinks.
“I haven’t even told you about the hailstones, lightning strikes, and wind shear.”
He handed me the vodka soda. “Here. This will help.”
I took a sip, the soda bubbles fizzing on my tongue. “Thanks.”
“A museum curator, huh?” He took a swallow of whiskey. “I think you might be the first one of those I’ve ever met.”
“What do you do?”
“I play hockey.”
I pushed my glasses up my nose. “Like, professionally?”
Another grin. “Yeah. Like professionally.”
“That’s cool.” It had to be the reason his name seemed familiar. I wasn’t really a hockey fan, but maybe I’d seen him on the news or something. It might explain the scars too. Hockey was sort of brutal, wasn’t it?
“Do you follow hockey?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted as the plane pushed back from the gate. “Sports are not really my thing.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Museums aren’t really my thing.”
“Do you play for Chicago?” I asked.
“Yes. But I grew up in northern Michigan.”
“Me too.” I was about to ask him where in northern Michigan he was from when the flight attendant appeared again. “I’m sorry, I’m going to need to collect your glasses before we take off. Due to the storms, there may be some rough air, and the pilot would like the crew to remain seated.”
“No problem.” He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and handed her the glass.
Trying not to freak out, I finished my vodka soda in two long gulps, feeling the alcohol go straight to my head. After handing her my glass, I decided to put in my earbuds and listen to my meditation playlist. I couldn’t keep bothering this guy, and it was too late to ask him for his seat. He’d already turned his attention back to his phone, so I popped my earbuds in, needlessly tightened my seat belt again, and closed my eyes.