The Trouble With Flying - PROMO Blitz
Young Adult/New Adult
Date Published: June 24,
2014
When introvert
Sarah boards a plane to fly home after an overseas holiday, the last thing she
expects is Aiden, the guy sitting next to her who’s never flown anywhere before
and refuses to shut up. Hours of random conversation later, they part ways.
Sarah can’t stop thinking about Aiden, though, and wondering if she made a
terrible mistake letting him go. Should she abandon her safe, predictable life
and go in search of him, or would she be chasing a happily ever after that could
never exist in real life?
I don’t make
friends on aeroplanes. I know there are people who like to strike up a
conversation with the complete stranger sitting next to them, but that’s not
me. It’s not that I’m an unfriendly person. It’s more the fact that the
conversation centre of my brain seems to seize up in the presence of strangers,
and I can’t for the life of me figure out what to say. And even if the other
person is happy to simply babble on while I pretend to listen and be
interested, I’d really rather be doing something else. Like reading. Or
watching a movie. Or sleeping. Or trying to figure out how to stop
crying.
Yes. Crying.
Because if being shy and awkward isn’t enough, today I’m adding red eyes,
tears, and suppressed sobs to the embarrassing mix.
I stare out the
tiny, oval window at the patches of reflected light on the wet runway and
silently ask God to leave the seat next to me empty. I can’t deal with a chatty
neighbour right now. I’d rather watch the black sky and incessant rain until we
reach cruising altitude. Then I’ll close my eyes and let sleep take the pain
away.
Oh, STOP IT. It’s
not like someone died.
I wiggle around a
bit in my seat and sniff, trying to listen to my inner pep-talk voice. Think of
the good things, I tell myself. I’m on my way home. I’m leaving behind the
dreary, wet weather for a sunny, summer climate. That, at least, should make me
happy. But thinking about home leads to thoughts ofwho I’m flying towards, and
that only makes my stomach twist further.
I hear the sound
of a bag being dumped onto the seat at the end of my row. There are only three
seats between the window and the aisle—mine and two others—so there’s a
fifty-fifty chance this person is about to plonk him or herself down right next
to me.
I angle myself
more towards the window and swipe my fingers beneath my eyes. I start the
furious tear-banishing blinking. Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. All I
need now is for someone to see my blotchy, wet face and start asking me what’s
wrong.
I hear someone
settling into a seat. I don’t feel movement right beside me, so it must be the
aisle seat. Fantastic. I send up a quick thank-you prayer and remind God that
it would be spectacularly awesome if He could keep the seat next to me
empty.
A tickle inside
my left nostril alerts me to the fact that my nose is dribbling. I sniff, but
it doesn’t help.Crap, where are my tissues? I lean forward and reach down by my
feet for my handbag. Brown strands of hair fall in front of my face and block
my vision, but if I can just get the zip open and feel past my purse to the
tissues—
No. Too late. Now
it’s trickling down my lip and I’m digging around in the bag and I can’t feel
the stupid tissues and a drop of tear-snot just landed on my hand and yuck! I
haul the ridiculous handbag—I told Jules I didn’t need something so big—onto my
lap with one hand while holding the back of my other hand to my nose. And there
the tissues are. Right next to my purse. Perfectly easy to find. I rip one from
the packet and jam it against my nose to stop the tear-snot
flood.
And that’s when I
catch a glimpse of the guy sitting in the aisle seat. A quick sideways glimpse,
but enough to tell me he’s cute. Excellent cheekbones, a strong jawline, and
perfectly messy dark brown hair. Terrific. My nose is dripping snot in front of
a cute guy. Not that I should care that he’s cute, or that he’s a guy, because
it’s not like I’m going to talk to him, and it’s not like I’m even available—am
I? I don’t actually know. And thinking about that makes me want to cry all over
again—but STILL. I don’t want to look blotchy and snotty in front of a cute
guy.
Rachel Morgan was
born in South Africa and spent a large portion of her childhood living in a
fantasy land of her own making. After completing a degree in genetics, she
decided science wasn't for her--after all, they didn't approve of made-up
facts. These days she spends much of her time immersed in fantasy land once
more, writing fiction for young adults.
A
$20 Amazon gift card for one winner
E-copy of THE
TROUBLE WITH FLYING for two winners
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