We all single-file onto the plane once our group is called. My mom and Dr Becker peel off towards the front of the plane. My mom lifts her heavy carry-on with the strength you wouldn't expect from a 50 year old woman whose only form of exercise is pilates and cycling.
Dr Becker and my dad split off towards the middle, and finally it is just me and Becker walking towards Laura, who is sitting in a row by herself and screaming "I miss you already" up to her brother as he pushes his large backpack under the seat with help from a very patient Dr Greene.
I find our seats and assume naively that I will be sitting in the window seat I was assigned. Laura says, "no, that's my seat," as she moves from the middle seat where her parents placed her to the window seat. "I want to see the ocean," She whines as she buckles herself in.
"You told her she would be able to see the ocean?" Becker looks at me confused.
"No, I didn't. It was Weston. She just... I mean it's fine..." I sigh as I sit in the middle seat and try to shove my bag between under my seat. It's far too large.
"Do you want me to put that in the overhead compartment?" Becker asks me. There is no way I'd accept help from him; and not wanting to look helpless, I decline firmly, "no, thank you."
He shrugs and sits down on the aisle seat, immediately pulling out his phone to text someone.
I humor Laura by playing I Spy out the window to her right, feeling Becker glance at the back of my head occasionally, probably still mentally criticizing me about the ocean thing or the fact that I didn't brush my hair this morning. I smooth my hair down just in case.
The flight attendant walks past us a few moments later, and looking directly at my feet she says a little too sweetly, "ma'am, if the bag doesn't fit under the chair in front of you, you need to put it in the overhead compartment so it doesn't move when the plane takes off."
Becker smiles at the flight attendant, "I tried to tell her."
I huff at him before handing my bag to the flight attendant and thanking her for putting it away. I eye her up and down, she's probably late twenties, blonde, skinny.
"It's just like you to flirt with the flight attendant," I say to Becker once she is gone. It is probably a little rude of me, but my pride is wounded by the issue of the bag which now sits in the overhead compartment. The bag that holds my book and snacks, which I will miss until after take off.
"I wasn't flirting," he says defensively.
"Yeah right! You're a total flirt."
"Why would you think that? You've never even seen me flirt," he seems annoyed.
"Everyone in high school spread around stories of your illustrious flirting, dating whatever life."
"What stories?" He turns in his seat so that he is facing me. I continue looking forward.
I whisper so that Laura won't hear when I say, "that you would date multiple girls at once, and hide under the bleachers with them at sports games and..."
"Well," he interrupts, "at least I wasn't a total prude."
"What's a prude?" Laura suddenly joins in.
"He said, 'prune,'" I lie bitterly looking around to see who has heard him.
"What's a prune?" Laura blinks.
"A fruit, I think," I say more calmly towards the seven year old.
"Is it?" Becker adds.
"I think so," I snarl.
"Not a berry?" He questions.
"No," I clip.
YOU ARE READING
Ski Lodge
General Fiction"Out of all the emotions I expected to feel after throwing someone into the snow, regret was not the one I imagined would be the strongest." When three neighboring families go on a ski vacation together, eldest children Emmett Becker and Trisha Phil...
