The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(9)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

“Scared of landing,” she says, then steps onto the plane anyway.

4

9:58 PM Eastern Standard Time

2:58 AM Greenwich Mean Time

By the time Oliver appears at the top of the aisle, Hadley is already sitting by the window with her seat belt fastened and her bag stowed safely in the overhead bin. She’s spent the past seven minutes pretending she wasn’t interested in his arrival, counting planes out the window and examining the pattern on the back of the seat in front of her. But really, she’s just been waiting for him, and when he finally arrives at their row she finds herself blushing for no good reason other than that he’s quite suddenly looming over her with that tilted grin of his. There’s a kind of unfamiliar electricity that goes through her at the nearness of him, and she can’t help wondering if he feels it, too.

“Lost you in there,” he says, and she manages a nod, happy to be found again.

He hefts his hanging bag up above before scooting into the middle seat beside her, awkwardly arranging his too-long legs in front of him and situating the rest of himself between the unforgiving armrests. Hadley glances at him, her heart thudding at his sudden proximity, at the casual way he’s positioned himself so close to her.

“I’ll just stay for a minute,” he says, leaning back. “Till somebody else comes.”

She realizes that a part of her is already composing the story for the benefit of her friends: the one about how she met a cute guy with a great accent on a plane and they spent the whole time talking. But the other part of her, the more practical part, is worried about arriving in London tomorrow morning for her father’s wedding without having slept. Because how could she possibly go to sleep with him beside her like this? His elbow is brushing against hers and their kneecaps are nearly touching; there’s a dizzying smell to him, too, a wonderfully boyish mixture of deodorant and shampoo.

He pulls a few things from his pocket, thumbing through a pile of change until he eventually finds a lint-covered piece of wrapped candy, which he offers her first, then pops into his mouth.

“How old is that thing?” she asks, her nose wrinkled.

“Ancient. I’m pretty sure I dug it out of a sweet bowl the last time I was home.”

“Let me guess,” she says. “It was part of a study on the effects of sugar over time.”

He grins. “Something like that.”

“What are you really studying?”

“It’s top secret,” he tells her, his face utterly serious. “And you seem nice, so I don’t want to have to kill you.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says. “Can you at least tell me your major? Or is that classified, too?”

“Probably psychology,” he says. “Though I’m still sorting it out.”

“Ah,” Hadley says. “So that explains all the mind games.”

Oliver laughs. “You say mind games, I say research.”

“I guess I better watch what I say, then, if I’m being analyzed.”

“That’s true,” he says. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“And?”

He gives her a sideways smile. “Too soon to tell.”

Behind him, an elderly woman pauses at their row, squinting down at her ticket. She’s wearing a flowered dress and has white hair so delicate you can see right through to her scalp. Her hand trembles a bit as she points at the number posted above them.

“I think you’re in my seat,” she says, worrying the edges of her ticket with her thumb, and beside Hadley, Oliver stands up so fast he hits his head on the air-conditioning panel.

“Sorry,” he’s saying as he attempts to maneuver out of her way, his cramped overtures doing little to fix things in such a tight space. “I was just there for a moment.”

The woman looks at him carefully, then her gaze slides over to Hadley, and they can almost see the idea of it dawning on her, the corners of her watery eyes creasing.

“Oh,” she says, bringing her hands together with a soft clap. “I didn’t realize you were together.” She drops her purse on the end seat. “You two stay put. I’ll be just fine here.”

Oliver looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but Hadley’s busy worrying about the fact that he just lost his spot, because who wants to spend seven hours stuck in the middle seat? But as the woman lowers herself gingerly into the rough fabric of her seat, he smiles back at Hadley reassuringly, and she can’t help feeling a bit relieved. Because the truth is that now that he’s here, she can’t imagine it any other way. Now that he’s here, she worries that crossing an entire ocean with someone between them might be something like torture.

“So,” the woman asks, digging through her purse and emerging with a pair of foam earplugs, “how did you two meet?”

They exchange a quick glance.

“Believe it or not,” Oliver says, “it was in an airport.”

“How wonderful!” she exclaims, looking positively delighted. “And how did it happen?”

“Well,” he begins, sitting up a bit taller, “I was being quite gallant, actually, and offered to help with her suitcase. And then we started talking, and one thing led to another….”

Hadley grins. “And he’s been carrying my suitcase ever since.”

“It’s what any true gentleman would do,” Oliver says with exaggerated modesty.

“Especially the really gallant ones.”

The old woman seems pleased by this, her face folding into a map of tiny wrinkles. “And here you both are.”

Oliver smiles. “Here we are.”

Hadley’s surprised by the force of the wish that wells up inside of her just then: She wishes that it were true, all of it. That it were more than just a story. That it were their story.

But then he turns to face her again and the spell is broken. His eyes are practically shining with amusement as he checks to be sure she’s still sharing in the joke. Hadley manages a small smile before he swivels back to the woman, who has launched into a story about how she met her husband.

Things like this don’t just happen, Hadley thinks. Not really. Not to her.

“… and our youngest is forty-two,” the old woman is saying to Oliver. The skin of her neck hangs down in loose folds that quiver like Jell-O when she speaks, and Hadley brings a hand to her own neck reflexively, running her thumb and forefinger along her throat. “And in August it will be fifty-two years together.”