The Red Eye
Same flight, three weeks in a row. Some coincidences refuse to stay coincidental.
The first time, it was seat 14A and 14B. He noticed her because she laughed at the safety video. Nobody laughs at the safety video.
The second time, two weeks later, same red eye, same row. She slid into 14B, saw him, and smiled like a secret.
“You again,” she said.
“I could say the same.”
“Are you following me?”
“I was here first.”
The cabin lights dimmed. Somewhere over the dark middle of the country, she leaned toward the window and whispered, “Third time’s the charm.”
“Third time?”
“Next week,” she said. “Same flight. I already booked it.”
He stared at her. “You booked a flight just to—”
“To find out if this is a coincidence,” she finished. “Aren’t you curious?”
He was. God, he was.
The third flight, she was already in 14B when he boarded, a blanket spread across both their laps before he’d even sat down. “For the cold,” she said innocently, and tucked it around his legs herself, her fingers lingering a second too long on his thigh.
They talked in low voices about nothing — jobs, cities, the terrible coffee — while her hand found his under the blanket and stayed there. Every small turbulence made her grip tighten. Every time it did, she leaned a little closer, until her head was nearly on his shoulder and her breath was warm against his neck.
“You know what the problem with red eyes is?” she murmured.
“No legroom?”
“Too many witnesses.”
Her thumb traced slow circles on the back of his hand. He forgot, completely, what city they were flying to.
When the captain announced the descent, she pulled a napkin from her bag and wrote something on it. She folded it twice and pressed it into his palm.
“Don’t read it until you land,” she said.
He lasted eleven minutes. In the terminal, surrounded by strangers, he unfolded it.
A hotel name. A room number. One line underneath:
Fourth time’s the charm.
Some flights you take to get somewhere. Some you take to get someone.