Turbulence | 𝙰 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 ✔

→ⅲ

Turning off the tap, I wring my hands. The liquid soap, from its place in the dispenser, lures me in with all its lavender-scented glory. And I'm about to go for a second hand-wash when my eyes decide to flicker upwards.

In the mirror above the basin next to mine, I see it—misty strands that fall over his forehead in loose fringes. I can recognise Royu Snowdrop's hair from a mile away. It looks like someone pooped snow on his head. Disgusting, really.

My eyes widen.

Um.

Outside, the hollow roar of the airport fizzles.

Royu Snowdrop?

I suck in a breath. Plunge head-first into the basin. Splash my face with water till my eyes sting. Look up again at the mirror, and—I laugh.

Final battle, my ass.

His ear perks at the sound, but he doesn't, as you'd expect from someone who'd just been startled by a context-less chuckle, look up immediately. Seconds pass. He continues to lather his hands with soap. I feel the urge to plant my foot in that face; although, it'd take my (inflexible) legs a while to reach the top of a six-foot tall being.

I hear the water stop.

And at last, he's turning to see me.

"Hello, Fe—"

"What are you doing here?"

I let him finish neither his default smile that oozes politeness nor the pleasant hello he hands out to every-freaking-one like cheap boiled peanuts. I don't want that damn hello.

He tilts his head to the side. "Here?"

"Here, as in, the airport," I clarify, water drops clinging to my lashes. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh. I'm catching a flight."

Why is he stating the obvious? Just how dumb does he think I am?

"Airline?" I demand, rubbing my wet hands up-and-down the sides of my thighs. (Isn't this what jeans are for?)

"Featherjet."

"Where to?"

He pulls out a tissue paper, dries his hands finger-by-finger. "Peachville."

"You're not!" I snap. "That's my grandpa's place!"

"Ah," he disposes of the crumpled tissue, eyes on the trashcan. "It's also my brother's place."

"My grandpa was born first!"

"That doesn't make Peachville his private property," he points out.

"Royu Snowdrop," I say through clenched teeth. "You better not be playing with me."

"I am flying to Peachville," he confirms, then adds, "Don't worry."

My face grows hot. "Why should I worry!? I don't give a single damn where you end up!"

"Okay."

"Do you hear me!?"

"I do."

"What did I say?"

"That you don't give a single damn where I end up."

"Yeah. Now," I grunt, "What's your seat number?"

My underarms are growing sweaty. I glare—only because it's about the only thing I can manage. Glare, glare, glare. For a brief moment, he looks disappointed (wearing the same expression he gave me the time I heaped a generous amount of the f-word on a fourth-grader for bumping into me in the corridor.) And just like that, Royu Snowdrop is back to being the generic-smiley emoji, all about business.

He says, "Fifteen-A."

I wash my face again.

Unlike him, I don't have my seat number memorised—and neither do I plan on taking my boarding pass out to check. There is an hour-and-a-half until departure, and knowing that it would be bad for my mental health if I find out something horrid (like, Royu Snowdrop being my seatmate, for instance), I decide to stew in the suspense. And relish in the possibility that he'll be on one end of the plane, and I, on the other, while hoping, at the same time, that the plane is small, so if he ever gets up to use the washroom, I'll be all ready to put a leg out and have him trip on it.

Fired up by this fantasy, I follow him out of the washroom. Because that is what you do in a fight against the enemy—keep tabs, stalk them.

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