I hated flying.
Not the rational kind of hate where you acknowledge statistics and white-knuckle through takeoff. The full-body, sweaty-palms, heart-racing kind of hate that made me seriously consider driving twelve hours instead of taking a two-hour flight.
But here I was. Seat 14A. Window. Because apparently I also enjoyed torturing myself with views of how high up we were.
The plane was packed—some rerouted travelers from a canceled morning flight mixed with the usual business crowd. I'd squeezed into my seat, buckled in, and immediately gripped the armrests like they were the only things keeping the plane in the air.
Deep breaths, Mara. You've done this before. You survived every other flight.
The seat next to me was still empty. Maybe I'd get lucky. Maybe I'd have the row to myse
