Read Online The Trouble with Flying by Rachel Morgan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Morgan
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Sophie’s hand until several pieces of biltong fall out. “So that ’s why you told Mom about my craving,” I say. “You knew you’d score some for yourself.”
Sophie smiles, but doesn’t say anything.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mom says, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “Don’t fill up on biltong. We’re having dinner soon. Aunt Maggie and Uncle Tom are almost here.”
She hurries away—probably back to the kitchen—and Sophie sticks a few more pieces into her mouth. The sneaky look on her face reminds me of Julia, which sends an unhappy lurch through me, which then gets me thinking about Aiden, which, in turn, twists my insides further.
I push the thought of either of them from my mind. “Want to see all the cool stuff I got overseas?” I say to Sophie.
“Yes, definitely.” She sits cross-legged on my bed while I unzip my suitcase, and even though I’ve never really connected with my younger sister the way I have with Julia, I’m so glad to have her right now.
***
When Aunt Maggie and Uncle Tom have left, and everyone else has gone to bed, I find myself alone in my bedroom. The excitement of photographs and travel stories and handing out all the gifts I bought has passed. Julia’s absence and Aiden’s absence and the inevitability of having to return to a university degree I don’t even like after Christmas settle over me like one of those heavy apron things they cover you with when you have an X-ray at the dentist.
I finish unpacking my clothes, throwing most of them into a pile near the door to wash in the morning. When I get to the bottom of my carry-on suitcase, I slowly remove my notebook. I stand up and rub my thumb over the shiny, paisley-patterned cover. I flip through it—pages and pages of scribbled words squished close together—before opening the bottom drawer of my desk and tossing the notebook inside. I gather the rest of my notebooks from my bookshelf and add them to the drawer, then slam it shut. I don’t want to see inside those notebooks again. I don’t want to read my amateurish scribbles. They almost caused me to miss a flight, and—far worse—they caused all the hurtful things Matt and I said to each other the night before I left.
When I’ve finished unpacking and changed into pyjamas—summer pyjamas! No more climbing into bed covered in at least four different layers!—I open the lid of my ancient laptop and turn it on. I wait patiently while the aged beast grumbles, whirs, and blows hot air in its attempt to start up. After several minutes, it seems to be alive and ready. I open the browser and head to Facebook. I scroll through the news feed for a few minutes, but no matter how many videos of cute toddler relatives or captioned pictures of weird cats or random status updates I see, I can’t stop my eyes from continually moving up to the search bar at the top of the page.
Aiden. I want to search for Aiden. The problem is, I don’t know his surname. I caught a glimpse of the name tag on his luggage, but all I remember is that his surname ends in ison . I think. Which doesn’t exactly help.
Maybe it’s better that I don’t know his full name. After all, it feels like it might be wrong to search for him. Like in some weird way I’m cheating on Matt.
Okay, look, I tell myself. You thought you and Matt were no longer together when you kissed Aiden, so you didn’t really do anything wrong there. And he technically kissed you , not the other way around. And all you want now is to be friends with him. Nothing wrong with looking him up on Facebook just for that.
I open a new tab and go to Google. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself.
Before I can change my mind, I type surnames ending in “ison” into the search bar. I scan the results that come up, but I don’t see anything too helpful. I was hoping for a list or something. I look at a few articles and pick out some surnames—Addison,
Sophie smiles, but doesn’t say anything.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mom says, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “Don’t fill up on biltong. We’re having dinner soon. Aunt Maggie and Uncle Tom are almost here.”
She hurries away—probably back to the kitchen—and Sophie sticks a few more pieces into her mouth. The sneaky look on her face reminds me of Julia, which sends an unhappy lurch through me, which then gets me thinking about Aiden, which, in turn, twists my insides further.
I push the thought of either of them from my mind. “Want to see all the cool stuff I got overseas?” I say to Sophie.
“Yes, definitely.” She sits cross-legged on my bed while I unzip my suitcase, and even though I’ve never really connected with my younger sister the way I have with Julia, I’m so glad to have her right now.
***
When Aunt Maggie and Uncle Tom have left, and everyone else has gone to bed, I find myself alone in my bedroom. The excitement of photographs and travel stories and handing out all the gifts I bought has passed. Julia’s absence and Aiden’s absence and the inevitability of having to return to a university degree I don’t even like after Christmas settle over me like one of those heavy apron things they cover you with when you have an X-ray at the dentist.
I finish unpacking my clothes, throwing most of them into a pile near the door to wash in the morning. When I get to the bottom of my carry-on suitcase, I slowly remove my notebook. I stand up and rub my thumb over the shiny, paisley-patterned cover. I flip through it—pages and pages of scribbled words squished close together—before opening the bottom drawer of my desk and tossing the notebook inside. I gather the rest of my notebooks from my bookshelf and add them to the drawer, then slam it shut. I don’t want to see inside those notebooks again. I don’t want to read my amateurish scribbles. They almost caused me to miss a flight, and—far worse—they caused all the hurtful things Matt and I said to each other the night before I left.
When I’ve finished unpacking and changed into pyjamas—summer pyjamas! No more climbing into bed covered in at least four different layers!—I open the lid of my ancient laptop and turn it on. I wait patiently while the aged beast grumbles, whirs, and blows hot air in its attempt to start up. After several minutes, it seems to be alive and ready. I open the browser and head to Facebook. I scroll through the news feed for a few minutes, but no matter how many videos of cute toddler relatives or captioned pictures of weird cats or random status updates I see, I can’t stop my eyes from continually moving up to the search bar at the top of the page.
Aiden. I want to search for Aiden. The problem is, I don’t know his surname. I caught a glimpse of the name tag on his luggage, but all I remember is that his surname ends in ison . I think. Which doesn’t exactly help.
Maybe it’s better that I don’t know his full name. After all, it feels like it might be wrong to search for him. Like in some weird way I’m cheating on Matt.
Okay, look, I tell myself. You thought you and Matt were no longer together when you kissed Aiden, so you didn’t really do anything wrong there. And he technically kissed you , not the other way around. And all you want now is to be friends with him. Nothing wrong with looking him up on Facebook just for that.
I open a new tab and go to Google. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself.
Before I can change my mind, I type surnames ending in “ison” into the search bar. I scan the results that come up, but I don’t see anything too helpful. I was hoping for a list or something. I look at a few articles and pick out some surnames—Addison,
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