by Julie Murphy
My phone rings, and I expect it to be Sierra already checking in on me, but it’s not. “Hey,” I say.
“Darling,” Erica croons. “Did you make it through security okay? We’ve got to get you signed up for CLEAR. TSA pre-check is almost always more crowded than the actual TSA line these days.”
“I really don’t fly that much,” I say.
“The triplets are chomping at the bit, waiting for you. Can you believe they’re turning four this summer? I’m sending my driver to fetch you.”
“I can just take a Lyft,” I say as I tiptoe through a clump of teenagers on a high school trip. “Excuse—” I teeter before losing my balance and catching myself on a random person’s armrest.
A hand braces my arm, steadying me, and when I look up, I’m practically in the lap of a guy who could double as Prince Charming. Dark hair and deep brown eyes with flecks of amber and a hint of olive in his complexion. Our gazes lock, frozen for a moment.
“A Lyft!” Erica shudders. “The new rideshare pickup at LAX is an absolute disaster. An actual regression in evolution. I insist—”
“Hey, Erica? Sorry. I gotta go.”
I push myself back up as the heat in my cheeks flares. “I’m so, so sorry,” I tell Prince Charming.
He grins back at me, and his teeth are so white they could be photoshopped, except this is real life. “Ahhh!” he quietly fake screams. “Don’t step on the lava!”
My brow furrows as I try to make sense of what he’s talking about.
His smile droops. “You know lava? Like when you were little? The floor is made of lava! Jump from cushion to cushion!”
“Ohhhhh! Right, yeah, I was more of a reader, I guess?”
“I read,” he says immediately.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that you don’t,” I say, trying to recover.
“Now boarding Group A,” says the gate agent through the static of the intercom.
Prince Charming stands, and of course he’s tall too. “That’s me. Uh, excuse me.”
I double back. “Watch out for the lava!” I call as he circles around the row of seats to where the rest of the first-class passengers are lined up.
“Watch out for the lava?” I say back to myself.
Below me a group of teenagers chuckle. “Real smooth,” says a white girl with thick brown curls slicked back into a ponytail.
“Could you not?” I snap back at her as I shuffle down the aisle and wait for my boarding group. I feel immediately bad for being a grumpy spinster. Mean teenage girls and awkward interactions with living, breathing Prince Charmings. Some things never change.
The minute I get on the plane, I immediately regret my decision to forgo business class. I shimmy down the aisle sideways so that my hips don’t hit any of the business-class passengers while they enjoy their mimosas and Bloody Marys. When I make it to my row, a small, elderly women gets up from the aisle seat as I hoist my bag into the overhead compartment with a grunt.
Sitting in my window seat is the king of all bros—a white guy in a polo shirt with the collar popped and sunglasses with lenses so reflective, I can see my own disappointment staring back at me. Delightful.
“Excuse me,” I say to King Bro, “but I think you’re in my seat.” I hold my phone out so he can see my digital ticket.
He doesn’t budge. “Oh, we’re going to the same place, sweetheart.”
I can feel the crowd behind me losing their patience, and so am I. “That’s right,” I say in my best kindergarten teacher voice. “We are. In our assigned seats.”
The guy grumbles and yanks the armrest up as he slides into his rightful middle seat. I’m forced to contort my body over his, which is no small feat for anyone, much less a plus-size girl in a flying tuna can.
I sit down and say a prayer that the seat belt will fit. You never know on planes. Sometimes the seat belts are just fine, other times I swear that the only people the manufacturers had in mind were children. Luckily, though, this time I’m able to safely buckle up without having to ask the flight attendant for a seat-belt extender.
I close my eyes and press my body into the wall of the plane. Either I’m going to sleep for the next six hours or I’m going to pretend to, because I’m not talking to this man-spreader any more than I have to.
Call it exhaustion or determination, but I pass out for the first two hours, and when I finally look out the window, we’re somewhere over the sprawling plains of the Midwest. What wakes me, however, is my King Bro seatmate standing up to go to the bathroom.
The woman in the aisle seat looks over to me as he wiggles past her, and we share a knowing look.
I take the moment of freedom to reach into my bag for headphones and see what the airline has to offer in regard to entertainment.
“Excuse me? Miss?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up to find Prince Charming holding my Balenciaga slide out to me from the aisle. He looks down to the woman in the aisle seat. “Pardon my reach.” And then back to me. “I think you might have lost this in our…kerfuffle.”
I let out a snort. “Is that what you call it?”
He smiles. “I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, okay?”
“Oh, really? Are you more of a Downton Abbey fan, or does Poldark really scratch that itch for you?”
“Well, since you asked, I’m ride or die for Death Comes to Pemberley.”
“Okay, you really are an old woman.”
The woman in the aisle seat eyes me.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that!” I say too loudly, and find myself very grateful for the roar of the jet.
Just then King Bro is back. He looks to Prince Charming and squares his shoulders, nostrils flaring. Men like him are a species I have no interest in acquainting myself with.
“Hey, man,” says Prince Charming.
King Bro tilts his chin upward. “Sup.”
Prince Charming points to the middle seat. “That your seat?”
King Bro nods once, and I’m surprised he doesn’t beat his chest to claim his territory.
“You interested in switching?” Prince Charming points back, a few aisles up. “I’m right there on the aisle. Extra legroom.”
King Bro looks to me. “This guy bothering you?”
I can’t help but let out a chuckle. “Uh, no.”
King Bro eyes Prince Charming.
And then Prince Charming gives him a grin—the kind that works on every living thing. “Just wanting to catch up with an old friend.”
King Bro laughs. “Well, bro, don’t let me stop you! Exsqueeze me,” he says as he stretches over the woman in the aisle. He lifts his head to me briefly. “Sorry, babe. Legroom calls!”
You know, the exsqueeze me had almost endeared him to me, but then he had to go and call me babe.
After a quick bag switch, Prince Charming is settling in next to me, and my mind begins to sputter about all the ways my heavyset hips might encroach on his space.
“I can put the armrest back down if you want,” I tell him, already picturing the bruise it will leave on my thigh.
“Nah, I’m good.” He reaches down between his legs and under his own seat, feeling around with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Everything good down there?”
A sheepish expression passes over his face. “I…was checking for a life jacket.”
I lean a little closer and whisper, “You know we’re flying over an uninterrupted continent, right?”
“We could go down over a lake,” he says very seriously. “Or a river. An exceptionally wide river. You don’t know.”
I hold my hands up. “Fair.”
“It’s not that neurotic,” he says defensively. “I just want to be prepared.”
I check under my seat quickly. “Tip-top shape here.”
“Oh, if you think this is dramatic on my part, you should see me on a helicopter. I would rather lie naked in a pit of scorpions.”
“That’s…a visual,” I say, unable to
ignore the warmth in my cheeks at the thought of him naked.
“Who would even want to fly on a helicopter? If that propeller goes, you’re done.”
“They’re like the motorcycles of the sky,” I say, egging him on a little.
“Yes! Thank you. Well, now that you know my deepest fear, I can officially trust you to help me with my drop-down mask when the time comes.”
“I swear to properly apply mine and then help all the surrounding children, yourself included.”
“Thanks.” His grin sparkles.
I feel that eager twitch in my chest like when your sense of humor perfectly aligns with someone else’s. It’s like scrolling through radio stations. Static, static, static, and then suddenly—click!—they’re on the right wavelength.
We sit there for a few moments, completely silent, staring blankly into the screens on the seat backs in front of us. Finally, the woman on the aisle snorts before putting her headphones back in and returning to her crossword.
“Extra legroom? Is that all?” I ask. “You look like a first-class kind of guy.” And he really does in his crisp white T-shirt, fitted dark jeans, olive-green bomber, and a pair of sneakers from a small brand out of Australia that is about to explode.
“Well, since you mention it, I was in business, but missed my first flight, so I took what I could get.”
I groan. “There’s nothing good about missing a flight.”
He shrugs. “This isn’t so bad.”
I have to press my lips downward to stop myself from smiling like a total goober. “So what was it? Traffic? TV show filming on your street? Trekking to JFK is like a real-life hero’s journey.”
He laughs. “I was just second-guessing my trip. Thinking about putting it off or just canceling altogether.”
I sigh, leaning back into my seat. “I didn’t want to leave either, but I didn’t really have any other options at the moment.”
He taps around on his screen absentmindedly before pointing at the logo for Before Midnight. “You ever seen this show?”
“Once or twice, I guess,” I lie through my teeth.
“You know, I heard that the single guys on that show are more well vetted than vice presidential candidates.” He scrolls back a couple seasons until he lands on Tyler Buchanan’s season. “And I know for a fact that this guy left the girl he chose for one of the producers on the show.”
I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from mimicking exactly what Erica would say to this. I cannot confirm or deny those allegations. What Prince Charming doesn’t know is that the producer Tyler fell for was a he, not a she.
“Is that true?” I ask. “Well, I don’t know what kind of person thinks they could actually find true love on a show like that, but at least their foolishness makes for some good entertainment for the rest of us.”
He cracks a stiff half smile and sighs. “At least it’s good for something.”
The flight attendant strolls down the aisle with a drink cart, and Prince Charming orders himself a whiskey. “And whatever she wants,” he tells her.
The flight attendant practically preens in his direction.
I throw a hand up. “Oh, I’m fine with just ginger ale.”
“Oh, come on,” he says.
“Um, okay, just a champagne, then.”
The flight attendant fills my plastic cup to the top, and it might be crappy champagne, but at least they’re not skimping on it.
Once she moves on to the next row, he holds up his glass. “To missed flights and a transcontinental trip we might soon regret!”
I laugh and clink my cup against his. “To…that!”
For the rest of the flight, we both have our headphones in. I settle on old episodes of The Office, and he watches Terminator 2. (It doesn’t count as stalking if you’re sitting butt to butt with someone in economy, okay?)
When we land, almost everyone stands up the moment the fasten-seat-belt sign is turned off.
“There are two kinds of people in this world,” he says as he shoves his headphones into his bag. “The kind of person who stands up immediately no matter how close they are to the exit door and the kind of person who waits in their seat like a civilized human being.”
“Yes! Thank you!” I say. “This is my pet peeve.”
I peer over the row ahead of me to see King Bro elbowing his way into the aisle.
“Looks like we know what kind of guy your old pal is,” he says, nodding his head toward King Bro.
When it’s our turn to go, Prince Charming stands up and helps as many people who need it with their suitcases. He takes one look at my luggage tag shaped like a stiletto. “I’m guessing this one is yours.”
I laugh. “I’ve got a thing for shoes.”
I work my way out into the aisle, but when I turn back to see where my new Prince Charming friend is, I see that he’s stuck where I left him, still helping people with their bags. On the one hand, I find this very endearing, and on the other, I wonder how bad he is at setting boundaries in his everyday life.
Once I make it up the jet bridge, I race to the bathroom, because that champagne is going straight through me whether I like it or not.
When I make it out of the restroom, I wait for a few minutes, hoping to catch him. I didn’t even get his name. After I give up on finding him, I hoof it to baggage claim, where a row of drivers in full suits is waiting with iPads on display reading their passengers’ last names.
A tall bald white man in a black suit and sunglasses is waiting for me with a sign that reads TREMAINE.
I walk right up to him before he notices me. “Tremaine?”
“Oh yes, Ms. Tremaine?” he asks.
“Woods, actually, but Cindy is fine,” I tell him. “And you are?”
“Bruce Anthony Colombo the Third, but you can call me Bruce.”
“Good to meet you, Bruce. Are you new to Erica’s team?”
“I wouldn’t say new, but newly exclusive.”
Erica’s success has skyrocketed in the last four years, so it shouldn’t surprise me that she now has a private driver.
“I’ve got a luggage cart.” Bruce motions to the baggage claim. “Shall we?”
I smile sheepishly. “Um, you might need two of those.”
We stand there waiting for ages. (Tip for LAX first-timers: Never—I repeat—never check a bag. Sadly, I had no choice.)
“Stuck in baggage claim inferno, huh?”
I turn around to find Prince Charming, a little wrinkled from the long flight and hair rumpled from fingers running through it.
“You too?” I ask.
He points to his carry-on. “Just here to meet my driver.”
“Excuse me,” Bruce says, “Ms. Cindy, it seems that a piece of your luggage was damaged in travel. It appears to be duct-taped together, and I think we might need to speak with the airline. All these airlines are the same. Can’t even get a bag to the place it’s supposed to be in one piece.”
Damn it. I hope I didn’t lose a shoe. There’s nothing worse than an unmatched pair. “Oh, okay, yes, I’ll be right there.”
Prince Charming chuckles. “So that’s your name. Cindy.”
“I meant to introduce myself,” I tell him.
“Well, I’m Henry,” he says.
Bruce clears his throat. “It appears another bag—”
“You better take care of that,” Henry says.
I nod. “Yeah, well, nice to meet you, Prin—Henry. Thanks for saving me from the lava and the world’s worst seatmate.”
He nods. “And don’t forget the lost-and-found shoe service.”
“Never!” I call over my shoulder as I follow Bruce to the customer service desk.
Erica Tremaine is a household name in this town. When I was in tenth grade, the Hollywood Reporter dubbed her the new reigning queen of reality TV. Her specific flavor and real moneymaker is reality dating shows. She started out on a late-night MTV dating show in the early ’90s where one person drove a taxi around a major city
while they went on a speed date with the person in the back. They picked up and dropped off multiple passengers, and at the end they picked the person they wanted to date. Things really took off for her when I was in middle school and she pitched a show called Before Midnight. Now she pilots an entire franchise, including Before Midnight and its various spinoffs.
She’s not what I would call warm or even maternal, but my dad loved Erica and her two daughters, Drew and Anna, so I love them too. Not for what we have, necessarily, because they still feel like strangers to me in many ways, but for what our relationship symbolizes—my last living connection to Dad.
When Bruce pulls into the half-circle driveway in front of Erica’s sprawling and completely renovated midcentury modern home in Silverlake, I see one of the triplets peeking through the curtain of the large picture window before someone yanks them back.
“Uhhh, just a minute…” Bruce mutters as he fumbles with his phone.
I peer over his shoulder and see him type in all caps: THE BIRD IS IN THE NEST.
My eyes well with tears as I put two and two together. I might be devastated to be leaving New York and my chosen family, but being home—even if home is a guest room in Erica’s swanky new house that I only stayed in for a few days over Christmas break—makes me emotional.
Bruce catches my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Cindy, I’ll, uh, bring your bags in if you’d like to go ahead.”
I take my carry-on and leave the others for him. (I’d hate to ruin everyone’s surprise or make them wait any longer than they already have.)
As I check the knob, I find the front door unlocked. “Hello?” I call, my voice echoing into the sitting room. “Anyone home?”
A tiny giggle comes from behind one of the armchairs.
“Helloooooooo?” I call again playfully.
“Surprise!” the triplets scream as they jump out from behind furniture with homemade signs clutched in their tiny fists.
“Cindy!” Drew and Anna screech in unison. They both prance out from the hallway in the trendiest yoga outfits I’ve ever seen. Drew in an all-white set with mesh up the leg, and Anna in a strappy taupe set that is just slightly darker than her actual skin. Both of them gazelle-like with perfectly sun-kissed light brown hair and their normally alabaster complexions tanned a few shades darker thanks to the DIY home spray-tan video they just filmed.