Love at First Flight: The fake-dating romantic comedy to fly away with

Chapter 4

As I sat down in the coffee shop, my phone exploded with sounds. I didn't need to look down to know where they were coming from.

10-Year School Reunion WhatsApp Group

Katie: IT'S TONIGHT, GIRLS!!
Katie: I can't wait to see you all.
Yanilla: It's going to be so much fun.
Larissa: I'm sure we'll have so much to tell each other. The

talking is going to go on sooooo late into the night.
Fabienne: We'll all lose our voices by the end of it.
Sasha: I'm sure my husband won't mind if I lose my voice

for a day.

Who the hell were Fabienne and Sasha? I was so good at remem- bering facts that interested me, but when it came to remembering people's names my brain worked like a sieve. The conversation con- tinued, with lots of 'LOL's after that.

Bianca: I wouldn't mind it if my kids and husband lost their voices for a day, I could do with the break.

Dominique: Haha!
Katie: Love this! It's just like old times!

Old times!

For some reason, this phrase made my palms sweat. Synonyms for old included aged, decrepit and vulnerable. Not comforting words at all. And the more I thought about it all, the more the sweat rushed to my palms as if someone had turned on an internal tap. My phone slipped out of my hand. I looked down as it collided with the floor, bounced, once, twice, and then skidded across the highly polished surface. I jumped off my seat and raced over to it. Panic and anger bubbled up so quickly and intensely when I saw that my screen had been damaged. A long crack cut it into two distinct parts. I dried my hands on my jeans, tried to push the panicky anger back down and took my place at the table once again. I hated it when things like this happened. Surprise things. Unexpected things. Things that deviated from my regular routine. Now I was going to have to take my phone to a repair shop, and those were always located inside loud, busy malls. And visiting malls was not something I ever did.

Old times . . .

I sat up straight as the veil of what had clearly been a very bad and poorly made decision lifted in a swoosh. What the hell was I thinking, going to this ridiculous reunion? I didn't want to talk all night, relive and rehash and reminisce. I didn't want to spend the night forcing laughter at jokes I was bound not to understand. Jokes about their husbands and kids. Those – men are from Mars and women are from whatever the hell planet they are meant to be from – jokes. Everyone on the group seemed overly excited too. And there was going to be champagne! An explosive combination that was sure to make it even more rowdy. My skin itched as indecision took up space in my brain. I didn't like indecision. It was far too vast and endless. I wanted facts. Certainty. Black and white. Not this grey color that flapped about in the air like a nebulous, untethered form.

'Okay,' I said out loud, soothing myself by fluttering my fingers together three times under the table where no one could see. I would not go tonight if I received two more bad surprise signs; if two more unexpected things happened, then I was definitely not going. Not that I believed in the universe giving you signs. I wasn't one of these esoteric types that believed in signs and lucky trinkets. But there was something I did believe in: patterns. If two bad things happened in quick succession, then that was random, a genuine coincidence. But if three bad things happened, then that was a pattern. And patterns could not be ignored. Patterns were the very things that made up our entire existence. DNA and its double helix, the solar system, orbiting planets – everything was made of patterns. Patterns needed to be heeded.

'What can I get you?' a waitress who I'd never seen before asked. 'Iced cappuccino, almond milk, thank you.'
'Sorry, we're out of almond milk,' she said, and my heart dropped.