I lock my screen and roll my eyes. Talking to Sam makes me feel crazy, and not in the fun, liberated way Violette massaging my brain last week did. He's just so nice, a guy who wants to be friends with everybody as long as they're not a dick. How he wound up dating me, even in this lifetime, is tough to say. Prickly is a good word for me. You'd think I'd be too much of an asshole for him.

Then again, I remember exactly how we wound up together. How he was always the warmest guy in my friend group, weirdly uninterested in machismo despite his participation on the bro-est of pastimes, sports. How he developed a crush on me that slowly took over his thoughts. The giddiness I felt, knowing his secret. The way his face lit up when I agreed to go out with him. From then on, we were an "us." Even if we were just dumb kids in high school.

I never did get up the nerve to tell him the truth about my abilities. It wound up being for the best, I guess, since he was accepted on scholarship to play big fancy college football and left me behind. Long distance sucked, but I thought we could manage, until he broke things off as soon as he fell for someone else. Good thing Violette was there to pick me up. Who would have time to be sad when I had to relearn everything about her? She's my real first love. Sam and I were good, but Violette and I are better.

Still. My feelings for him didn't dissipate as quickly as I'd like.

He was there in my first life, you know. So many people were--I'm surrounded by ghosts, outside and in. We weren't friends back then, barely acquaintances, but I goaded him into fucking me once, because he was hot and simple and looked at me that way once. He had a girlfriend at the time, and I split them up for no reason, just because I felt like it. Funny, right, that he got the chance to break my heart?

You could say I deserved that one.

"Sam says 'Hi'," I tell Violette.

She looks up from wrapping her dad (and Jett's) wedding gift in several layers of protective cardboard and bubble wrap. She seemed only semi-happy with the final results, but she had to quit last week for the painting to dry, so like it or not, this is it.

"Tell him 'hi' back, please," she says. When I don't immediately do it, she keeps staring at me, then makes a little "Go on" gesture with her hand. I return to my phone.

"What did he say?" Violette asks, drawing my eyes away from whatever Sam's response is. I put my phone on the chest at the foot of her bed and kneel down next to her and her suitcase.

"Nothing much. Sounds like your fame is still rubbing off on him."

She tips her head to the side, letting her long hair fall in a wave over her face, obscuring her eyes. "Mm, probably."

I'm not allowed in her reels, but she did one with Sam the first time they met. She was way too shy to talk much to him, but she insisted she meet him (and the rest of my friends, bit by bit). I was proud of her for doing it.

We awkwardly sat in my living room, Violette trying her best but mostly radiating silence and haunted-doll energy in a way I recognized from experience as normal. I kept the conversation going any way I could. It was only when Sam mentioned his place on the football team had gained him a sudden influx of Intsagram followers (a thousand, not the six digits she has) that she turned from malfunctioning windup toy back into girl.

If it hadn't been so good for getting her to relax, I would've been jealous. Instead, I don't know, it was cute seeing her order him around as he learned the moves and where to stand. It was just a silly dance, some copy of a current clip that was trending, but they had fun, and after that she could talk to him with more than one word at a time. Half of her followers are convinced he's her boyfriend, but he's so the opposite of her type that that bit is comedy to me. Imagine.

I would like her to show me to her followers one of these days, but I know it's a sign of how much she likes me that she doesn't.

"You could always include me in some of your wedding posts," I say, taking some of her draping hair and tucking it back behind her ear so I can see her lovely face. "A soft launch."

Said lovely face pulls down into a bullfrog-like frown. "They'll be weird, no matter what."

"Give me your login and I'll block all of them so you don't have to see it."

"It's worse if you see it!" She brushes her hand through her hair so it covers her eyes again. "They'll misgender you, to start with."

"Princess." I leave her protective layer of hair where it is, but lean against her so our shoulders press together, side by side. "I know some of them will. I can cope."

"It'll make me so mad I get sick."

I can't help but smile when she says it so seriously. My snarling guard dog in a pink bow. "I get it. And even if you never want to, I'll always be right off-screen. But, you know, that actually gives me an idea..."

I part the curtain of her hair and whisper in her ear. My plan sends her into a fit of giggles, so I think we might have a winner.

* * *

"Reconsider travel to Mainland China due to the arbitrary enforcement of local laws, including in relation to exit bans, and the risk of wrongful detentions."

That warning pops up when you visit the U.S. government's travel website looking for information about visiting China. I don't know what the fuss is about; arbitrary enforcement of laws and wrongful detention sounds like home sweet home to me. Not that I've dealt with too much of that, since authority figures in range have trouble holding on to negative emotions about me. Even before regaining my memories, I practiced that trick with my dad's blessing.

"If you're not doing anything wrong but they're targeting you, they're the ones out of line. Do whatever you have to to stay safe," he said.

He's nervous about this trip for similar reasons, I think. I understand his anxiety, but it's easier for me to remain calm with the confidence of a weapon no airport security will catch in my back pocket. Between Eric and Violette, who have plenty of experience in Shanghai, and my powers, I will be fine.

I told him that, but of course he texts me as Violette and I are getting dressed for the airport.

I think that settled him down. I expect some pestering from my mom in the next hour, but after that we should be golden. They may worry, but they let me do my thing, and only one of them fusses at a time. I smile at the thought of my parents exchanging the worrying baton as I pull my backpack (my carry-on) up and slide my phone into the inner pocket next to my passport.

It wasn't that hard to apply for and receive a visa despite the ominous warnings. Eric, well familiar with the process, helped us fill out our forms, then we (my parents included) piled into Eric's big SUV and took a day trip to the nearest consulate. It was surprisingly chill--family bonding through paperwork and bureaucracy. My dad has a way of loosening Jett up that made conversation flow between the (real) adults as Violette and I leaned together in the back row of seats. The high point of the trip was watching Jett try to order off a Waffle House menu without flinching. Violette ate his chicken sandwich bun for him.

Now, my passport feels heavy in my hand as I pick it up and flip through the pages. I've flown to Japan plenty of times in my life, but Shanghai will be very new. I wish the weight of Mandarin in my head was as heavy as the passport, or that I could tap into Eric's knowledge and speak as fluently as he does.

But there's over twenty hours of travel ahead of us before we reach Shanghai, so I put my passport away and catch Violette's eye. She's waiting for me at her vanity.

"Your time to shine," I tell her as I go to her side.

"I'll make you the prettiest."

"Second prettiest. I'd never beat you." I brush the skirt of my olive green skater dress underneath me as I sit down, then tip my head to the side and wink at my reflection, for her benefit.

She giggles. "You're good at being a girl."

Turning my head back and forth, I consider her assessment. I usually pull my hair back with a hair tie that snaps on and off, but this morning I left my hair down after brushing out any knots and using product. The way my curls drape over my shoulders and frame my face softens everything. Violette's makeup talents and a few other accessories will do even more in just a minute.

"Girlish, every once in a while. We'll be perfect travel gal pals." I raise my hands and frame my face with a 'V' for her benefit.

"Besties," Violette agrees. "But I think we'll mostly look like lesbians."

"Oh yeah, to some of them, but you'd be surprised how clueless people are. Either way, I'll go back to boymode before we get off the plane so Shanghai security doesn't look at me sideways."

"The Chinese ones are nice to me. Nicer than the Americans." She sounds thoughtful.

"Yeah? Better safe than sorry. I can smooth things over with the TSA, but I'm not counting on it if they're not thinking in English. There's an 'M' on my passport, after all."

That makes her scoff. "So dumb. They should let you put a different letter on it."

If only I could let my little gender warrior loose on all the transphobes of the world; I'd love to watch her tear them to pieces.

"As soon as they let me pick my own letter, I'll make sure there's an 'O' on there," I promise.

With that, I let her get to work.

* * *

"You must be joking."

Jett says it as I come downstairs with my backpack over my shoulder and Violette's suitcase in my hands (I am not immune to a cutie looking at me expectantly when a large object she doesn't want to carry is in front of her). He pushes his hand up under his glasses and rubs at his eyes tiredly. Not just because I'm annoying, I think. He seems tired.

"But don't I look nice?" I say it in a doe-like voice, something I practiced when I was younger and thought I might, maybe, be some sort of girl. That convincingness startles him, but the expression of frustration lingers on his face.

"Would it not be easier to wear something more... unobtrusive for such a long flight?"

"Assimilationist." I drop Violette's suitcase to the ground with a thump.

Jett draws in a breath as if to argue with that, but then he goes quiet. Resignation, guilt, annoyance, exhaustion--there's a whole cocktail sweating out of him. "I suppose it is silly, isn't it. But I don't want you to be harassed at the security checks."

"Relax. I'm now too pretty to get in trouble, just like Violette," I say before doing a spin.

Underneath my skater dress I'm wearing fleece-lined leggings that mimic sheer tights, and over the dress I have a warm cardigan and a matching scarf. It's December, so I need the layers, but they also blur my silhouette. As for my face, the makeup Violette did is nothing ostentatious, but it rounds out my features, adds warmth to my cheeks, and emphasizes my eyelashes and lips.

"I don't think it's safe to count on that," Jett says. He eyes the slight curve of my chest. The chicken cutlets are borrowed from Violette. She uses them once in a while to fill out tops that don't fit her otherwise but, personally? I think they look better on me.

I slide my backpack off my shoulders and lean against Jett's chest, tipping my chin up toward him. He tenses as if to pull away, but doesn't. For a moment, I just stand there in silence and enjoy the tension and heat starting to radiate off him.

"You sure?"

"My opinion is irrelevant."

"I'd still be on top."

Jett presses his lips together before releasing them, his tongue making an audible click. "I wouldn't expect otherwise."

"Stop flirting and come load our suitcases," Violette calls from the hall past the kitchen, where my own luggage has been waiting since I arrived last night.

"Yes, my liege," I answer. I hear her saying "That's right!" faintly in response as she enters the garage.

I grab my bags and start to leave the hallway, but not before stealing a kiss from Jett like a cat burglar. He leans into it, that slut. There's even a faint trace of lipstick on his mouth afterward.

I'd make a joke about being a femme fatale on my mother's side, but I don't think anyone in this house would get the reference.

* * *

In my experience, airports are not welcoming places, but I've tolerated them since a young age out of necessity. When you're a kid with family in another country, you just deal with it. Even Violette, despite her sensitivities, is used to travel. As soon as we get out of Eric's car, she puts in fancy earplugs that dull crowd sounds, her face set and serious.

There's a moment after we have our suitcases where Eric reaches to take her hand, but I make it there first. Sorry, man, but I've got dibs. He doesn't seem to mind, and uses his empty hand to pat me on the back instead. More delicately than usual, I notice.

"That's gender discrimination," I say with a grin.

Eric pauses, realizes what I mean, and thumps me a few times with his typical force. Well, I did ask for it. Ouch.

"Ha! I don't know what I'm doin'!" He laughs. "Y'just threw me off. Is the new look temporary? Are we still callin' you the same name?"

"Yeah, does girl Oran have a different name?" Violette adds, though I think she's teasing from the way she cocks her head at me.

"Nah, this is just a different flavor! My name is all inclusive. How would I feminize it, anyway? I'd have to think of a whole different one."

Violette slides her eyes to side, then says with a distinct note of confidence: "Orange."

"Wow! I'll consider that," I say, before losing my cool and laughing--everyone does, including Violette. After that, her expression exudes satisfaction as we take the walkway from the parking lot toward the departures terminal.

Check-in is uneventful, then we find the line for TSA and assume our place in it. Violette stays close to me--including when she pulls out her phone to take a selfie of her lavender comfy-cute athleisure outfit. I nudge her after a few shots, and she angles the phone up so more than just my arm fits into the frame. I watch the giddy grin spread across my face on her screen in real time as she poses with me. There's butterflies in my stomach.

It's not like we've never taken photos together, but she swears she'll actually post some of these. That was the plan I whispered in her ear last night: I'd go full femme and she could tell them nothing about me, leaving them to speculate who this random Black girl is. If they're going to misgender me and make up things no matter what, isn't it fun to totally misdirect them? Needless to say, Violette agreed. She does love when I run a few plays for Team Girl.

Still grinning, I bend down to press my cheek against hers, and she snaps another picture. This one won't go on her Instagram. She's smiling too much for her usual flat-faced brand.

"Don't hold up the line, y'all," Eric says behind us, but his voice is fond. Are we too disgusting? We might be. On the other hand, he and Jett are always leaning against each other or exchanging quick kisses when they part, so are we not disgusting together? That's just how this sort-of family unit rolls.

"Thanks for saving me in every way," I murmur in Violette's ear. She takes my hand again and grips it firmly.

"You too," she says.

Her words fill my heart up with helium so potent I practically float up to the first checkpoint. The random guard there looks at my passport photo then back to my face and cocks her eyebrow, but she's cool. We're so cool, me and her. She passes my passport back. I glide past her before she can reconsider our relationship and start taking my scarf off to put it in one of the clunky plastic containers to be scanned.

Losing the scarf does dampen the effect somewhat, unfortunately. I'm not really in need of gender affirming surgery since they don't have one that turns you into loud radio static, but paying someone to sandblast my Adam's apple is tempting.

Scarf down, backpack next to it, cell phone in a separate container, boots last. My pockets, empty; my smile, firmly affixed. The mission: get through the body scanner without an uncomfortable pat down or, even worse, getting escorted to the cramped room where they treat you like a criminal.

There's four TSA agents, but the one reading the full-body scan results is my main target. He's looking for any "anomalies," and their stupid machines think a lot of things are anomalous, like something as simple as sweat, body rolls, or, you know, an unexpected penis. Expand your mind, man, penises can show up anywhere.

When I focus, I can hear his thoughts faintly as the machine whirs in a circle around me. He sounds bored, but alert enough that I have to put some pressure on him.

This traveler is normal. Normal scan results. Sooo normal.

He leans to his side, his eyes unfocused on the screen in front of him before he catches and steadies himself. Not my cleanest work, but better than Reed the other day. I spoke for him, loud and clear, now he just has to listen.

He squints at the scan, uncertainty still hovering at the edge of his thoughts, like mist on a cool spring morning around a lake. This girl is...

Free to go! I insist. Let the mist burn away in a bright burst of sunlight.

"Go get your items from the conveyor belt," the agent says, accepting it. With a wave, he directs me away from him.

Yes! Mission accomplished! I hop over to slip my boots back on, trying not to look too happy as I do. Setting a challenge for myself made the security check kind of fun, which I never thought I'd say.

Violette exits soon after me, the agent taking one look at her and allowing her past without hesitation. Jett, his jaw set and shoulders squared, makes it through cleanly as well. Only poor Eric gets the pat down, but he bears it with a shrug and a smile.

"They always check him," Violette grumbles as she slings her travel bag over her shoulder.

"He's so hot he sets off all the sensors," I say.

Violette snickers while Jett eyes me as he slides his loafers back on. He keeps his voice down. "You had no trouble, I see."

"Told you."

I don't like the way he holds his eyes on mine after that, so I force It's no big deal into his mind with a sharp edge. He winces and turns back to see Eric, released from his awkward groping session, and that's enough of a distraction for his heart.

Good. The last thing I need is Jett thinking too deeply about what kind of power I have. With his faint memories of my fight with Violette's mother, he knows there must be something, and that's already more than I'd like.

* * *

Unless you live in a truly big city, which I don't, international flights are like matryoshka dolls. Pop open that almost twenty-four hours of estimated time to find several flights and airports inside, as a treat! You like airports, right? You want a couple more?

Anyway, our first flight is one of those little ones, just over fifty minutes, then there's a layover of several hours in Denver until our next flight. Once we've touched down, I tell Violette this is the airport that has all these conspiracy theories about its surreal murals. She's intrigued, so after depositing our bags and Eric and Jett at the restaurant-and-bar closest to our departure gate, we go to figure out if there's any we can reach them from inside the terminal.

About an hour later, we didn't find any of the infamous murals, but we did see some ceramics and a garden, which Violette seemed to like. We also poked around a few stores, and I talked Violette out of buying candy at airport prices.

We're walking down a connecting hallway with a low ceiling and walls on the right that are in the middle of remodeling, the sound of drilling and pounding dulled only by layers of plywood, when she tugs on my hand. She points at a bathroom down a short corridor on the left side of the hall. The area looks old and barely used, so I don't need to read her to guess why she wants to go in.

"It's only been a few hours. Can't wait?" I ask.

She doesn't say anything, just shakes her head back and forth. Well, that settles it. I let her lead the way.

The restroom is profoundly dingy, with dark brown walls and only four stalls. I bet they're going to tear this one down once they finish the rest of the hallway out there, but for now it stands: gray and tan stalls, freckled tile floor, mildewy smell. There's no one inside to look at me askance, not that I think they would with my current getup. Sorry to anyone who would get clocked just wanting to pee in here; I promise to not get caught for all our sakes.

Violette directs me into the large handicap stall at the end of the row, them follows after me. With a metallic click, she locks the door. I open my mouth to speak, but she taps her finger to her lips. Instead, the impenetrable barrier around her mind part like someone drawing the curtains open to welcome the morning sun.

There's so many people and it's noisy and there's so much pressure, it was bad before when I was younger but now I'm horny and it's even worse, it's worse worse worse, and I need... Her eyes focus on mine. You can hear right? Oran?

I can. I try to say it as clearly as I can, in my voice. It's hard to do anything but blend in unless I'm so deep inside her mind we're talking heart-to-heart, but she nods when I answer, so I know it came through.

Good. Embarrassing, but easier. Need you to know and hear it and be quiet--going to touch you.

That's all the warning I get before she presses up against me. As we kiss, I guide us back to the farthest wall. It supports me as I lean back while she straddles my thigh and grinds her hips, words momentarily lost to her mind as sizzling desire overtakes everything.

You like me in this outfit, huh? I ask, which catches and holds her long enough that she starts thinking in more than images again, although the words are disjointed.

So much or too much. Pretty, my pretty, my Oran and my pretty and my hands under your dress and touching, wanting, tasting...

She doesn't wait for my response when she thinks about putting her hand under my dress, she simply follows the intuition. In shorter order, she's pulled my leggings and underwear past my hips and wrapped her hand around my dick. Her hunger demands efficiency, and I get so hard for her, just like she wants.

This seems like a good time to put my hand over my mouth. Violette nods, her eyes dark as she squats in front of me, the pleated edges of her short lavender skirt flaring around her ass, revealing a hint of the matching shorts underneath.

Gross floor no way I'm touching that only Oran, Oran could never be gross especially here. Her tongue runs along the underside of my cock as she thinks it.

It's hard to bear the feeling of both my pleasure and hers as she tastes my skin, but I don't want to disconnect. It always was my dream to be inside her in more ways than the physical. Now that I'm there, I'm a bit jealous of how blissful taking my dick into her mouth makes her feel. Not that I couldn't tell from the way her eyes squinted tight when she did it that she was enjoying it, but sensing how her pussy purrs with satisfaction is another experience. As she starts to bob her head, it's like I'm filling her, not as literal as an apparition but close enough that her inner walls tremble.

Quiet or fast which is better hungry and burning need your cum, so--

Fast. I make a point to say that one in my voice, clear as I can, before letting that fade. The next words I say are camouflaged as her own. Fast. Fast fast fast fast fast.

Her eyes flicker open as she realizes what I've done. The fire that flares up inside her in response has me swallowing a gasp, worse when she obeys her new directive and starts sucking like her life depends on it.

Use me use me use me 哥哥深点快点深点快点深点快点!

She slipped into her fondness for calling me big brother, I can tell that much. The rest sounds like dirty talk, but I'm not sure exactly what she means, third-language vocabulary the last thing on my mind as her throat tightens around me like it's a second pussy. Not enough like it to stop her from pushing her hand under the hem of her shorts and finding her clit to play with. Wish it was my mouth there.

Fuck, I think as I suddenly hear the sound of construction more distinctly than before. An open door. The way Violette's mouth and fingers shlik like a spatula running through cake batter is now the most audible thing I've ever heard. In a rush, I grab for the mind of the person who just entered, finding a hold as the construction noises soften with the swing-shut of the door.

There's nothing, only the drill noises, get in and get out, I toss inside their mind like a package thrown out of a moving delivery van. I don't investigate a thing about the stranger's mind before withdrawing; I don't want to!

Violette's eyes widen as we stare at each other. We both hear the stall door at the far end of the row opening and closing.

No no no no no yuck go away! and Protect me you'll protect me let me finish! overlap like competing checkers pieces in her mind, and I'm not sure which is winning. Since she abruptly speeds up what she's doing, it must be the second one.

"Gh." I choke it into my palm, prompting her to smack me lightly on the hip with the hand she was using to steady herself.

We switch places next time, you see how easy it is!!! I tell her silently.

At that, Violette makes a choked gurgling noise that I think is a laugh (but, you know, with a cock in her throat) that sounds so loud and lewd that I nearly die upon hearing it.

What the hell was that? the stranger thinks, equally as loud.

Something unspeakable! Horrors! Like a bad dream! Gotta get out of this bathroom! I yell back to them. They hear it as their own mind ringing alarm bells. An image of some nightmarish, gaping-mouthed ooze that would make that wet noise they heard fills their mind. Good, great! I expand the thought until they're overcome with it. The auto-flush runs as they flee the scene, covering the sound of my head thumping back against the wall. They don't spare the time to wash their hands.

Sorry, random citizen. I hope you aren't traumatized. It wasn't anything scarier than a girl with a really dirty mouth.

A dirty mind too, but she's not thinking in words anymore. It's hard for me to focus on them either, both of us more aware of how vulnerable our stealth is--in a way that could be good or bad. Violette may be shy, but she's a born exhibitionist at the same time; just another contradiction of the world's cutest succubus. As for me, well, I hate getting in trouble but I love dodging it, so I guess I'm one too. That hasn't changed, much like the sweetness of her mouth hasn't.

Despite the dour location, cumming for her while her body answers with its own shivering, our minds intertwined like two hands squeezed together, feels even better than I expected.

* * *

We make it back with an hour to spare. We find Eric and Jett with a basket of tortilla chips and empty cocktail glasses, so some of the edginess I could feel Jett radiating this morning has dulled.

"Did y'find the what you were lookin' for?" Eric asks as he gets up from their table and pulls out one of the empty chairs for Violette. Hurriedly, I make it into my own chair before he can do the same.

"No luck, but we saw a garden and went through a long walkway with animated rainbow lights, so it was all right," I answer.

Violette nods, her mouth already full from the chips that she started eating without asking. All food falls within eminent domain of the princess, you must understand.

"Rainbow lights? I'm sure you two took some nice pictures, then," Jett says. He almost sounds relaxed.

Violette swallows her mouthful of chips and leans over to show him on her phone. "Here, you can see."

Surprise rises out of him like steam off hot asphalt, but he leans down to look without questioning her motives. She usually only interacts with him to poke or tease, but I think she's trying to be friendly? He is marrying her dad in under two weeks, so it's not the worst time to start.

Well, technically, they're already married, if you count the day city hall stamped the paperwork as the wedding day. Since they're husband and husband in the U.S., this is really just the world's most stressful honeymoon. They can't get legally married in Shanghai, but it's nice that Eric's family is doing a wedding anyway, right? Private parties are legal! Private, wedding-resembling parties.

Violette spends several minutes flipping through the photos she took, plus a few more she remembers she could show him, Jett making interested noises as she goes. I can tell he's pleased, as his happiness at the humble interaction prickles uncomfortably at the back of my neck. The thing is, he really loves Violette, in a "wants to be a good guardian" way--when she lets him. It's a good thing they can get along every now and then.

I just wish his emotions, positive or negative, didn't rankle me so bad. I shouldn't be petty. Rather than letting him sour my mood, I take a deep breath and focus on the rhythmic rise and fall of my lungs.

The stinging fades. At the same time, the buzz of minds in the bar around us lowers. My breathing flows in and out at a slow pace until I can only hear spoken voices. It's a little lonely without the second layer of sound, but there's an element of peace to it too. Sometimes you need to be alone in your own head.

As alone as I get with the ghosts, that is.

* * *

We say goodbye to Denver soon after that for a three-hour flight. Great news: we aren't leaving the country via LAX! If one thing brings Americans together, it's probably our hatred of that airport. Instead, we're leaving from Seattle, which in my experience is... fine! Still an airport, but fine. I'd rather head to Japan from there, that's for sure.

Our layover in Seattle is short, so we hustle to our gate. Poor Violette, the shortest of us by far, is out of breath by the time we take four seats near the gate attendant desk and settle in to wait. There's one final surprise before boarding is about to start.

The surprise in question is for Eric, who discovers this when he's called to the gate desk. He has no idea that Jett has been scheming behind the scenes. I mean, can you imagine? Jett is not much of a schemer.

"Uh, upgraded?" Eric asks. "You gotta be kiddin' me. The first class tickets are..."

"Entirely worth it," Jett interrupts, passing Eric the ticket with his new seat assignment that the boarding agent just handed to him. "You know how uncomfortable the normal seats are."

There's an unspoken "for you" in there, although Jett doesn't fit that comfortably in a normal seat either.

"Aw, but, I don't mind none if we can sit together," Eric says, even though he is holding his new ticket, and the agent is telling him he can sit down until boarding for first class begins. "Or I can sit next to Violette like I did on the last flight, she doesn't take up much room."

"Nah, Violette and I are way in the back together!" I say from where Violette and I are still seated. Jett had shared this plan with us and gotten our approval a while ago. We have front row seats! "You two have fun up there."

Eric hadn't registered that Jett also received an upgraded ticket. He looks at the ticket in Jett's hand with fresh eyes. "You bought one too?!"

"Yes, so we'll be next to each other. Consider it a wedding gift from my side of the family, will you? My sister sent a completely unnecessary check. We may as well use it."

Blood money from my grandparents, no doubt. "Go away forever but we feel a tiny bit bad" money. Pathetic. I'm glad Jett turned around and spent it on something like this. Normally, he wouldn't have the pettiness, but Eric tends to bring out the best in him.

"Jeez. Guess I can't say no to that," Eric says before pulling Jett into a bear hug.

* * *

Violette and I both sigh with relief when the flight has evened out in the air. There's nothing like liftoff to make you question your own mortality.

I've died once, please, don't make me do it again so soon.

We did, in fact, survive. Violette gave her dad a bear hug of her own after he settled into his luxury seat, but then we kept it moving before the other passengers could complain. It was a long walk from there to our row. It's the last one in the plane, in front of two bathrooms and one of the small areas the flight attendants use to take breaks and prepare food. Because of its location, they've only put two seats instead of the usual three, even though it's a window row. That's definitely a perk. It's noisy from the engines, but Violette has her earplugs, I have headphones, and we've got a direct connection. It's about as close to a private space as we could get.

I rest my head on her shoulder, just wanting to feel her warmth. She answers by laying her hand against my thigh and playing with the hem of my dress, pinching hills into the soft fabric before smoothing them back down. The roar of engines echoes around us, drowning out almost everything, but I can hear her humming softly above my ear.

Fourteen hours, give or take, is a long time to be stuck in the sky, but I have plenty of ideas for how to pass the time.