24. The New Jersey Curse

New Jersey is fucking cursed. 

I’m a sweaty mess, sprinting to Gate 63. There’s no way I’m making it. 

It’s not like I didn’t plan ahead. I’m a 2-hours-early-to-the-airport sort of girl. I went through security, sat comfortably at my gate—plenty of time before boarding.

EWR is simply cursed. 

They changed the gate on me. Instead of Gate 42, I’m suddenly sprinting to Gate 63—through another damn security checkpoint, because sure, that makes sense.

So here I am, running up to the gate just as a woman in a United Airlines uniform is starting to shut the door. 

“Wait!” 

The woman glances back over her shoulder, sees me flying toward her, waving my boarding pass as if it’s Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. 

She doesn’t look happy. 

For a heart-stopping second, I think she’s going to close the door anyway. 

“Please! Just let me on!”

The woman rolls her eyes and opens the door wider. 

“I need to scan your boarding pass,” she says in a bored tone. 

I skid to a stop in front of her. She scans it, and I force myself not to sprint past her and onto the plane. I settle for a brisk, New York walk instead. 

I exhale as soon as I step onto the plane.

Thank god. 

I walk past business class, instantly jealous of the legroom and comfortable seats, and search for my row. 

“17A, 17A, 17A,” I mutter to myself. I finally see it.

And then–I see them. 

"Andy," Lily blurts, obvious shock in her voice. "You’re, um—"

"Yep. 17A." My tone is flat.

Nate, slouched in the aisle seat, glares up at me.

"Really?" His tone drips with condescension. My hackles rise.

"No, I just love standing in airplane aisles for fun," I deadpan. "Yes, I’m the window seat. Now move."

Nate doesn’t move. A beat. Then Lily rams an elbow into his ribs.

"Get up," she hisses.

With a grand roll of his eyes, he does. Lily follows.

I collapse into my seat, kick my backpack under the one in front of me, and snap my seatbelt closed.

Nate and Lily settle in just as the flight attendants launch into their safety script.

We taxi to the runway in uncomfortable silence. Well, they seem uncomfortable. I’m fine letting the silence roll. 

What would I even say to them, anyway? 

As we wait for our turn to takeoff, I lean down to pull my headphones from my bag. Maybe I can use the two hour flight to listen to some music and work through Miranda’s edits from last night. 

The thought of last night makes me smile down at my bag as I’m rifling through all the junk I was so sure I’d need in my carryon. 

She really is incredible. Her grasp of history and impact are a writer's dream, and it doesn’t stop there. She is the impact. She decides how culture takes shape—how people feel in their own skin. She sees what people want, what they need, and she decides. 

It was amazing to hear her go on about something she’s so passionate about. 

And not just because I called it “stuff,” I think, smirking to myself.

I still can’t find those damn headphones. Seriously, it’s not a large backpack. There are only so many corners–

“Andy–”

I bump my head on the seat in front of me. 

“Sorry,” I murmur to the none-too-pleased man in front of me, rubbing the top of my head. 

I turn a glare to Lily. She ducks her head sheepishly. But only for a second before meeting my eyes again. 

“Andy,” she tries again, but this time the engines of the plane drown out her words. 

I turn away from her and sink back into my seat, savoring that mind-boggling moment when the wheels lift off and the ground falls away.

As horrifically uncomfortable as flying is, it still feels like a miracle. 

Screw the headphones, I think, getting to work on my phone. If I can just smooth out the transition between the ‘90s and 2020s case study and the conclusion, I should be able to–

“Andy.” 

I close my eyes and softly bang my head against the back of my chair. After a steadying breath, I turn my head to the side, resigned. 

“What?” 

It’s harder than I thought, looking into the face of my former best friend. Sixteen years, we’d been cinched at the hip, but now? Her eyes are the same, but I don’t recognize them. 

Maybe that’s how she feels about me. 

“I just…” Lily trails off. 

I wait, letting the silence stretch as she searches my eyes. For what, I don’t know. And I don’t really care. 

“How are you?” she settles on. 

My fingers tighten on my phone. It’s an easy question, but I’m not sure how to answer. Do I take the olive branch and pretend everything is good? Like I don’t know she’s bringing Nate home for the holidays? Do I dismiss her and watch her sulk and Nate glare at me for the next two hours? 

“I’m good, Lil,” I say, carefully neutral, holding up my phone. “Just trying to get some work done.” 

Nate scoffs and leans forward to look at me. 

“I knew there was no way the Grinch was giving you time off.” 

I want to smack that smug smirk off his face. Tempting. But I restrain myself. Instead, I smile sweetly and say,

“Some of us have a work ethic.” 

I smile to myself at Nate’s sputtering, and turn my attention back to my phone, clearly signaling I’m done. Apparently Lily doesn’t get the message. 

Or she just ignores it. 

“I was hoping I’d see you,” Lily goes on. “I mean, I didn’t know if you’d get any days off or be able to go home, but I hoped…”

I turn toward her again and let the silence hang.

I’m not going to perform conversational CPR, I tell myself, watching her face shift—from hope, to shock, to something like sadness.

“I didn’t think things would get so weird between us,” she whispers, wringing her hands in her lap.

I look from her to Nate, then back again, and arch an eyebrow.

Lily’s cheeks redden. She ducks her chin.

“I mean, I hate that we haven’t talked. I really do.”

I give her a level look. “There’s this magical device called a phone. You can even send messages on it.”

Lily squirms in her seat. “Yeah, well. You didn’t call either.”

I snort. “I thought about it. But then I realized my best friend cared more about my ex-boyfriend than me. So no. I didn’t call.”

I hold her gaze, daring her to disagree.

She drops her eyes first. Nate, smug, reaches out and grabs her hand.

“I’m sorry, Andy.” Lily’s voice barely rises above the engine’s roar.

“I’m not,” I say, without thinking. And after it’s out—I realize it’s true.

It’s only Lily’s shocked, hurt expression that makes me go on.

“I’m not going to force myself to be smaller just because it’s easier for other people.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but she smiles through it.

“Yeah,” is all she says.

I go back to my phone, Miranda’s voice echoing in my head, pointing out every weakness in my article—and how to make it stronger.

The silence holds until our descent.

“You look really good,” Lily says at last, her smile sad.

I smile politely. “Thanks.”

The plane pulls up to the gate, and all around us, people start to stand and grab their bags.

“So… how was Paris?” she asks.

I’m not sure she actually cares. But I made it through this flight—civil, unbothered, clear-eyed. And I deserve a little treat.

“It was great,” I say, standing awkwardly as I wrestle my backpack over my shoulders. Then, casually:

“Nothing like a fling in the City of Love to put a girl back on her feet.”

I slide past a gaping Lily and a red, steaming Nate, and head for the exit, smiling the whole way.

Apparently, I can survive the New Jersey curse after all.