Chapter 2 — Turbulence at 30,000 Feet
Ethan
The hum of the plane was a low, constant vibration, broken occasionally by the ding of the seatbelt sign or the muffled chatter of passengers. Ethan leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. The in-flight entertainment screen in front of him had frozen halfway through the safety demonstration, leaving a static image of a flight attendant pointing toward an emergency exit. He’d tried restarting it twice, to no avail.
Typical.
He glanced sideways at Amelia, seated rigidly beside him. Her posture was straight as a pin, her tailored blazer unwrinkled despite the cramped quarters. She scrolled through the movie options with deliberate precision, her movements careful, controlled. Even now, in the dim overhead lighting, she seemed utterly composed, like a sculpture carved from marble.
Ethan could feel the tension radiating from her, sharp and taut like a violin string. He wanted to say something—maybe crack a joke about their absurd seating arrangement or the state of the in-flight technology—but the memory of her clipped tone when they’d exchanged pleasantries earlier stopped him cold.
Instead, he sighed and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out his brass fountain pen. The familiar weight of it in his hand was oddly grounding, even if he had nothing to write on. The pen was old, its ivy engravings slightly worn from years of use. A faint ink smudge streaked across his thumb as he turned it over, tracing the intricate pattern.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Amelia watching him. Or rather, watching the pen. Her sharp hazel eyes narrowed slightly, and after a beat, she spoke.
“Still using that thing?” she asked, her tone neutral but carrying something unspoken beneath the surface.
Ethan shrugged, twirling the pen between his fingers. “What can I say? Old habits die hard. Besides, it’s reliable. Most of the time.”
Her lips tightened, and she looked away, her hands resting on the bronze compass in her lap. She’d been holding it since they boarded, her thumb brushing over its tarnished lid in a slow, repetitive motion. The compass’s worn edges fit perfectly into her palm, like it belonged there, a quiet reminder of something—or someone—Ethan couldn’t quite name.
“And reliability’s always been your strong suit, hasn’t it?” she murmured, her voice soft but cutting, the words slicing through the hum of the plane.
The jab landed with surgical precision. Ethan flinched, his hand tightening around the pen. He glanced down at it before shoving it back into his jacket pocket, the smudge on his thumb now a faint smear.
Before he could respond, the flight attendant appeared beside them, balancing a tray of meals.
“Chicken or vegetarian?” she asked briskly, her smile professional but tired.
“Vegetarian,” Amelia replied without hesitation, her tone polite but distant.
Ethan opened his mouth to request the chicken, but the attendant frowned at her list. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve run out of chicken.”
Of course they had.
He leaned back, his head hitting the seat with a muted thud. “Figures.”
Amelia paused, her spoon hovering over her tray. With a quiet sigh, she slid her untouched vegetarian meal onto his tray table.
“Take mine,” she said, her voice resigned. “I’m not hungry.”
Ethan blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard. Despite the frostiness between them, the gesture felt strangely intimate. Classic Amelia—practical and decisive, with a touch of martyrdom.
“I can’t take your dinner,” he said, though his stomach grumbled in protest.
“You can and you will,” she replied firmly, already turning her attention back to the flickering screen in front of her. “It’s better than listening to you complain for the next six hours.”
“Touché,” he muttered with a wry smile, though she didn’t look at him.
As he picked at the bland pasta, his gaze drifted back to her. She had finally settled on a black-and-white film, the flickering images casting shadows across her face. Her fingers absently traced the edge of the compass, her expression unreadable.
“You still carry that thing around?” he asked, gesturing toward the compass with his fork.
Her hand stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming its gentle motion. “It’s sentimental,” she said simply.
Ethan tilted his head, studying her. “Sentimental? You?”
She shot him a look, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Don’t start, Ethan.”
“What?” He raised his hands defensively, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I always thought you were more… pragmatic.”
“Sentiment and pragmatism aren’t mutually exclusive,” she replied coolly, turning back to her movie.
“Fair enough,” he said, leaning back in his seat. He pulled the pen out of his pocket again, holding it up so the brass caught the dim cabin light. “I guess it’s like me and this pen. It’s not perfect—leaks all the time, smudges everywhere—but I can’t seem to let it go.”
Amelia didn’t respond, but he noticed her gaze flick toward the pen again. For a brief moment, her guarded expression softened, though it was gone before he could be sure it had been there at all.
The cabin lights dimmed further as the flight attendants prepared for the overnight portion of the journey. Ethan shoved the tray table back into place and stretched his legs, trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped seat. His gaze drifted to the window, where the faint outline of the wing cut through the darkness, the stars beyond it faint but steady.
“I’m surprised you didn’t book first class,” he said after a while, breaking the silence. “Seems more your style these days.”
Amelia didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the screen. “I prefer efficiency over luxury. Besides, I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Neither was I,” Ethan admitted, his tone softer now.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the hum of the engines and the occasional rustle of passengers. He wanted to say more, to bridge the gap between them somehow, but the words stuck in his throat.
It was Margot who finally broke the tension, leaning forward from her seat behind them. Her colorful scarf brushed against Ethan’s shoulder as she grinned, her green eyes sparkling with mischief.
“You two make quite the pair,” she said, her French accent soft but unmistakable.
Amelia stiffened, her shoulders drawing up like a cat bristling at an unwelcome touch. Ethan, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smile. There was something disarming about Margot, with her playful grin and unapologetic curiosity.
“We’re not a pair,” Amelia said sharply, her tone clipped.
Margot raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Ah, but you were once, no? That much is obvious.”
Ethan chuckled, earning a glare from Amelia. “She’s got you there,” he said, leaning back in his seat.
Margot ignored the tension, her gaze flicking between them with unabashed interest. “Life has a way of circling back, doesn’t it?” she said lightly, though her words carried a note of something deeper.
“A circle I’d prefer to avoid,” Amelia replied, her voice tinged with exasperation.
Margot’s smile widened. “Sometimes, cherie, it’s not about avoiding. It’s about seeing what’s still there, waiting to be said.”
Ethan glanced at Amelia, catching the flicker of something in her expression—regret? Frustration?—before she turned away.
“Well,” Margot said breezily, settling back into her seat, “I’ll leave you two to figure it out. But trust me, second chances have a funny way of sneaking up on you.”
Ethan watched as Amelia tightened her grip on the compass, her knuckles whitening. He wanted to reach out, to say something that might ease the tension, but the words eluded him.
Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes, the hum of the plane lulling him into restless thoughts. Beside him, Amelia remained stiff and silent, her focus fixed on the screen, but Ethan couldn’t help but wonder if her mind was as far away as his.
The plane soared on through the night, carrying them toward a city filled with ghosts and possibilities. Outside the window, clouds gathered, the faint rumble of turbulence shaking the cabin and mirroring the unsteady rhythm of his thoughts.
