Out the window, the sky is a dusky pink now, and the pinpricks of light that outline the planes are beginning to flicker to life. Hadley can make out her reflection in the glass, all blond hair and big eyes, somehow already looking as careworn and rumpled as if the journey were behind her. She wedges herself into a seat between an older man flapping his newspaper so hard she half expects it to up and fly away and a middle-aged woman with an embroidered cat on her turtleneck, knitting away at what could still turn out to be anything.
Three more hours, she thinks, hugging her backpack, then realizes there's no point in counting down the minutes to something you're dreading; it would be far more accurate to say two more days. Two more days and she'll be back home again. Two more days and she can pretend this never happened. Two more days and she'll have survived the weekend she's been dreading for what feels like years.
She readjusts the backpack on her lap, realizing a moment too late that she didn't zip it up all the way, and a few of her things tumble to the floor. Hadley reaches for the lip gloss first, then the gossip magazines, but when she goes to pick up the heavy black book that her father gave her, the boy across the aisle reaches it first.
He glances briefly at the cover before handing it back, and Hadley catches a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It takes her a second to understand that he must think she's the kind of person who reads Dickens in the airport, and she very nearly tells him that she's not; in fact, she's had the book for ages and has never cracked it open. But instead, she smiles in acknowledgment, then turns quite deliberately toward the windows, just in case he might be thinking about striking up a conversation.
Because Hadley doesn't feel like talking right now, not even to someone as cute as he is. She doesn't feel like being here at all, actually. The day ahead of her is like something living and breathing, something that's barreling toward her at an alarming rate, and it seems only a matter of time before it will knock her flat on her back. The dread she feels at the idea of getting on the plane—not to mention getting to London—is something physical; it makes her fidget in her seat, sets her leg bobbing and her fingers twitching.
The man beside her blows his nose loudly, then snaps his newspaper back to attention, and Hadley hopes she's not sitting next to him on her flight. Seven hours is a long time, too big a slice of your day to be left to chance. You would never be expected to take a road trip with someone you didn't know, yet how many times has she flown to Chicago or Denver or Florida beside a complete stranger, elbow to elbow, side by side, as the two of them hurtled across the country together? That's the thing about flying: You could talk to someone for hours and never even know his name, share your deepest secrets and then never see him again.
As the man cranes his neck to read an article his arm brushes against Hadley's, and she stands abruptly, swinging her backpack onto one shoulder. Around her, the gate area is still teeming with people, and she looks longingly toward the windows, wishing she were outside right now. She's not sure she can sit here for three more hours, but the idea of dragging her suitcase through the crowd is daunting. She edges it closer to her empty seat so that it might look reserved, then turns to the lady in the cat turtleneck.
"Would you mind watching my bag for a minute?" she asks, and the woman holds her knitting needles very still and frowns up at her.
"You're not supposed to do that," she says pointedly.
"It's just for a minute or two," Hadley explains, but the woman simply gives her head a little shake, as if she can't bear to be implicated in whatever scenario is about to unfold.
"I can watch it," says the boy across the aisle, and Hadley looks at him—really looks at him—for the first time. His dark hair is a bit too long and there are crumbs down the front of his shirt, but there's something striking about him, too. Maybe it's the accent, which she's pretty sure is British, or the twitch of his mouth as he tries to keep from smiling. But her heart dips unexpectedly when he looks at her, his eyes skipping from Hadley back to the woman, whose lips are set in a thin line of disapproval.
