Going back to Killian’s to grab all of my things was nerve wracking. I didn’t want to bump into him and part of me knew that I probably would. Killian wouldn’t miss an opportunity to make me feel awkward.
Only he wasn’t there, and his house sitter had already packed up all of my things and left my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.
“That’s everything?” Kenan asks, picking up my suitcase and putting it into the trunk of the Range Rover.
“Yeah.” I slide my glasses over my eyes, taking my AirPods from my pocket. This trip is going to be long.
Arriving at the airport, we all shuffle onto the 747. I stay close to Kenan and Val, who are following me up the stairs like protective, loyal wolves.
“Hey!” Val reaches for my hand as we enter the cabin. “Ignore it.”
It takes me a few seconds before I figure out she’s talking about Killian and Callan. Their names rhyme. How have I just realized this?
I don’t say anything as she passes me and heads down one of the aisles. I make my way down, passing the lounges and scattered seats. I pass the middle bar before pausing when I notice that all of the people I want to avoid are in the back.
I turn and take a seat on one of the curved lounges with seat belts attached to it. This plane is in the extreme section of opulence. It’s hard to handle.
Kenan drops down beside me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Ken. You can stop checking now.”
He scrunches his face. “No! No to Ken.”
“What?” I deadpan. “So you can give me ridiculous pet names but I can’t give you one?”
He chuckles, running his fingers through his hair. It has grown out a lot since I first met him, falling over his face.
“I need to give you a haircut.”
Kenan winks. “Deal.”
He relaxes back in his chair and I squeeze my belt on, tucking into my oversized Givenchy hoodie. Callan laughs out loud. I find my teeth grinding together, so I pull out my AirPods and do one last scroll through Instagram and Facebook.
I wish I didn’t.
I pause on Callan’s photo that she took of Killian. He’s flipping off the camera, his eyebrows pulled in. He’s peering right at the lens. The photo is close and looks like it’s taken from her sitting on top of him.
I quickly close Instagram and pop my pods in before flicking through my playlist on Spotify.
I press play on Halsey “You Should be Sad.”
I jolt awake to the plane now dark, with nothing but neon lighting that lines the pathway to get from one end to the other. Removing my belt, I take out my pods and toss them across the chair. Walking to the front of the plane, and pointedly ignoring the whole back, I make my way to the bar in the middle. Kenan is talking with Val, who is drinking. They’re seated at a small booth to the right side of the bar with cards stretched out between them.
“Sass! Sit!” Val calls out. I grab a bottled water and slide in beside Ken.
“What are you playing?”
“Sixers.” Val grins at me.
I freeze with the bottle just short of my mouth. Perse told me about this game. You would never catch me playing it.
“Wanna play?” Val asks, dealing out their hand.
I shake my head. “Pass. I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
Kenan tilts his head. “You’re still hungover. You need the hair of the dog.”
“The hair of the what?” I ask, confused.
“The hair of the dog. It’s a saying. To cure a hangover, you need to shoot something strong. Try it.”
“Pass!” I repeat, sliding out of the booth. “You two have fun.”
They wave me off as I make my way back down through the aisles of seats. It’s so dark that I have to keep my eyes fixated on the soft blue light that leads you down.
A hand comes out to my arm and tugs me down. I shove up off his chest. “Get off me,” I seethe, shoving him away.
He tears his hoodie down until it rests around his neck. His hand comes to the back of my neck, forcing my eyes onto his. My throat clogs from being under his palm again. I hate it. I hate him.
“You’re a fucking liar, Little Dragon.” He releases me and I fall onto the ground.
His hoodie goes back up and his head tilts back to the ceiling as if that little encounter didn’t happen.
I want to yell at him. Punch him. Do all sorts of shit to him, but instead, I go back to my seat and curl up with a playlist.
Landing back in New Orleans was bittersweet. I’m happy to be home, back on US soil, but I can’t shake the hostility I felt back in Kiznitch off my back. If I knew what I had done, I could correct it, or at the very least talk about it. I hate when people don’t communicate their problems. It never settles when you do that. It’s froth that never liquidates, remaining on the surface.