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Poems and movies make falling in love seem like no one notices until they’re too enthralled to turn away. That’s bullshit.
Every time Penelope waited for her after class, every time they shared spoonfuls of New England clam chowder, every time they warmed their hands in the same pocket, Erin saw it coming, closer and closer.
–
The single-file line of people making their way up the aisle begins to slow, leaving the plane at a little over half occupancy. It’s going to be a quiet flight. The seat between the girls, originally taken when they checked online, remains empty. Penelope, sitting in the aisle seat, pokes her head out to see if anyone seems to be coming their way.
“Do you think…?” She raises her eyebrows and turns to Erin, whose face is already against the window. They make eye contact through their reflections in the glass.
“Probably. It looks like we’re going to start moving soon,” Erin says, still craning her neck to get the runway workers to look at her. She’ll get them to wave back one day. The “fasten seatbelt” sign turns on, the flight attendants go over safety, the plane lurches forward, and the seat between the girls is still unoccupied. They look at each other and grin.
“Can I have the window seat?” Penelope clasps her hands together and tilts her head, knowing that Erin won’t be able to say no. She’s never said no.
Erin shifts over to the center and Penelope giddily leans against the window in her warmed seat. Rustling sounds come from Erin’s side. “Are you seriously going to study now? We have six hours, just relax, Erin.”
“Pen, I still have one exam left. I technically haven't graduated yet. I have to submit it once I get home.” The crease between her brows has grown darker throughout college, deepening under the weight of working part-time at the biology lab, student teaching in writing classes, and playing substitute parent for her brothers. Erin would FaceTime her brothers every week to catch up on their progress in middle school and be on call for any questions from her parents about what to say during parent-teacher conferences. For Erin, there is never enough time to do everything.
“And home is still six hours and three thousand miles away, yeah? Give me that.” Pen snatches the tablet out of her hands, along with the Post-it Notes, gel pen, highlighter, and ruler, which Erin uses to make sure all her lines were straight. “We’re leaving college. Don’t you feel even a little excited?”
Erin and Penelope have been friends since their third year of high school. They’ve spent hours at coffee shops writing essays, studying for exams, and finding out each other’s caffeine limits and ended up at the same college in Washington, a ways away from their home in New York City. After four years of rooming together and six years of friendship, they’re on their way back home to settle into post-grad life.
Penelope places one of her hands on Erin’s and the other on her shoulder. Her eyebrows always raise when she smiles at Erin, like trying to reassure a child lost in a supermarket. “We’ve accomplished so much.”
Only Penelope seems to think so. She’s on her way to a research lab back home in Manhattan, where she was going to help edit genes to better understand autoimmune diseases. Her parents, first-generation immigrants just like Erin’s, are the proudest they could ever be of their one and only daughter. Penelope has it set. Erin, on the other hand, is no longer pursuing healthcare or medical school, but academia. She’s narrowed her search to six education graduate programs, but the application fees alone are more than her parents feel comfortable shelling out. Her graduate school applications are still sitting on her laptop, last edited four months ago.
Wind scratches against the window as the plane picks up speed. Penelope’s hand quickly bridges the armrest and finds Erin’s already outstretched arm, palm up, open, and accepting. Without speaking, their fingers interlace and Erin gives a long, steady squeeze. It’s not that Penelope’s afraid of flying, she just hasn’t flown enough to get used to it. That’s what she says.
As the Washington skyline tilts and veers out of sight from the plane window, Penelope nestles into the blanket Erin’s holding up. She’s never cold when she is around, since Erin’s always stocked with hand warmers and an extra hoodie. She’ll say it’s for herself because she’s anemic, but Penelope will laugh along with her, knowing that she’s given special treatment.
Erin rests her chin on Penelope’s head, trying to recall what her neurology study guide said and looked like before it was ungraciously ripped out of her hands. She wonders if her study guides will be of use when she becomes a teacher, though she doubts many high schoolers would be as eager to learn about everything biology as she had. I don’t have time to dream about what I’d do as a teacher. Let’s think about getting into grad school first, she decides.
On the live flight tracker in front of her, Erin could see just how far home is, and consequently how long the flight is going to take. Perhaps she does have time to take a brief break, at least until the snack carts come out. As the sun sets on the West Coast, it dawns on Erin that the future with Penelope is uncertain because they never got to sit down and talk about it. Erin is an anxious person, but could clearly read signs. And the ones she’s gotten from Penelope over the years have been clear enough.
In high school, this would be equivalent to the talking phase, but the stakes are higher. They’ve shared the blankets during their junior year when the heat was cut off, the tissue box whenever the season finale ended badly, the fears of never being the daughters their parents crossed the ocean to raise, the hopes of moving in together after college and continuing the rest of their lives together. It is clear enough.
“Pen?”
Penelope mumbles, about to drift off into sleep. Knowing her, she’ll sleep the entire flight away, Erin thinks.
“I am excited. For our future too.” Erin knows it would serve her well to feel sentimental every so often. Closing her undergraduate years off on a flight home seems like a fitting time.
Pen jolts upright, pushing her seat back with the force of her body. She quickly apologizes to the man sitting behind her, and turns to Erin with a gummy smile. “You’re finally in the post-grad headspace now?”
“I’m ready to think of what’s to come now that we’re leaving Washington. We didn’t even fly back for Thanksgiving sometimes, you know?”
“I didn’t mind that much. I have a family here, too. Like everyone I practiced and danced with and the other kids in our dorm hall. And all those people in your club.”
“It’s kind of sad that we’re leaving all of that now, but at least we’re together.” Their hands are still intertwined, thumbs running over knuckles like they don’t already know the terrain. “When do you think we’ll start looking for apartments?” Erin is pragmatic, but also a bit anxious. “I just want to make sure I’ll know where I’m going for grad school by then.”
Pen’s thumb stops stroking. “I think… I’ll stay at home for a while and commute from there.”
“Oh, me, too. But what about further down the line? The end goal, per se.”
Pen rotates her torso to face Erin, who is smiling for the first time this flight. “Erin, do you mean together?”
“Do you… not? We talked about it, remember? You suggested it. You were like, ‘Hey, Erin, let’s live together after college and live happily ever after.’”
Penelope’s eyes are wide, clearly panicked. “I didn’t mean it seriously. We were living with Laura then and she was driving me insane. Like, shrimp tails on the kitchen table? Come on,” she laughs, but it’s forced. “I was just fantasizing about never having a bad roommate again. Because I know you’re clean.”
Erin inhales, letting the cold airplane air run through into her chest. She almost feels it in her stomach. Erin is pragmatic, and a little anxious, but only about Penelope. “Not just the apartment, Pen. I want to know about the future. Our future.”
“Erin, what are you talking about? Our friendship is going to last way past us moving out of our parents’ homes.” Her voice is shaking, but Erin can’t tell if it’s because Penelope is lying, like she’s afraid, or because she’s horrified, even disgusted.
Now or never, Erin chants in her head. “Pen, I’m saying I want to spend my future with you. Like, together.” Her voice trails off as Pen’s face distorts, shadows in her face pooling with revulsion.
“I don’t really know where this is coming from.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but there is no more hiding from Erin. Penelope’s been avoiding this conversation for months, but even with the end of college approaching, she’s never given it any thought. Thus, Penelope is at a loss for words.
“So what were the last four, five years to you? Do you think we were playing house?”
“How would I know! You never said anything!” This is a half-truth. Penelope remembers a night last winter when they were sharing an extra large scarf they’d knitted together, each working from the middle toward either end. While they were unwrapping the scarf from their necks after getting home, Erin had asked her if she was free to talk after dinner. There was not a day that passed where they didn’t talk to one another, but asking to talk was an entirely different situation, which Penelope had avoided with fake dinner plans, even though they’d promised to cook together. That night, she had to lie to Erin once again, telling her how delicious her dinner out was when she had really just eaten at the dining hall in panic. Erin has never said anything, but given the chance, Penelope knows there’d be no way out of an awkward conversation. After all, what would even come of talking? Saying she’s not into people like her, yet climbing into her bed at night? Penelope doesn’t even know what to call what they have. All she knows is that she’s never going to call it more than friendship.
“What did I need to say? We do everything together. We hold hands. We hold each other. We eat and sleep together.”
“Like friends do.” And like any friend, Penelope couldn’t help but notice the sparkling at the inner corners of Erin’s eyes. Oh, fuck, it’s a tear, she realizes, but Erin is quick to blink it away. She’s always been a pillar of strength for everyone, Penelope included, and that’s not going to change, even when those that rely on her seem to wear her down. In Penelope’s mind though, it’s not her intention to make Erin cry, but if she has to be honest, she’d rather Erin than herself take the hit.
“Not all ‘friends’ do that, Pen.” Erin has to push out “friends,” as if she were throwing it up.
“Well, it was comfortable, wasn’t it? And now you’re ruining it. Why do you always have to take everything so seriously?”
And it’s over.
Tasting regret and a little bit of blood from chewing her lip, a nervous habit of hers, Penelope delivers a final blow to the bliss that was their ambiguous yet passionate friendship.
Erin releases her clenched fists, nail imprints fading on her hot, sweaty palms, and exhales, her back falling into the curve of her seat. “Will you ever take me seriously?” she whispers, defeated, staring down at her lap.
Penelope releases her grip on the armrest, not realizing the strength with which she was holding it, and turns to look out the window. She squints her eyes. There is nothing to see but an empty vastness of flat white clouds. It’s plain and blinding, but there’s nowhere else she’d dare to look. She tries to silent the throbbing in her chest, trying to catch any last words from Erin, only a seat away. I guess it would be weird if she were to hop a seat over now. She brushes over the top of her hand that Erin was holding onto during takeoff. It feels cold, as if a layer of her skin were missing. No, it was just fun to be together. It was just comfortable. I’m not…
There is no mention of love –– that’s too deep, too serious. This is only a misalignment of intentions. It’s Erin’s mistake to assume. They even learned this in their biology lab techniques: never assume. How can she apply to graduate school if she can’t even apply what she learns to real life? This is real life.
“I just didn’t know messing with me was enough for you.” Erin retrieves her tablet and supplies from under the seat. “Penelope.”
Penelope wishes whoever bought the middle seat would have shown up and sat between them. Maybe then the sweet spot they’ve been in wouldn’t have spoiled.