Chapter 9

: Andi

I hate running late . I’m sure it doesn’t take a lot of analysis to figure out why. We were always late. My mom never could accurately calculate how long it would take her to get Benj ready and loaded up into the car. Or how long it would take to tie down his wheelchair once he was in the van. Or how long it would take to back into the handicapped parking space because some asshat parked on the striped lines meaning Benj couldn’t unload on the passenger side like he was supposed to.

It didn’t matter, because we were always dashing in at the last minute. I wanted to shrink into the floor every time that happened. We got enough stares and gawks simply because Benj was in a wheelchair. Like that was all they saw—a wheelchair. I can still feel everyone looking at us. I didn’t need any more cause for a scene by entering late too.

As an adult, promptness is of utmost importance. I will never again be on the receiving end of the stares of those who were on time. I try to give them grace and all that, but it’s my Achilles’ heel.

It hits too close to home, so it’s easier to feel annoyed by the person making their grand entrance after the prescribed start time than to deal with all those feelings I had growing up.

I can take all my unresolved emotions and project them right onto the person who doesn’t have their shit together enough to make it on time.

Like the man getting on the plane now.

We were supposed to push off five minutes ago, but they held us for this guy. I don’t see much as he saunters on, except for a flash of long hair that used to be dark but has been on the receiving end of too much bleach. I really don’t like long hair on guys. I know, to each his own, but it’s definitely not a personal preference of mine.

He moves as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Certainly, no worries that he’s had us all waiting. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m anxious for this flight to take off so it can land so I can finally get to see my brother.

Now that Mr. Important has finally settled in his first-class seat—figures—I return my attention to my laptop. I might as well bang out some work while we fly. The more I get done now, the more uninterrupted time I’ll have with Benj.

My plan, which seemed ideal when I made it, did not account for the screaming toddler next to me. Even with my noise-canceling earbuds in, the cacophony is distracting. As are the child’s feet, which kick and thrash constantly. More than once my laptop skitters off the tray table.

I’d be annoyed, but the mother looks so frazzled. Poor woman. I’m sure this isn’t how she wanted to travel. I take a deep breath, willing myself to tune out the son of Satan and his blood-curdling screaming. It works—almost—until the toddler goes ramrod straight, extending his arms straight over his head, and dumping the contents of his sippy cup on my lap.

And my laptop.

I jump up, holding my computer, trying to shake the chocolate milk off it before it can seep in and fry the electrical components. The mother apologizes profusely, tears welling up in her eyes.

Certainly, I’m annoyed, but I can’t let her see. She’s taking this hard enough. This isn’t her fault. Kids are unpredictable. Or predictable in not doing what you want them to do. I give her a tight-lipped smile and assure her I’m fine. A flight attendant rushes over with some towels to help mop up the mess.

I’m drenched. Who knew those cups could hold so much? Why wasn’t the top secured in the first place? And because it’s milk, I can practically smell the rancid foul odor that will no doubt be wafting off me by the time we land in Denver.

No biggie. I can take this in stride. If I can just get to my carry on, I can change my clothes. I tell this to the attendant, as well as the harried mother.

“Let me just pull my bag down, and I can change. It’s fine.” Okay, maybe my tone is the teensiest bit on the clipped side, but I don’t let my irritation show. The flight attendant rewards my lack of negative response because she says, “Why don’t you come up front and use the bathroom up here? It’s a little more spacious in first class, so it’ll be easier for you to change in. I think we have a seat up there as well, and you can spend the remainder of the flight there.”

Sometimes it pays to stuff all your feelings way down deep.

I thank her for her thoughtfulness and proceed to yank my bag down from the overhead bin. Now I’m fit and flexible, with agility being a necessary part of my job, but changing my clothes in an airplane bathroom seems like it requires the skill of a circus contortionist. I have to leave my suitcase outside and pull out the first clothes I find, which are a pair of ratty sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that says, “Caution: This Physical Therapist is easily distracted by your awful gait pattern.” It’s a leftover from my college days and hasn’t seen the light of day as anything but pajamas in at least a decade.

It’s fine. Definitely worth going through to get the upgrade. Plus, Benj will think this is funny when I see him. He has a warped sense of humor. Much better than mine. I got muscles that work; he got all the personality.

The flight attendant takes my bag to stow in a closet and guides me a few rows back where there’s an open window seat. A window seat that’s next to an aisle seat that’s currently occupied by the Neanderthal that delayed our flight.

Now that I’m standing less than a foot away, I recognize the bleach-blond locks immediately.

His hair is even worse up close. Has he never heard of conditioner? I bet he’s one of those guys who uses a 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Yuck.

But no, it doesn’t stop there. His head is tipped down, his chin practically resting on his chest. I expect him to shift or move or something to let me pass, but he remains still. I clear my throat. Nothing. The flight attendant says, “Excuse me, sir.” Nothing. She shakes his shoulder slightly. Still nothing.

Then, a rumbling sound emanates from the man’s mouth, rising in a crescendo to one of the loudest snores I’ve ever heard. His head lifts, as if the vibrations emitted by his obstructed airway created their own forcefield strong enough to lift his head and all of that stupid Fabio hair.

As this happens, his stupid Fabio hair parts like a curtain, exposing his face. A face I recognize. A face I loathe.

A face that belongs to Brandon Nix.

I’d rather sit next to the demon child.

I turn to the flight attendant. “You know, on second thought, I’ll just go back to my seat. I’m sure it’s fine.” I brush past her and head through the curtains to where the common folk sit.

That was close.

Except when I get back to my row, the toddler is now stretched out across my seat, fast asleep. His mother’s eyes are wide with panic. I may not have kids of my own, but even I know not to wake a sleeping baby. Especially not one with the lung capacity that this one has.

“Is there anywhere else I can sit?” I look around. Surely there’s got to be another empty seat.

“I’m afraid the only other unoccupied seat is the one in first class.”

I look from my former seat to the front of the plane. I can’t disturb this kid. But I don’t know how I’m going to sit next to the man who may have cost me my career either.

I see tears again in the exhausted mother’s eyes. There’s no choice. Not really. Not without making a scene and becoming public enemy number one. I make my way back up to the front of the plane, clenching my molars together.

He’s still asleep. The beast is practically sprawled out now, one leg in the aisle and the other taking up all available space in front of his seat. He’s the poster child for manspreading. His head is back against the headrest now, tipped slightly to the side, with a small trickle of drool puddling at the corner of his open mouth.

Eww.

Also, this is a legit fear of mine with sleeping on a plane. I’ve trained myself to doze off with my fist pressed to my mouth to prevent the drool from escaping.

He’s still snoring.

The flight attendant looks at me sheepishly before turning to Sleeping Beauty. “Excuse me, sir.” She taps his shoulder. Brandon Nix doesn’t move. At this rate, I’m going to be here all day.

“It’s fine.” I think I’ve used that word more times in the last ten minutes than I have in the last ten years. For the record, none of this is fine, but I don’t need anyone else to feel bad about things they can’t control. I place one hand on Brandon’s headrest and the other on the back of the seat in front of him. In a maneuver worthy of a gymnastics gold medal, I manage to lift and shift myself over the ogre’s massive thighs without waking him.

I’m now sweating, but at least Prince Foul-mouth wasn’t disturbed. Knowing how he acts when he’s awake, I can only imagine the litany of rage I’d be in for if I woke him right now. I plop into my seat and exhale. What is the luck that Brandon Nix would be on my plane?

My luck. The worst kind.

But I shouldn’t complain. He’s simply another passenger on the same flight as me. I mean, the odds of this are extremely low, but not zero. That’s what my dad would always say when talking about my brother’s health or treatment options or potential surgeries. I guess when your child is born with a disease that only affects 1 in 100,000 people, low odds mean nothing.

So this is nothing. A mere blip. A slight inconvenience. Nothing more. I can shove down all my feelings of animosity toward the human sitting next to me for the next four hours, and then it will be in the past. I won’t have to worry about Brandon Nix until the next time I see him on the pitch.