The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(21)

He arches his back in a stretch, then squints blearily at his watch. “Almost there.”

Hadley nods, relieved that they’re right on schedule, though a part of her also can’t help wishing for more time. In spite of everything—the crowded quarters and the cramped seats, the smells that have been drifting up and down the length of the cabin for hours now—she doesn’t feel quite ready to step off this plane, where it’s been so easy to lose herself in conversation, to forget all that she left behind and all that’s still ahead.

The man in front of them pushes open his window shade and a column of whiteness—so startlingly bright that Hadley brings a hand to her eyes—streams in all around them, snuffing out the darkness, stripping away whatever was left of last night’s magic. Hadley reaches over to nudge open her own window shade, the spell now officially broken. Outside, the sky is a blinding blue, striped with clouds like layers on a cake. After so many hours in the dark, it almost hurts to look for too long.

It’s only four AM in New York, and when the pilot’s voice comes over the PA it sounds far too cheerful for the early hour. “Well, folks,” he says, “we’re making our final descent into Heathrow. The weather looks good down in London; twenty-two degrees and partly sunny with a chance of showers later. We’ll be on the ground in just under twenty minutes, so please fasten your seat belts. It’s been a pleasure flying with you, and I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Hadley turns to Oliver. “What’s that in Fahrenheit?”

“Warm,” he says, and in that moment she feels too warm herself; perhaps it’s the forecast, or the sun beating at the window, or maybe just the proximity of the boy at her side, his shirt wrinkled and his cheeks a ruddy pink. She stretches to reach the nozzle on the panel above her, twisting it all the way to the left and then closing her eyes against the thin jet of cool air.

“So,” he says, cracking his knuckles one at a time.

“So.”

They look at each other sideways, and something about the expression on his face—an uncertainty that mirrors her own—makes Hadley want to cry. There’s no real distinction between last night and this morning, of course—just dark bleeding into light—but even so, everything feels horribly different. She thinks of the way they stood together near the bathroom, how it seemed like they’d been on the brink of something, of everything, like the whole world was changing as they huddled together in the dark. And now here they are, like two polite strangers, like she’d only ever imagined the rest of it. She wishes they could turn around again and fly back in the other direction, circling the globe backward, chasing the night they left behind.

“Do you think,” she says, the words emerging thickly, “we might have used up all our conversation last night?”

“Not possible,” says Oliver, and the way he says it, his mouth turned up in a smile, his voice full of warmth, unwinds the knot in Hadley’s stomach. “We haven’t even gotten to the really important stuff yet.”

“Like what?” she asks, trying to arrange her face in a way that disguises the relief she feels. “Like what’s so great about Dickens?”

“Not at all,” he says. “More like the plight of koalas. Or the fact that Venice is sinking.” He pauses, waiting for this to register, and when Hadley says nothing, he slaps his knee for emphasis. “Sinking! The whole city! Can you believe it?”

She frowns in mock seriousness. “That does sound pretty important.”

“It is,” Oliver insists. “And don’t even get me started on the size of our carbon footprint after this trip. Or the difference between crocodiles and alligators. Or the longest recorded flight of a chicken.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually know that.”

“Thirteen seconds,” he says, leaning forward to look past her and out the window. “This is a total disaster. We’re nearly to Heathrow and we haven’t even properly discussed flying chickens.” He jabs a finger at the window. “And see those clouds?”

“Hard to miss,” Hadley says; the plane is now almost fully enveloped in fog, the grayness pressing up against the windows as the plane dips lower and lower.

“Those are cumulus clouds. Did you know that?”

“I’m sure I should.”

“They’re the best ones.”

“How come?”

“Because they look the way clouds are supposed to look, the way you draw them when you’re a kid. Which is nice, you know? I mean, the sun never looks the way you drew it.”

“Like a wheel with spokes?”

“Exactly. And my family certainly never looked the way I drew them.”

“Stick figures?”

“Come on now,” he says. “Give me a little credit. They had hands and feet, too.”

“That looked like mittens?”

“But it’s nice, isn’t it? When something matches up like that?” He bobs his head with a satisfied smile. “Cumulus clouds. Best clouds ever.”

Hadley shrugs. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Well, then, see?” Oliver says. “There’s loads more to talk about. We’ve only just gotten started.”

Beyond the window the clouds are bottoming out, and the plane lowers itself gently into the silvery sky below. Hadley feels a rush of illogical relief at the sight of the ground, though it’s still too far away to make any sense, just a collection of quilted fields and shapeless buildings, the faint tracings of roads running through them like gray threads.