Half-Hearted

Chapter 2

I wake up to the sound of heavy engines, roaring in my ears. I must have slept while the stewardess was yapping. How strange that not even shoe polish coffee can keep my eyelids from shutting down.

Flights usually get my adrenaline pumping, making sleep impossible until I arrive at my destination. However, this series of unfortunate events–the long waiting time, excessively bitter coffee, a run-in with a classmate I haven’t seen in decades, the strange combination of caffeine-induced hypersensitivity and the silent awkwardness emanating from this fiasco–has perhaps taken a toll on me.

I blink once. Twice. I breathe. I let out a sigh, fully aware of where I am, but scared to even steal a glance beside me. Moments in silence, just me trying to collect myself.

“Hey, you’re awake.” f**k.

Rubbing my temples, I surreptitiously look at her from the corner of my eyes. And then I give her a nod, somewhere between a greeting and a grimace. The overhead lights giving her that extra glow, Rae’s eyes shine bright, barely touched by the dry air and oxygen. Meanwhile, I probably look like I lost a fight with the seatbelt.

“How long was I out?” I ask, mostly just to say something.

“About an hour,” she replies. “You were kind of… twitching.”

“Twitching?”

“Yeah, like chasing something in a dream. Or running away from it. Couldn’t tell.”

Great. Add “in-flight freak show” to my list of accomplishments.

I clear my throat and shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like a confession. She doesn’t press further, thankfully, just offering a half-smile. She looks back down at her phone, thumbs moving like she’s got some place to be even while stuck in the air.

The silence creeps in again, but it’s no longer awkward—just heavy with things unsaid. Maybe that’s worse.

I glance out the window. Clouds. A familiar nothingness stretching as far as I can see.

“I’m hungry,” I say suddenly.

She looks up, smiling. I almost do a double-take. That face is disconcerting. “They’ll be serving our meals soon after the layover.”

I purse my lips and furrow my brows. My lame attempt at concealing how flustered I am. The plane will land in thirty minutes to pick up more passengers at another local airport.

“I have Pain au Chocolat. You want some?” She says it in a way that almost sounds like actual French. I hesitate, eyes flicking between the offering and Rae’s face, like it might be a trick. A peace treaty disguised as pastry.

“It’s still warm,” Rae adds, almost too casually. She’s taunting me.

Still, I don’t move. My fingers twitch slightly, unsure. Rae sighs and unwraps the wax paper, placing the pain au chocolat directly onto my tray table like she’s feeding a stray animal, her movements deliberate.

“There,” she says, leaning back in her seat. “It’s not poisoned.”

I crack a reluctant smile, then a real one. How can I not? Pan au chocolat is my favourite. Not that I’d tell her about it.

I pick at the edge of the croissant, tearing off a small bite. The chocolate oozes just slightly, perfect. I’ve been craving something like this all morning and now that it’s here, given to me in such a manner, I can’t help being weirdly self-conscious. I chew carefully, eyes forward, pretending not to notice Rae watching my side profile.

“You eat like you’re auditioning for a toothpaste commercial,” Rae says in jest.

I almost choke. “Shut up.”

“Just saying. It’s cute.” She raises both hands in mock surrender.

I take a bigger bite this time, maybe to annoy her, or maybe because “hangry” me is not a good sight to see. I reach for the champagne flute resting on my tray—the usual business class complimentary wine. Probably left by the stewardess while I was passed out. Classy.

I sip. A little too crisp. It’s making me feel restless.

Rae’s gaze lingers, but she doesn’t speak. Just watches quietly, like a detective about to hound the suspect with more questions, behind the chocolate smudges and awkward sips of dry champagne. Her silence is deafening. I have to clear my throat.

“So… is this your usual travel routine?” I look sideways, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks for the bread, by the way.” I hope I sound nonchalant enough.

Rae laughs. “Only on Thursdays. And you’re welcome.”

I nod solemnly. “Ah. Thursday. Makes sense.” Please don’t talk anymore. I don’t know what to say to you. Times like this, I wish the wine would take over and give me some of that liquid courage. Anything to stop me from getting flustered around her.

I take another swig of the champagne. I can feel it slightly going to my head.

“Got any movie recommendations?” Rae has stopped scrutinising me. Thank heavens. I see her scrolling through the monitor with a detached expression.

“What genres do you like?”

“I don’t know. Mystery? Supernatural. Anything really.” She shrugs.

“Arcane. It’s not a movie, though.”

“Oh, I think I’ve seen that one, but I can’t remember if I finished watching. Wasn’t it the one–” She stops mid-sentence.

“The one, what?” I turn. She has an unreadable expression on her face. She continues to scroll, her lips tightening. I have a feeling I know exactly what she wants to say. She probably remembers there’s a lesbian couple in the show and, not certain about my orientation, purposely avoids mentioning something that could offend me. This intuition of mine hardly ever fails, you know.

And I have to come clean here. Our school was a private Catholic school exclusive for girls. Unbeknownst to many, such schools are a flood of gender expressions stretching in all directions. To put it bluntly, everyone’s straight… until they’re not.

Back in sixth grade and high school, Rae’s clique was a bunch of lesbians, most of whom came from good families. There were a few normal girls in the mix, and they all hung out at places only rich kids could afford. Since we’re not close, I have no idea if she came out to her friends or family. Or maybe just carried on as there was no need to. High school in an all-girls school means everyone else was navigating their own gender identity and couldn’t care less about labels. In a school like ours, if it’s common knowledge, then no need to say it out loud. And they’d just leave it at that.

If Rae is still as she was in high school, her reluctance to broach a gender-sensitive topic is clearly justified. That’s why I’m being considerate here and dropping the subject.

“Is this the one?” She finally says. I squint, my vision a blur.

“I can’t see. Wait.” I stand up and position myself on the arm of her compartment. She subtly moves her left hand and scoots a bit so I can sit comfortably. I don’t bother to check her reaction, but she seems to be looking at the monitor anyway. If my actions are a little bolder, blame the champagne. It’s making me lightheaded and less self-conscious.

“Oh, that’s season two. Season one is…” As I move the screen up and down, it flickers.

“It’s been like that since I turned this thing on.” Rae shifts in her seat, her hair lightly brushing my sleeve. I hold my breath. She presses the monitor. It flickers again. And then blank. She keeps pressing. I reluctantly join her and, like silly kids with nothing better to do, we press the monitor repeatedly,

A flight attendant appears from nowhere, like they always do—suspiciously alert to any mischief in the cabin.

“Is everything all right, ladies?”

I immediately step back into my own space, like someone caught sneaking a prohibited snack.

“The monitor’s not working,” I say, as coolly as possible. “We were just trying to find something to watch and then it sort of… died.”

The attendant nods, peering at the screen like she’s seen this happen before—maybe a hundred times on flights exactly like this. She taps it once. Nothing. Twice. Still blank. She offers a tight smile.

“There’s a couple seat open near the back of business class. If you’d like, you can move there. It has working screens.”

“Oh no, we’re not a coup—” I begin, hands already doing some kind of frantic, defensive gesture.

“We’d love to,” Rae cuts in, calm and smooth, not missing a beat. There’s that look on her face again—half amused, half mischievous. She turns to me, clearly enjoying herself. “Come on.”

Before I can say anything, she’s already gathering our things, and I’m too stunned (or maybe too drunk) to fight it. She practically drags me along the aisle, my feet following as if they have a life of their own.

“Rae!” I hiss, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. “This is not—what are you doing?”

“Problem solved,” she whispers back, her voice teasing. “Aren't we lucky?”

The new seats are more spacious, side-by-side with no divider or aisle between them. Great. Just what I need—less physical boundaries and more existential dread.

The attendant places two fresh glasses of wine on our trays like a reward for being difficult passengers. She taps both screens. They light up beautifully, sharp and clear, not a single flicker. I give her a weak nod as she walks away.

I slouch down into the seat, arms crossed, unsure what I’m even supposed to do with myself anymore. Rae turns to me, her face glowing like someone who just pulled off a harmless heist.

“So,” she says, settling in. “What show again?”

I shoot her a look. “You watch what you want. I’m going back to sleep.”

And with that, I grab the wine glass and chug it in one go, like it’s a shot and not expensive airline bubbly.

Rae watches, horrified. “You’re supposed to sip that.”

I ignore her and lean back in the seat, shutting my eyes, willing the armrest to grow three times its size and swallow me whole.