Chapter 4: Seat 3B

By two o'clock on Saturday I was thirty-six thousand feet over the Atlantic with a glass of club soda and no plan.

I had cried in the airport bathroom at five in the morning.

I had fixed my face and boarded anyway.

The man in seat 3B had his sleeves rolled to the elbow and a paperback open on his knee.

He hadn't spoken once in four hours.

Now he put the book down.

"You've been staring at that glass for twenty minutes."

"It's club soda."

"That's what I mean."

He lifted a hand, and a flight attendant appeared.

"She'll have a gin and tonic," he said. "Large. I'm Cal."

"I didn't ask for a drink."

"You didn't ask for anything. You've been gripping that phone since we took off."

I laughed, and it came out wrong.

He didn't push.

He slid a small packet of crackers across the armrest instead.

"You haven't eaten," he said. "Go on."

I ate a cracker.

My phone buzzed against my knee, and the plane wifi finally caught.

The screen filled with a message from a cousin of Dalton's, one of the sixty-three.

It was a link.

"LIVE: Dalton & Kelsey's Big Day!!! Come watch!"

I knew I shouldn't open it.

I opened it.

The picture shook, then settled.

Aldergrove Estate in the afternoon light, the lawn I had measured twice, the white chairs I had ordered in March.

Three hundred of them, and nearly every seat was full.

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