The Unhoneymooners(14)

“An eight-hour flight, and there’s no movie,” I say to myself, glaring at the screenless seat back in front of me.

“Maybe they’re hoping your life flashing in front of your eyes will be distraction enough.”

“It lives.” I turn and look at him. “Won’t speaking upset the barometric pressure in the cabin or something?”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the penny again. “I haven’t ruled it out.”

We haven’t spent much time together, but from stories I’ve heard from both Dane and Ami, I feel like I’ve built a pretty accurate picture of Ethan in my head. Daredevil, adventure hound, ambitious, cutthroat . . .

The man clinging to the armrest as if his very life depends on it is . . . not that guy.

With a deep breath, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing. I’m five foot four and mildly uncomfortable. Ethan’s legs have to be at least ten feet long; I can’t imagine what it’s like for him. After he speaks, it’s like the stillness spell has broken: his knee bounces with nervous energy, his fingers tap against the drink tray until even the sweet old lady wearing a Day-Glo muumuu in front of us is giving him a dirty look. He smiles in apology.

“Tell me about that lucky penny of yours,” I say, motioning to the coin still clutched in his fist. “Why do you think it’s lucky?”

He seems to internally weigh the risk of interacting with me against the potential relief of distraction.

“I don’t really want to encourage conversation,” he says, “but what do you see?” He opens his palm.

“It’s from 1955,” I note.

“What else?”

I look closer. “Oh . . . you mean how the lettering is doubled?”

He leans in, pointing. “You can really see it right here, above Lincoln’s head.” Sure enough, the letters that read IN GOD WE TRUST have been stamped twice.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I admit.

“There’s only a few of them out there.” He rubs his thumb over the surface and slips it back into his pocket.

“Is it valuable?” I ask.

“Worth about a thousand dollars.”

“Holy shit!” I gasp.

We hit some mild turbulence, and Ethan’s eyes move wildly around the plane as if the oxygen masks might deploy at any moment.

Hoping to distract him again, I ask, “Where did you get it?”

“I bought a banana just before a job interview, and it was part of my change.”

“And?”

“And not only did I get the job, but when I went to have some coins rolled the machine spit the penny out because it thought it was a fake. I’ve carried it around ever since.”

“Don’t you worry you’re going to drop it?”

“That’s the whole point of luck, isn’t it?” he says through gritted teeth. “You have to trust that it’s not fleeting.”

“Are you trusting that right now?”

He tries to relax, shaking out his hands. If I’m reading his expression correctly, he’s regretting telling me anything. But the turbulence intensifies, and all six-plus feet of him stiffen again.

“You know,” I say, “you don’t strike me as someone who’d be afraid of flying.”

He takes a series of deep breaths. “I’m not.”

This doesn’t really require any sort of rebuttal. The way I have to pry his fingers from my side of the armrest communicates it plainly.

Ethan relents. “It’s not my favorite.”

I think of the weekends I spent with Ami because Dane was off on some wild adventure with his brother, all the arguments those trips caused. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, Bear Grylls or something?”

He looks at me, frowning. “Who?”

“The trip to New Zealand. The river rafting, death-defying bro trip? Surfing in Nicaragua? You fly for fun all the time.”

He rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes again, ignoring me.

As the squeaky wheels of the beverage cart make their way down the aisle, Ethan crowds into my space again, flagging down the flight attendant. “Can I get a scotch and soda?” He glances at me and amends his order. “Two, actually.”

I wave him off. “I don’t like scotch.”

He blinks. “I know.”

“Actually, we don’t have scotch,” she says.

“A gin and tonic?”

She winces.

His shoulders slump. “A beer?”

“That, I have.” She reaches into a drawer and hands him two cans of generic-looking beer. “That’s twenty-two dollars.”

“Twenty-two American dollars?”

“We also have Coke products. They’re free.” He moves to hand back the cans. “But if you’d like ice that’s two dollars.”

“Wait,” I say, and reach into my bag.

“You’re not buying my beer, Olive.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” I pull out two coupons and hand them over. “Ami is.”

“Of course she is.”

The flight attendant continues on down the aisle.

“Some respect, please,” I say. “My sister’s obsessive need to get things for free is why we’re here.”