The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,88

he plopped an extra barf bag and a package of wet naps into my hand.

My legs felt unsteady as I walked down the airplane’s center aisle from the rear of the plane. Even without the rough air, my body would have wobbled. My throat tightened in anticipation with each unsure step.

I stopped just short of the fourth row. The woman in 4C had her head in her hands. My eyes started at her canvas slip-ons and her slender ankle. Her skinny jeans left a few inches of tanned ankle bare. I traveled up the denim calf and thigh. My gaze stopped at her hands and the multiple rings and metal bracelets. Her black, glossy hair was down, but she’d tucked it behind her ears—probably to keep her hair out of the way while she got sick.

I cleared my throat. What was I supposed to say?

The woman in 4C slowly turned her head toward me. Her caramel-colored eyes were bloodshot and her mascara had begun to travel down her cheeks. Her skin was considerably paler than its normal golden bronze hue. She was still beautiful though.

“Your Dramamine didn’t work?”

Anissa groaned a non-answer and pressed her forehead against the seatback in front of her.

“This isn’t your normal seat,” I couldn’t help observing.

“I’m lucky I got a seat at all,” she mumbled. “I had to finagle my way onto this flight. All of your other flights out of Detroit were booked this week.”

I had a myriad of questions for her, but it was obvious that her air sickness wasn’t an act. I gently placed my hand on her arm. “I’ll get you a cool washcloth for the back of your neck and see if I can find some Vernors to settle your stomach.”

Anissa grabbed my wrist before I could walk away. “Now you just have the Mile High Club to complete, right?” Her tone held no malice.

I blinked, letting her question roam around in my brain. “Did you … did you make yourself sick on purpose?”

“I didn’t make myself puke,” she corrected. “I just didn’t do anything to make sure it wouldn’t happen.”

“You didn’t take your Dramamine,” I spoke aloud as the puzzle pieces came together.

She shook her head.

I made a snap decision. “Come with me.” I reached into her lap and unfastened Anissa’s safety belt.

The passenger in seat 4D, who had been useless up to this point, finally noticed his seatmate’s distress. He, too, unfastened his seatbelt and together we gently raised Anissa out of her seat. Luckily she had upgraded to the First Class cabin. I could only imagine the disaster she would have orchestrated if she’d been in a middle seat in Economy.

The Flight Gods were displeased that day, and the plane continued to hit pockets of rough air as I assisted Anissa’s shuffling walk to the front galley. I pulled down the seat on one of the flight crew jump-seats and eased Anissa back down in the leather chair.

I pressed a new paper vomit bag into her hands and dug around in the beverage cart until I found the familiar ginger ale aluminum can. I dumped its contents into a plastic cup and delivered it to Anissa.

“Small sips,” I encouraged.

Anissa wrapped both hands around the glass to keep it steady while the plane continued to shake. I watched her gingerly bring the plastic cup to her pursed lips.

I chewed on my lower lip. “So, is this a coincidence or something else?”

Anissa shook her head. “Something else.” Her voice sounded as rough as the mid-flight turbulence.

I waited for more, but she didn’t elaborate.

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” I ventured to ask.

She took another measured sip of the ginger ale. “I’m still mad,” she qualified. “But I’d hate to see all your hard work go to waste. Besides, how else could I be sure you didn’t sleep with someone else next month? Oh, God,” she mumbled just before another wave of nausea hit.

She handed off the ginger ale and opened the new barf bag just in time. I kneeled beside her and rubbed small circles across her back while she continued to puke into the little white bag.

“I hope you remember this sacrifice,” she mumbled into the bag.

I helped pull back her hair to keep it out of her face. She sounded so miserable, I tried not to laugh. “You’re quite the martyr.”

“Just give me a second, and I’ll be ready for the Mile High Club.”

I smiled wistfully at her singular determination. I didn’t have the heart