The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(12)

Hadley grabs the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of her and frowns at the cartoon men and women who seem weirdly delighted to be bailing out of a series of cartoon planes. Beside her, Oliver stifles a laugh, and she glances up again.

“What?”

“I’ve just never seen anyone actually read one of those things before.”

“Well,” she says, “then you’re very lucky to be sitting next to me.”

“Just in general?”

She grins. “Well, particularly in case of an emergency.”

“Right,” he says. “I feel incredibly safe. When I’m knocked unconscious by my tray table during some sort of emergency landing, I can’t wait to see all five-foot-nothing of you carry me out of here.”

Hadley’s face falls. “Don’t even joke about it.”

“Sorry,” he says, inching closer. He places a hand on her knee, an act so unconscious that he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s done until Hadley glances down in surprise at his palm, warm against her bare leg. He draws back abruptly, looking a bit stunned himself, then shakes his head. “The flight’ll be fine. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “I’m not usually quite so superstitious.”

Out the window, a few men in neon yellow vests are circling the enormous plane, and Hadley leans over to watch. The old woman on the aisle coughs in her sleep, and they both turn back around, but she’s resting peacefully again, her eyelids fluttering.

“Fifty-two years,” Oliver says, letting out a low whistle. “That’s impressive.”

“I’m not sure I even believe in marriage,” Hadley says, and he looks surprised.

“Aren’t you on your way to a wedding?”

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. “But that’s what I mean.”

He looks at her blankly.

“It shouldn’t be this big fuss, where you drag everyone halfway across the world to witness your love. If you want to share your life together, fine. But it’s between two people, and that should be enough. Why the big show? Why rub it in everyone’s faces?”

Oliver runs a hand along his jaw, obviously not quite sure what to think. “It sounds like it’s weddings you don’t believe in,” he says finally. “Not marriage.”

“I’m not such a big fan of either at the moment.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think they’re kind of nice.”

“They’re not,” she insists. “They’re all for show. You shouldn’t need to prove anything if you really mean it. It should be a whole lot simpler than that. It should mean something.”

“I think it does,” Oliver says quietly. “It’s a promise.”

“I guess so,” she says, unable to keep the sigh out of her voice. “But not everyone keeps that promise.” She looks over toward the woman, still fast asleep. “Not everyone makes it fifty-two years, and if you do, it doesn’t matter that you once stood in front of all those people and said that you would. The important part is that you had someone to stick by you all that time. Even when everything sucked.”

He laughs. “Marriage: for when everything sucks.”

“Seriously,” Hadley insists. “How else do you know that it means something? Unless someone’s there to hold your hand during the bad times?”

“So that’s it?” Oliver says. “No wedding, no marriage, just someone there to hold your hand when things are rough?”

“That’s it,” she says with a nod.

Oliver shakes his head in wonder. “Whose wedding is this? An ex-boyfriend of yours?”

Hadley can’t help the laughter that escapes her.

“What?”

“My ex-boyfriend spends most of his time playing video games, and the rest delivering pizzas. It’s just funny to imagine him as a groom.”

“I thought you might be a bit young to be a woman scorned.”

“I’m seventeen,” she says indignantly, and he holds up his hands in surrender.

The plane begins to push back from the gate, and Oliver leans closer to peer out the window. There are lights stretched out as far as they can see, like reflections of the stars, making great constellations of the runways, where dozens of planes sit waiting their turn. Hadley’s hands are braided together in her lap, and she takes a deep breath.

“So,” Oliver says, sitting back again. “I guess we jumped right into the deep end, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that a discussion about the definition of true love is usually something you talk about after three months, not three hours.”

“According to her,” Hadley says, jutting her chin to Oliver’s right, “three hours is more like three years.”

“Yes, well, that’s if you’re in love.”

“Right. So, not us.”

“No,” Oliver agrees with a grin. “Not us. An hour’s an hour. And we’re doing this all wrong.”

“How do you figure?”

“I know your feelings on matrimony, but we haven’t even covered the really important stuff yet, like your favorite color or your favorite food.”