Flora and I walk down the jet bridge single file. She walks in front of me. It makes sense, her row is farther back on the plane, but at the same time I also know she’d be walking in front of me even if I was sitting in the last row in the plane and she was in the first.

We walk onto the plane, and the smell of recycled air and the dings from the intercom bring me back to thirty days ago.

I take a deep breath just as Flora looks over her shoulder at me. I give her a thumbs-up. If she can handle getting sick in quarantine, I can handle a three-hour plane ride.

We stop in front of row 15. “Here you are, sir,” she says to me. She starts to walk down the aisle, and even though the man behind me keeps bumping his duffel bag into my legs, I say, “Flora! Wait!”

She turns around, alarmed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it is. Just … bye?”

“I’ll see you in Newark, Oliver,” she says cheerfully. She ruffles my hair, and it reminds me of when she gave me bedhead for my picture for Kelsey.

“Yeah, in Newark.” But that feels like a different world, a different planet.

“Hey, buddy, you need help finding your seat?” the man with the duffel bag asks, jamming it into the back of my legs again.

“Nope, got it, thanks.”

I climb into my middle seat, but no one is on either side of me yet. Maybe they won’t show up, and then Flora can sit with me! I think. Which is dumb, because she’s had thirty days of being next to me nonstop, and I’m sure the last thing she wants is to sit next to me on an airplane. Look how well it went last time we sat next to each other on a flight.

Two young frazzled parents with a baby board. The mom is scanning the rows, checking her boarding pass. When she gets close to my row, she looks disappointed.

She says something to her husband, who looks at me, and makes the same disappointed face.

They get to my row and the wife says, “Um, the window seat is mine. The aisle seat is my husband’s. But if you don’t mind, could we sit together? No one ever buys middle seats!”

“Oh, sure!” I say.

I start to stand up, realize I forgot to unbuckle my seat belt, sit down, unbuckle it, and stand up. I scoot into the aisle, which is hard with the parents and the baby, and there is now a huge line of passengers.

“Hey! Families with young children are supposed to board first!” a man shouts.

The mom is sliding into the aisle, and she looks up. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s not important,” I say before I can stop myself.

She looks at me, and before I know what I’m doing, I grab the baby so the dad can get into his seat. The dad puts their bags under their seats, and I’m holding a squishy little baby who looks just as surprised as I am.

I somehow slide into my aisle seat with the baby and hand the baby back to the dad in one smooth gesture. I don’t figure out who was yelling, but like I told the mom: He’s not important.