Surviving Us (3 page)

I stare down at her, then him, both with swollen lips and glassy eyes, and nod with defeat. The only thing that could make this worse would be to sit in a row with them and watch her vomit profusely.

“Yeah, no problem,” I reply, sliding into the aisle seat. Maybe I’ll just take a nap.

Bending at the waist to store my backpack under the seat in front of me, I struggle a bit getting it to fit, but finally jam it in the tight space. I lean back, put my seatbelt on, and take a deep breath, resting on my seat. Pulling my phone out to send one last message to my best friend before takeoff, I see she’s sent me a string of erotic photographs, all graphically showcasing very well-endowed men, and a single message.

Alyvia: I love you, but I like cock.

“Hi, I’m Marcel, and this is my girlfriend Stefania,” a deep, masculine voice with a heavy Spanish accent says in my left ear, startling me.

I hastily close my screen before getting a chance to reply to her and turn my head to find them both staring at me with huge grins still plastered on their faces. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bristol,” I say softly, mad at myself for the inability to be rude, and praying they didn’t see the pictures displayed on my phone only moments ago.

“Bristol, that’s a really cool name,” Stefania chirps in a nasally, high-pitched voice, “and thanks again for trading with me. You’re such a sweetheart. Isn’t she,
Papi
?”

Oh God, please tell me she didn’t call him that.

She drapes herself across his chest, unabashedly batting her falsies—I’m not sure at him or me, since she’s looking back and forth between the two of us. Marcel shifts his gaze from her to me, his dark brown eyes roaming from my face, down to my bare thighs, and up again. “Yes, love, sweet indeed,” he rasps, his knee
accidentally
touching mine.

Weighted awkwardness settles in the pit of my stomach, unsure what the proper response is here. I thought I was being creepy gaping at mysterious emo boy, but this is on a whole other level. Both of their faces are alit as they wait for me to say something, but all I can do is laugh nervously.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination. I’m confident my sex drive falls in the ‘normal’ category of most nineteen-year-olds, and actually, they’re both very attractive, well-dressed people, but they’re at least a decade my senior and she called him . . .
No. Just no.

“Tha-thank you,” I stammer as I move my leg away from his. “It’s really no big deal. I’m just gonna uh, listen to some music and read for the flight. No big deal at all.”

With shaky hands, I reach down to grab the current issue of “Marie Claire” tucked in my backpack, their eyes following my every move. Opening it to a random place in the middle, I silently try to regain my composure . . . and then I look down to the article I opened it to.
How I Planned a Ménage A Trois
is plastered in bright red letters across the two-page spread. I slam the magazine shut and groan.
Please, someone, shoot me now.

An amused snicker escapes from across the aisle, so naturally I swivel my head around to see who has witnessed this entire interaction, hoping for someone to start up a conversation with, anything to keep me from having to chat with Stefania and Marcel. At this point, I pray they suck face for the next three-and-a-half hours, completely forgetting I’m even here.

However, instead of a reprieve from the unnerving, I find myself staring into the most captivating whiskey brown eyes, twinkling with mischief underneath the navy brim of a baseball cap.

“So, whatcha reading there,
sweetheart?”

YOU’VE GOT TO FUCKING BE KIDDING ME.

Of all the people that could be sitting directly across the row from me, it has to be
him
. Perhaps God misheard the ‘not’ part of my prayer asking to
not
be seated next to any of these people, because miraculously, I’ve found myself trapped between all of them.

“First, you stare at me in the airport like I’ve grown a second head, and now you don’t answer me when I speak to you,” he says with a southern drawl and an arrogant smirk. “Do we know each other and I don’t remember? If so, I’m sorry for my previous dickish behavior, but that’s just kinda who I am. Chicks usually dig it though.” His voice is dry, unapologetic.

“No,” I blurt out, unable to tear my gaze from his face, my cheeks ablaze knowing he saw me watching him.
Damn, he’s good looking, and there’s something about him that’s familiar, but I can’t place from where.

“No, what?” He pulls his cap down further, covering his eyes even more. Maybe, Lyv was right . . . maybe he is trying to stay disguised for some reason.

“No, we’ve never met before,” I scoff, redirecting my focus straight ahead and growing more irritated by the second. “I definitely remember all the
dicks
I come in contact with.”

“That’s a damn shame,” he chuckles.

I’m not sure if he’s giving me a backhanded compliment, or increasing his already absurd level of narcissism; either way, I’m finished with the conversation—with him
and
the two weirdos to my left. I pull my headphones back up to my ears and close my eyes, hoping none of them will try to talk to me again. Gratefully, they all get the hint. Evidently, my headphones and shut lids work as the perfect duet for unapproachability. I make a mental note in case I need to use it again later in the trip.

Unfortunately, however, about an hour into the flight, my usually worthwhile sound-cancellation headphones aren’t doing near the job I need them to. Afraid to open my eyes, I can’t only
hear
the giggling and moaning from Stefania and Marcel every so often, I can
feel
the vibration in my chair every time they move
. . . and they’ve been moving a lot.

In addition, if the
dick
didn’t already have cirrhosis of the liver, he definitely does now. I’ve heard him order no fewer than eight of those little
bottles of Jack, two at a time as soon as beverage service began. But now, he’s either passed out or the flight attendant has cut him off, because he’s grown very quiet in the last thirty minutes or so. Resisting the urge to open my eyes and look over at him, I squeeze my lids tighter, trying to sleep a little before landing.

“This is your captain speaking from the flight deck,” a loud, male voice resonates throughout the plane, waking me from my nap. “There’s been a slight change of course in our flight this evening.” My stomach drops slightly, not liking the sound of this at all.

“The airport in Vieux-Fort is experiencing some serious technical issues,” he continues calmly, “so our flight has been rerouted to the George Charles Airport in Castries, on the other side of the island. There’s no need to panic,” naturally, the first thing I do is begin to panic, “because there will be plenty of taxis and shuttles available at the airport, waiting to get you all to your final destination. We apologize for this inconvenience, but your safety is of our upmost concern. Thank you for your attention, and we should have you on the ground within the hour.”

A quiet murmur breaks out among all of the passengers; however, the only words I can make out are coming from the hot dickhead across the aisle
—
the now extremely
pissed-off
, hot dickhead.

“What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit. I fucking knew some stupid shit like this would happen. Goddamn it, motherfucker,” he growls every word of his rant while banging his fist on the seat in front of him.

Like a car crash you can’t
not
look at, I turn to watch his temper tantrum, as does everyone else within earshot, until the flight attendant appears from the back. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down and watch your language. Everything’s going to be just fine. We will ensure everyone gets to their hotel this evening.”

He doesn’t even bother looking up at her. “Fuck off and leave me alone. This is bullshit,” he snarls.

“I understand you’re upset, sir,” she snaps back, “but you really need to settle down before you scare the other passengers. Everything is going to be just fine; the captain will make sure the plane lands
safely,
and ground transportation can be handled once everyone deplanes.”

“Whatever, this is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles, crossing his arms on the fold-out tray in front of him and burying his face in the crease of his elbow. “I knew better than to do this shit again.”

She shakes her head and storms off, leaving the rest of us wondering what in the hell just happened. I glance over at the crazy couple, mainly for some reassurance I didn’t imagine the entire exchange, and I’m greeted by two sets of eyes as wide as saucers. Shrugging, I lift my eyebrows to silently say ‘I’ve got no clue either.’

Not too long after, the seatbelt light overhead illuminates with a ding as the captain comes back on the speaker alerting us we’re about to land, at the wrong airport no less, and apologizes again for any inconvenience the issue has caused. I momentarily forget about the freaks I’m surrounded by, returning to my panicked worry of how I’m going to get to my hotel and how much farther away I am now that I’m on the other side of the island.

When the plane finally comes to a stop, almost everyone jumps up, cramming the center walkway and grabbing their carry-on bags as the concern about being at the wrong airport is discussed openly. Listening to the others isn’t helping my level of uneasiness; suddenly being a young girl alone in a foreign country no longer seems like such a great idea.