I’ve gone over this before and landed on different answers, but here I am, at LAX, checking in for my flight to Belém, Brazil. And that’s not all. I’m doing it with someone next to me. The same someone who made me suffer only a week ago by taking me to his job.
Luka has made me think a lot over the last few weeks. Am I doing the right thing? I tip my head up so I can look at him. His hair is white-blond and hangs innocently around his face, bangs slipping forward so he has to push them away. I get a sting of This is nuts! mixed with I should have waited/taken my time/not rushed this.
I could have declined the funding and started over again, preparing for a trip going out after Christmas. That’s what Mom thought I should do. Despite hooking me up with the Markata grant, Professor Bergstein mentioned the option as well. I hope it wasn’t the proverbial writing-on-the-wall.
Either way, here I am, doing this.
“You got your passport?” Luka asks me sweetly, like I’m going to be all right and he isn’t the craziest person for me to bring on a ten-week jungle run.
“Uh-huh, here.” I hold it up, and he sends me a fleeting smile before scooting my enormous backpack forward on the floor, ahead of his own toward the counter. I shoot a longing look at the self-check-in machines. Sadly, our luggage is too large and oddly shaped for them.
Luka deposits our passports on the counter.
“Here you go.” Joy nudges my back with her elbow. “Enjoy your last Unicorn Delight in two and a half months, girl.” She lifts her goodbye-gift to me. It overflows with fluffy cream and rainbow sprinkles, and I take a blissed pull through the straw to get the level down to manageable.
She wiggles Luka’s caramel-something out of the tray and passes it to him before leaning into me. “It’ll be okay, sweetie. Don’t worry. At least you know he’s not going to be screwing around out there in the wilderness.”
For an instant, I don’t know what to say. How would I feel if he got himself a girl in Brazil? Would I care? Am I entitled to care? The man needs his sex, and the probability of him finding someone is big: just. Look. At him.
I clear my throat.
“That’s your only carry-on, right?” Luka calls, jutting his head toward my laptop and hand bag.
“Yeah,” I rasp out.
Joy rubs my shoulder. “I promise. It’ll be okay.”
How can she be sure of something so rickety, I wonder, as we walk together toward security. Luka has a shift of clothes stuffed into his laptop bag. It’s all he carries until he reaches for mine and balances them both on his shoulder. My laptop rests in a pink computer bag. His is in a blue one. It looks so normal, so couple-ish. My heart races with uncertainty over the months to come.
At the gate, we still have an hour and a half before the flight leaves. The wall giving to the tarmac is all window, and the plane isn’t even here yet. My leg bounces with nerves. I’m having the worst case of I-should-have-never, and I feel Luka’s eyes on me. Of course he knows.
For the first time since my field trip to Lucid Entertainment, he touches me. I actually jump when his hand starts at my shoulder and strokes downward in a soothing way.
I press two fingers against the corners of my eyes.
“You want a drink?”
I look up. “Before we get on the plane?”
“Are there rules against that in Geneva World?” His smile is gentle.
“Guess not.”
He helps me to my feet. I don’t need assistance, but I don’t object. Together, we walk to a small pub we passed on the way to the gate. It’s so close to our exit we could watch the plane roll in from here.
Luka pulls out a bar stool and waits until I’m seated before perching up himself.
“Are you hungry?” I appreciate that his voice just sounds warm. It makes him accessible in a non-sexy way.
I shake my head. A small blip in my stomach tells me I’m not not-hungry either, but I couldn’t take a whole meal.
“Belgian White. It’s a pale ale. Does that sound good?” he asks when I make no attempt to scour the drink menu.
“Yeah, it does.” The Fratters keep it at the Queen, and it’s a beer I enjoy. Luka knows.
“...and a cheese platter. Does the pita come warm?” he asks the bartender.
“Yes, sir, it certainly does.”
“Okay, we’ll take the hummus with pita too. Throw in some extra olives for us, will you?” He winks at me while saying it, aware that I’m a sucker for black olives.
I feel braver now, in line to get on our plane. It’s wild what a few bites of food and a single beer can do to a girl. I’m warm inside. My brain tells me we’re taking a break from worrying, because this is happening and there’s not a thing we can do at this point. My options are to make the best of the situation or have a generally shitty time.
Luka’s hand is on my lower back as he leads me ahead of two early-twenties’ guys. One of them struggles to not appear inebriated and does a few sidesteps that could’ve ended badly for my toes.
“Good afternoon. Your tickets?” An older flight attendant smiles us onboard.
I hold mine up, and Luka extends his, divulging that we’re 18 A and B.
“Great. It’s going to be to your left, past the curtain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Luka’s palm on my hip feels good. Our first flight is seven and a half hours long. That’s a while to be sitting next to someone you’re intermittently disgusted by and attracted to. Actually, it’s a long time to be seated at all. I bite my lip studying our space. Our row consists of three chairs. The window seat—mine—is already occupied by a lady who spills over into Luka’s seat.
“Ma’am, excuse me?” Luka begins in his smooth voice. The lady looks up with so much disdain in her eyes that I tug on his shirt. He continues though, fearless. “I believe we have A and B. This is row 18. Is that your row too?”
Nodding slowly, she pierces her stare in him. “Yes. Yes, this. Is my seat.” She removes her glasses and puts them in its case all the while narrowing her eyes at Luka. Wow. She might be willing to shed blood over her view. I’m not.
“It’s fine,” I murmur against Luka’s shoulder. “It’s probably easier to get to the restroom if one of us is on the aisle anyway.”
“Right.” He clears his throat of amusement. Hooks our bags off his shoulder and removes the blankets that are folded on our seats. “You first, milady.”
“Oh, honey, you’re so kind,” I answer with Ms. Ornery still staring daggers at us. “But gentlemen first. Go on. I insist.”
He almost-suppresses a snort. “Aren’t you thoughtful.”
Luka gets another death glare from Ms. O. for trying to accommodate his big body on the middle seat without touching her. It’s not happening. Not with the armrest already overflowing with her.
“Sorry,” he mutters every few seconds while accidentally pinching skin folds beneath his arm. I have to turn away; isn’t it interesting how you really want to burst out laughing when you can’t?
Thirty minutes into our exercise in patience, the plane finally rolls over the tarmac. Ms. O. cusses under her breath, giving Luka the side-eye when he removes his sweater and tries to find a comfortable position.
“She’s a fucking furnace,” he whispers quietly, and I can’t help myself any longer. I crack up, and Ms. O. emits a growled huff.
I let him suffer for the first hour in the air. It’s ridiculous the way Luka is sitting right now. This tall, broad-shouldered man has managed to twist his thick arms into his lap, hands steepled and tucked between his thighs. It makes him look prim. I lean closer, face toward him, and he meets me half way.
“We’re swapping seats,” I murmur.
“No, we’re not. The middle seat won’t be any easier for you than it is for me.”
“Come on, Luka. Saintliness isn’t your thing.”
I back into the aisle and launch into a stretch, my joints creaking with relief. When I open my eyes again, Luka is studying me with unreadable intensity. It makes a pang go off at my solar plexus, and his gaze softens as if he can see it.
Luka wrestles out of our row to the accompaniment of Ms. O.’s guttural protests, and I think I just deciphered her: the person in the middle seat is simply expected to not move.
“So, ladies first after all?” Luka shows his palm in a generous gesture for me to slide in.
“Apparently so.”
Luka was wrong. It’s not as bad for me. I give Ms. O. less to be displeased about with my much smaller frame. I also find myself leaning slightly into Luka, who responds by folding away the armrest between us and opening his arm. I warn him with a look, but he just shrugs and air-bats me closer. Guess it’d be okay; we’ve done worse than get some fully clothed shut-eye together on a crowded plane.
The hum of the motors and the air conditioner relax me. The ebb and flow of Luka’s chest does too. I sigh, feeling my muscles untense. When I finally close my eyes, I don’t open them until the flight attendant asks our neighbors if they want chicken or pasta.
At Brazilia Airport, we have to run to catch our next plane to Belém. It’s quite the exercise, it turns out. Not because it’s far and we have a lot to carry, but because we’ve remained twisted in the same positions for most of the night.
The morning is rosy outside our window when we huff into our seats on the next plane. I’d never have thought I’d be delighted to share a two-seater with Luka, but right now it’s amazing to know we’ll be safe from crazy strangers for the next two and a half hours.
“We’re waiting for our last passenger,” the pilot informs in several languages over the speakers.
“So no need to hurry after all, huh?” I say.
Luka chuckles. “So it seems.”
Ten minutes later, Ms. Ornery herself floats down the aisle with eyes like steel and looking for her seat.
“No way?” Luka flicks me an incredulous look.
“Oh my gosh. Do you think...?” I start, and he bobs his head.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
I cover my grin, because what kind of odds are we working with, here? I’m this close to laughing hysterically, and that hasn’t happened in a while.
My tour mate is correct. The only available seat in our section is the one right across the aisle from us. Ms. O. squeezes into it, forgetting a meaty leg and her oversized purse in the aisle between us. Then, she glares at us personal-vendetta-like.
“Good to see you again, Miss.” It slips out, lack of sleep and the crammed space finally getting to me, and I’m rewarded with a strangled snort from Luka. His shoulders are shaking, transplanting his mirth to me.
And that’s it. I’m crying laughing. I can’t even look at the poor lady. It’s not her fault that’s she’s so sour she could be pickled. Jesus Christ!
“Everything all right?” the flight attendant asks. I glance up, nodding fast because I’m still unable to speak.
“Oh the odds,” Luka finally says exactly what I was thinking.
It took us forty-seven hours on the dot to get here. We didn’t even have any delays. I’m feeling small and exhausted right now, sandpaper scratching behind my eyelids and airport grime coating my skin. I shudder even though I’m not cold.
“A little more humid than the Valley, eh?” Luka jokes, his lip tilting up on one side.
“Yep. Tropical climate, sweetheart. You signed up for this, so suck it up.” I give him a tired yet playful wink. Come to think of it: would be nice not to have to open that eye again.
Crazy how our backpacks looked only slightly oversized when we checked them in at LAX. At the moment, I can’t even fathom carrying mine. It’s chock-full of everything I could possibly need, including fifteen million laptop batteries, and if I hike it up on my back, it’s going to extend from my waist past my head.
Our sleeping bags are strapped to the top of our backpacks. I accepted Luka’s recommendation for the kind that could be zipped open into a blanket. He also thinks it’s handy that they can be zipped together into a queen-size. I didn’t appreciate him demonstrating it for me at home. On my bed. Dick.
Luka waves down a faded little taxi. The driver hops out, bustles to the back, and pops the trunk open. He scratches his head, gesturing and chattering in Portuguese. Luka points from one oversized backpack to the trunk, then from the other to the backseat. Our driver lights up, having the happiest eureka! moment and starts on the job.
Luka opens the front passenger door for me. It makes me smirk. Gentlemanly Luka. That’s not going to last long in the jungle though. At least, there won’t be any doors to open.
It takes us two hours to get to the small village of Tacua and its only hotel, which triples as post office and what amounts to an old-fashioned saloon. Three of the staff come running out to help us. A young girl, an old man, and someone in his mid-fifties wearing a tired suit. With indigenous features and his hair slicked back in greasy waves, he tells us how excited he is to offer us a room. We can also live there for the rest of the month, and he will “make espezial prize.”
We thank him. I’ve practiced a few words in Portuguese, but he just nods blankly when I butcher out, Muito obrigado.
I scan the lobby. “Do you see Akuntsa?”
The hotel owner is lining up a stack of papers for us to fill out. It appears he prefers that Luka do this manly work. I certainly don’t mind.
There’s a group of children at the bottom of a staircase leading up to the second floor, but I see no women. A few of the kids wave and giggle. I smile and wave back even though we’re only feet apart.
The hotel has internet, which we’re immensely grateful for. After connecting to the Wi-Fi, I find Akuntsa’s Twitter account and leave her a message while Luka finishes our paperwork. Then, the girl who met us outside—Rafaela, the wife of the owner—leads us upstairs.
“I love the walls,” I murmur to Luka.
“Because they’re like yours at the Queen.”
Bright. Happy. Pink. I chew on my lip. Maybe the timing of this trip isn’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s happening at the right time, just when the grief isn’t so all-consuming anymore and I can lift my chin from my heart and look around me.
Rafaela smoothes both hands over her already smooth hair before she opens the door to Luka’s room. Her chin tips up proudly as she beams at us. She says something we don't understand in Portuguese. Luka still nods and thanks her with a much better Muito Obrigado than I managed.
I peek in and gasp out loud; Luka has a canopy bed in his room. It’s a twin, though, and the thing is short. Someone will be sleeping with his legs drooping to the floor. I glance up and find his yellow eyes focused on the foot end of the bed.
“Hey, at least it has a canopy,” I say while smiling at Rafaela. Her grin widens, displaying a missing tooth in the front.
The old man has already deposited my backpack in my room by the time I get there. Mine has a regular twin bed, but a shock of flowers compensates for the lack of canopies. The Victorian wallpaper boasts a rigid pattern of pale roses. It’s a wild contrast to the tropical arrangements on my nightstand, on the small desk, and on the coffee table by the window. Orchids, lilies, heliconias and bromeliads at the center of lush green leaves. The scene around me is breathtaking and unfamiliar. And it is exactly what I need.