“Is this seat taken?”
Who is talking to me? It’s a boy, a pretty one. He looms over 11A, waiting for my lips to give him a response. I don’t have one. He’s the kind of guy that could be your husband or your enemy: white teeth, strawberry blond hair, so conventionally attractive that you want to sock him in between his button nose and clean eyebrows.
He’s still standing there and I want to say yes, this seat is taken. Ms. Jane Austen and a Diet Sprite with too many napkins have reserved 11A and if they decide to give up their seat later on the flight to India, (they won’t), I will be sure to alert him. For now though, he can grow a unibrow and leave me alone.
“No, it’s free.” I say. Oh Jesus Christ he’s sitting down.
He looks eerily familiar, like I’ve seen him in a nightmare. “Sean,” he says with his tan hand outstretched. “Marina,” I reply, darting my hand out and scratching him with my purple nails instead. Goddamn it he has a good handshake.
“Why are you going to Mumbai?” He asks and I spot a green speck stuck between his molars, most likely from the Chipotle eaten outside our gate. In a way I’ll have to dissect later, it humanizes him. He’s just regular Sean going to Mumbai and he didn’t know he was interrupting my date with Mr. Darcy, and he doesn’t mean any harm and the joke is out before I can bite my stupid tongue. “I thought this plane was going to Sydney!” I exclaim too loudly. 10B turns around.
My dad used to make that joke every time we traveled for his work. He was a great actor, eyes curtaining his lies and so everyone believed for a few seconds that he really was on the wrong flight. That’s probably how he got away with what happened to my mom. Just a theory.
I dig my nails into my palm so hard that crescent moons will linger long after the interaction. “Seriously Marina literally what the fuck is so hard about keeping your mouth shu-” A full-bellied laugh shatters my thoughts. Sean is laughing. He’s laughing so hard his torso shakes and I swear to something the plane shakes as well. He laughs with his mouth open and his head thrown back, and I want to take a picture and make it my home screen so I can remember that joy like this is still alive and maybe one day I will feel it too. His breath slows down but when he looks at me, his eyes are dancing. “Marina, I’m glad I sat next to you.”
Those dancing eyes are so familiar.
I hate myself for talking to him and I love that it’s happening. My therapist would tell me I love to hate myself, but I think I just love him. I love him so much I’m willing to hate myself.
We talk about the wrong way to eat ice cream and how useless pigeons are. He tells me his sister is so autistic that she can’t speak and he feels selfish for knowing three languages. I tell him my dad got away scot-free and I refuse to wear matching socks because I want to express my free will as much as I can. He tells me I’m beautiful and my heart crumbles and rebuilds itself in the pit of my stomach. On hour four, I delete Instagram because the alerts are distracting me from his hair.
I share my fucking Sprite with him.
He throws Welch Fruit Snacks into my mouth and I would bet everything I have that I’ve seen him somewhere horrible.
The flight attendant winks at him so I climb out of my seat and trap her in the tiny bathroom because she is prettier than me and he is the only good thing I have right now. Unfortunately, I am in the window seat so she continues her way down the aisle with walnuts and pretzels and hands ripe to steal true love.
“How old are you?” I ask Sean. “What do you do?” I ask my boyfriend.
“Why are you going to Mumbai?” I ask my husband. “Do you mind if I take a nap?” I ask him on our deathbed, going out holding hands like in The Notebook and knowing no one is as lucky as we are. My soulmate is a twenty-six-year-old lawyer whose best friend is having a bachelor party and no, he doesn’t mind. I fall asleep wondering how glad I am that I said yes and wondering how I know him.
My nightmares are as routine as coffee runs. I’m sitting in the back row of a courtroom, watching as my father consults with his lawyer, who I remember being conventionally attractive, ‑and discusses the likelihood of his being set free. It’s high. I see him walking out of the room, handcuffs jettisoned on the ground as he makes his way to me with the same kitchen knife my mom used to make her lasagna. I see him eyeing me the way he eyed her. I see his lawyer cheering him on. I wake up and see the lawyer taking a sip of my Sprite, ruffling his strawberry blond hair. I see myself crumbling inside, organ by organ. My insides are on fire, flames licking my broken bones, and I feel my heart unraveling like a knit sweater. I see myself kissing him, and ending him and then, ‑I see myself forgetting to take my medicine in the morning.
Lastly, I see the knife in my hand as I stand in the kitchen.. Sean has gone to the bathroom. I don’t think he’s going to come back.
Naomi Beinart is a fifteen year old girl who lives in Manhattan with her parents and brother. She attends school in Brooklyn