Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Ophelia

Then . . .

Nothing says “paying your dues” quite like being stuck in the middle seat on a plane. It starts here, squished between a guy whose elbow has claimed the armrest like he’s defending his kingdom, and a woman so absorbed in her self-help book it’s practically a force field.

She clutches it with the kind of intensity that makes you think it’s either the Holy Grail or a forbidden romance novel she doesn’t want to share. Either way, I’m not about to ask. She’s a fortress, and I have no interest in storming the gates.

So, here I am, wedged into the middle of it all, wondering if this is the glamorous life I envisioned when I said yes to this job. Spoiler: it’s not.

Meanwhile, I’m clutching my bag of pretzels like a lifeline, praying I won’t need to squeeze past “King Armrest” anytime soon because he doesn’t look like the type who likes to be inconvenienced. I glance down at the crumpled pretzel bag in my lap, wondering if it might hold some hidden wisdom for navigating this journey. I mean, they say adventure often begins with discomfort, right? Though I’m pretty sure whoever came up with that wasn’t picturing three hours in economy.

But discomfort is a small price to pay right now. I’m on my way to Seattle for an internship interview at Decker Records, the Holy Grail for anyone who’s serious about breaking into the music industry.

They’re looking for someone who can help their roster of brooding artists “go viral” on social media, keep it sleek on Instagram, and add a touch of raw, behind-the-scenes grit on Snapchat. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid. If I can survive this flight without accidentally getting roped into a self-help lecture by Ms. Paperback, maybe—just maybe—I have a shot at landing my dream job.

Dream big, they always say, like that’s all it takes. And here I am, reaching for the biggest one of all—a dream that took root way back in kindergarten, sparked by my mom’s words. I still remember her voice, full of that wistful conviction, saying, “You’ll be part of the music business someday, just you wait.” In the early 2000s, “music business marketing” was her magic blend of words, and somehow, it stuck. Now, in my second year of college, that childhood fascination has grown into a real goal just within reach.

Three hours later, after cramped seats, restless legs, and the relentless hum of the engines, I’m teetering between excitement and exhaustion. My mind has been a carousel of hopes and doubts, cycling through every possible outcome of the interview—from stunning success to total train wreck. I’ve imagined it all, over and over, in the empty spaces between thoughts. No distractions, no escape, just the raw, unfiltered anticipation.

As the plane jolts and begins its descent, my heart does a little stutter-step, skipping a beat in excitement and fear. This is it—the first step toward proving that all my dreams could actually become reality. My fingers buzz with nervous energy as I grab my bag and join the slow shuffle down the aisle, ready to charge into the next stage of this journey.

Just as I’m about to step off the plane, I catch sight of a tall figure up ahead, moving with purpose like he’s got somewhere important to be. He’s leaving his first-class seat like he’s on a mission, and I’m about to dismiss it as a passing curiosity when something catches my eye—a sleek laptop left forgotten under the seat in front of the one he just vacated.

I hesitate, looking from the laptop to the retreating figure. I could ignore it, let someone else handle it . . . or I could run after him, try to return it myself. Before I can second-guess myself, I’ve scooped it up and am dodging through the passengers, calling out, “Hey! You! Yeah, the guy with the navy blue baseball cap and the totally unnecessary sunglasses.”

He stops, turning around with a look of surprise. Even with the sunglasses, I can feel his gaze on me, sizing me up with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement, like he’s not used to people calling him out. He’s got that effortless, almost-too-cool vibe—slightly messy hair, sunglasses as if he’s hiding behind a persona, and an air of casual confidence that feels both genuine and carefully crafted.

“Oh,” he says, his lips quirking into a lazy, almost playful smirk as he adjusts his sunglasses to look at me directly. “Did you chase me down just to say hi? Need something more from me, sweetheart?” His voice drops, smooth and teasing, with a hint of warmth that catches me off guard, setting my pulse racing. “You have very beautiful eyes—they could inspire songs.”

I stifle a laugh, not about to fall for whatever game he’s playing. With a half-smile, I extend the laptop toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Down, boy. I don’t think I like you at all. You left this behind.”

He takes the laptop, but his smirk doesn’t fade. Instead, it deepens, like he’s intrigued, like I’ve just become a puzzle he didn’t expect to find. “Are you sure? You seem awfully eager to chase me down.”

“In your dreams,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes, but there’s a flicker of something electric between us, a spark I can’t quite place.

For a second, the bustling world around us fades. It’s just him, with his disarming smirk and that almost-too-charming confidence, and me, caught in a moment that feels oddly cinematic, like something straight out of one of Mom’s old Meg Ryan movies.

His gaze lingers on mine, and I feel the pull, the way he’s sizing me up with interest, a challenge in his eyes as if he’s silently daring me to keep up. Finally, he breaks the silence, tilting his head as he studies me. “Well, Seattle just got a little more interesting,” he murmurs, slipping the laptop under his arm.