I stare at the Facebook search for Henry Theodore until my eyelids feel heavy from clustered tears. Several users are listed under. My older self, embodied as a male, in the second search. It's him. I have him right here on my screen, just a tap away, but I can't get myself to click on his profile. One part of me is too scared to find out if he got a happily ever after, a wife who could never be prettier than my mom, and kids, myself excluded. Meanwhile, the other side of me has no emotions to exude. It's like I'm mind-numbed.
My room is filled with small yellow lights and tiny green glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling. My white curtains are dancing to the rhythm of the cold night wind. The smart TV my mom got me for my 19th birthday is still perfectly positioned, like a diva, on the white shelf adjacent to my bed, displaying the lyrics from Japanese Denim. The volume is low but high enough for the melodies to consume the room.
I like to believe I'm strong.
Not weak, strong
But today, I feel otherwise.
I'm lying supine on the bed, my legs stretched far outside my blanket, but I have my socks on, so that's fine. I wind down the blur eye effect I pulled on command, facing the bright white and blue light gushing from my phone. Henry Theodore's Facebook profile, to be precise. I tapped the profile to get a better view. He looks handsome. Caroline has good eyes, I must commend.
I try to place a name to how I feel from seeing someone I've imagined my whole life, but whenever I get a grasp of it, it frizzes into thin air. It isn't anger. It isn't disappointment either. I'm meant to be deluged in sadness, but my head is still out of the water. At least that is what I like to believe. My throat is dry. Hot prickles of tears flow down from the corner of my eyes. Not tears of sadness, just tears, and before I know it, my eyelids shut.
They say to sleep on a difficult problem and wake up to tackle it in a much better mind frame, but I feel like an avoidant doing that. I'm harshly woken by the blaring alarm clock on the small drawer beside my bed. I sprint out of bed, dashing to the bathroom to turn on the heater when I realize I'm no longer a worker expected to be at work at 8 am prompt. Shit, muscle memory.
I ignore the large mirror by my window, walking past my reflection in oversized pajamas like I have a serious beef with her. I reach for my phone, unlocking it to see it's still on the Facebook page I left it on last night. Scrolling through, all the way down, I notice that most of his locations tagged on his posts are in New York. Why New York? My New York.
. . .
Booking a one-way flight ticket to New York wasn't so hard with the help of Anna, my Bob the fixer, Bob the organizer, Bob the get-it-right of a best friend. We've been friends since elementary school. She was that one little girl who had an atom of humanity, unlike the rest of my schoolmates, who threw words at me almost every day, like they were paid to make my life miserable. They did make it miserable, but at least that built me. I got stronger and maybe a bit heartless. But way before I put on my villain cape, there was Anna, who stood up for me countless times in school. I remember one time when one of the tiny class bullies called me a bastard under her breath. Anna didn't let that go. She grabbed her by the hair, violently digging her painted nails into her skin. That left a scar till after graduation. Anna earned my friendship in ways I've not been able to requite. I promised her we'd be inseparable forever, even though I'm about to travel 3,628 miles away from her.
I thought my first time boarding a plane, leaving behind the city I was born and raised in, would be very special, or even better, magical. It would sound like space rock by Hot Rice, but unfortunately, it's everything but that. My nose is very hot and peppery from the early morning cold. The button of my jeans mysteriously flew off, making me fold the waist of the trousers for a tight fit. I look ridiculous. My mascara is smeared on my face from crying so much, bidding ma and Anna goodbye over a one-month jaunt.
That was what I told ma. That this is a vacation, and as an advocate for living life to its fullest, reaching lengths that she couldn't, she let me. But with me having to promise that I would enroll back into college on my return, why? Someone quit school for a failed career. The one where she visualized herself as Anna Pavlova doing the Dying Swan dance. No side jobs, no big girl problems, just letting her handle it all, my mom instructed. I promised, and I'll keep to all of those promises, but for now, New York here I come.
I briskly walk my way to my seat row to meet a disgustingly handsome, masculine young man already at the seat next to the window. I wanted that seat, and Anna wanted the sky pictures to upload on Pinterest. I don't try to hide my discontent towards him as I take my seat, fixing my seat belt and narrowing my eyes. I shuffle into my seat properly to find comfort when a hand gently taps on my shoulder. I mindfully turn to see Mr. Window Seat looking straight at me with dell-blue colored eyes, almost resembling a beautifully frightening ocean.
"Hi," his American accent sells him away. Now I know what to expect from the Americans; they don't think twice before stealing the window seat. Like I wouldn't if it were me.
"Hi," I say carefully.
"We can switch seats," he calmly said with relaxed brows so full I'm jealous.
The thought of the possibility I was thinking aloud makes my tummy churn. I stop time for a moment to scale the options of staying put in my current seat or accepting the window seat guy's offer.
"Thank you, I'd love that." Of course, I said yes to the offer. He doesn't look surprised; I did. We just switched seats in awkward silence.
I wait for the window seat guy to turn over to the other side. He finally does after a sufferable amount of time, giving me the luxury of an impressive side view. Speaking of luxury, he looks too posh to be in economy. He looks like someone who definitely should be in first class. His blonde buzz cut looks so neat, I want to believe he had it done less than an hour before now. I scan him past his head. I'm so sure that is a Richard Mille this guy has on his wrist.
He lets out a shrill cough, and I immediately fix my attention back on the boring sci-fi movie playing on the plane tab. When did I start being so nosy in other people's business? In my defence, I was just trying to gather evidence that this guy shouldn't be here.
"You must be really hungry."
My curiosity about another person's business doesn't let me hear my grumbling tummy cry for food, but someone else does. He looks down at my tummy for a minute, like he just heard a bomb go off, and then back to my face. The moment lapses into embarrassment. I skipped breakfast with the plans of successfully smuggling in mas' pasta. That failed. I really am hungry.
"Not exac… not exactly." I find myself stuttering.
"I could place an order for something else if you don't like that…," he points to the dry bread and red sauce on the tiny plane tray as he stretches his other hand halfway. Trying to signal a hostess. I dare not trust this niceness.
"There would be no need for that…I don't eat out." I emit an awkward smile; I'm sure he can see it's fake. "I have a really delicate stomach."
"If you're to think of it," he starts in a very serious tone, cracking his knuckles like someone about to preach in a war zone. "We are not outside…no wait. I mean, yes, we are outside but in a confined space, a plane, which isn't in our usual outside but the outside up here," he gestures to the window that displays just white floating clouds. It's like every pinch of noise has been subdued, and all I can hear are cricket sounds.
My gaze goes from his finger still pointing to the window back to his face, and I see him bite back a smile. His attempt to crack a joke is funnier than the actual joke, but I don't let it show.
"I appreciate what you just did there, but still no, I'm not eating out."
"Do you intend to stay hungry for eight hours?"
I peek at his wrist watch to see that the time has been crawling. "Yes, I do."
I swiftly turn over so my back greets him, and the unfinished words I saw him almost drop. My ponytail swings to my shoulder, brushing something that I think might be his face, but he doesn't react. Great. Having funny conversations and small talk is not something I do when I'm hungry. When I'm hungry, nothing is funny.
We're only one hour gone, but it felt like we've been on the air for seven hours. I spend 30 minutes texting Anna, who happens to be in my room, on my bed, eating my food. Apparently, my mom had her stay with plans of sleeping over. I want to scream from frustration and boredom, but I don't. I spend another thirty minutes or more surfing the net for places to try tasty meals and fun activities in NY. That adds pottery making and painting to my list. The other five hours and thirty minutes, I can't give an account of because I slept all through.
I check my phone stamp to see that we have just 20 minutes to land, thank goodness, but what do I do till then? Going back to sleep isn't an option, as my eyelids are already swollen from so much sleep.
Something in me coerces my eyes to resume observing my sleeping beauty seatmate while I wonder why rich people behave the way they do. Why can't they just truly enjoy their money the way they'd want to? Why do they have to try looking humble when they suck at that? I know for a fact that I wouldn't judge a rich person that riches right because I know what a rich me would be capable of doing. Get Anna married to one of my billionaire friends, convince her to have a set of triplets in the next nine months, so that I begin my rich aunt duties. Buy a penthouse in New York, travel every two weeks to Santorini and Paris. Shop all my wears from Mango, Louis Vuiton, YSL, Prada, Versace, and maybe even clear my Shein cart. It's just a matter of time, and I'll get the money to finally afford who I truly am.
"You look a little bit too familiar, though," the window seat guy says, sitting up as he straightens his customized T-shirt.
He wasn't asleep this whole time?
My spidey sense tells me this is his way of trying to engage me in a conversation again. "Uh, familiar?"
"Yeah." I don't respond, and after a second, he keeps talking, "Mr. Henry?" he snaps his fingers with expectant eyes hovering around my face, searching for an answer I haven't processed.
At the sound of the name, I feel like a sponge tied to a rock and thrown into a cold, deep sea. How does he know him when I myself just found out yesterday? Is this normal to ask? My face is burning from the pressure I feel like I'm in, but I practice the relaxed facial expression thingy I've been learning for years, and hope it works. Just when I'm relaxed enough to answer his question, I notice he's wearing a gobsmacked look on his face.
"Who is that?" I ask.
"Oh no, not like I know him personally, but he is the co-founder of my Uncle's company, and I've had to work with him over Zoom a few times," he stops abruptly, pinching his forehead. "Why am I giving off all those details?" He mutters to himself like he's having a mid-conversation. "Anyways, I just thought you looked so much like him, so maybe you were related to him or…"
"No, I'm not." The words roll off my tongue so fast.
I didn't have a reason for just doing that, but I denied my father for the first time I was ever given a chance to claim him. A huge sense of guilt sails through, but I wash it out with the thought that he must have done this countless times as well, but the feeling still lingers. Saying I don't know him shouldn't feel this bad, right? Imagine saying I know him and he doesn't claim me back. The shame. But oh wow, this guy is a close relative to a company owner? Nepo babies. I was right about him being rich. The nosy side of me wants to hang a drum around my neck while I play it so hard, I expect everybody in this plane to dance to my victory of never raising a wrong assumption.
This isn't working. Trying to make this funny in my head isn't working because I'm also straining to ignore the part where he mentioned he doesn't just know my Dad, but he works with him. Which means I'm this close to meeting him if I act nice now.
But my brain isn't helping; instead, it's shutting down at this minute. Protecting itself from reality, from the fact that I didn't spend half my savings on this trip to explore my dream country as I've always wanted, but because of a man who never saw the need to look for me. A man who had a freaking beautiful family out there in the city of New York, while I lived 21 whole years of my life in his absence.
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I fight back stubborn tears that threaten to spill at the wink of an eye. Truly, just one thing can trigger years of introspection into yourself.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to New York."