That’s part of the reason I’m sitting on this plane. I have this fantasy that by leaving the house, it will trigger something in the universe that makes Owen come home home again and offer up the answers himself. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work, the kettle boils once you stop watching? As soon as we land in Austin, there will be a message from Owen asking where we are, telling me that he is sitting in our empty kitchen waiting on us, as opposed to the other way around.

“What can I get you ladies?”

I look up to see the flight attendant standing by our aisle, her silver drink cart in front of her.

Bailey doesn’t turn her head from the window, her purple ponytail the only thing facing out.

“Regular Coke,” she says. “Lots of ice.”

I shrug, a peace offering for Bailey’s shortness. “Diet, please,” I say.

The flight attendant just laughs, unoffended. “Sixteen?” she whispers.

I nod.

“I have a sixteen-year-old myself,” she says. “Twins actually. Believe me, I get it.”

This is when Bailey turns around.

“I’m not hers,” she says.

It’s true. It’s also something Bailey may have said on another day, eager to correct the record. But just now it sounds different and it stings in a way I have trouble hiding on my face. It isn’t just about how it makes me feel. It’s also about the reckoning that’s coming for her on the heels of her comment—the impossible realization that hating or disavowing me is a whole lot less fun when, at the moment, I’m the only person that she has.

Her face tightens as it hits her. I stay quiet, staring at the television screen on the seat in front of me, an episode of Friends playing silently, Rachel and Joey kissing in a hotel room.

I pretend not to notice Bailey’s despair, but I don’t put on my headphones either. It’s the best I can come up with for giving her some breathing room while trying to let her know I’m there if she wants me.

Bailey rubs at the goose bumps on her arms, not saying anything, not for a while. Finally, she takes a sip of her soda. Then she makes a face.

“I think she switched our drinks,” she says.

I turn and look at her. “What’s that?”

She holds out her ice-filled cup, her soda brimming to the top. “This is diet,” she says. “The flight attendant must have given me yours…”

I try not to look too surprised as she hands her drink over. And I don’t argue. I hand Bailey my drink and wait for her to take a sip.