Free The Trouble with Flying by Rachel Morgan

Morrison, Bettison, Madison—before returning to Facebook. I try each surname paired with the name Aiden, but I don’t find the guy I’m looking for.
    “It’s just not meant to be,” I mutter to myself. I close the laptop with a mixture of disappointment and relief settling in my stomach. I climb into bed with my phone—which is about a century ahead of my laptop in terms of technology—and open the email app. I saw an email from Livi when I was scrolling through messages at the airport, and I think I could do with some best friend love right now. I smile at the words in the subject line: You smell nice . Livi likes to title her emails with weird statements that have nothing to do with the content, just to make sure nobody misses them. I’m amazed half the messages I’ve received from her haven’t ended up in the Spam folder.
    I tap the screen to open her email.
     
From: Alivia Howard
Sent: Sat 14 Dec, 8:13 pm
To: Sarah Henley
Subject: You smell nice
     
One week and counting! Woohoo! I am SO glad this year is almost over—I never want to see another German brat in my life. And BOY do I have a story to tell you! A story involving a BOY, actually ;-) I don’t think even your made-up stories can top this one! We need to book a poolside date SOON so I can tell you all about it.
     
xx Livi
_____________________________
     
From: Sarah Henley
Sent: Sun 15 Dec, 10:34 pm
To: Alivia Howard
Subject: Re: You smell nice
     
Oh, I think I have a story that might top yours. And mine isn’t made-up either!
_____________________________
     
From: Sarah Henley
Sent: Sun 15 Dec, 10:37 pm
To: Julia Henley
Subject: Never again shall you mock the travel toothbrush
     
Jules! You will never guess what happened to me on the plane …
    _____________________________

 
    Harrison!
    I wake up on Friday morning with the name on the tip of my tongue, and I’m convinced it belongs to Aiden. I know I caught a glimpse of the label on his bag, and when I close my eyes, I can clearly see an ‘H’ after his first name. I guess my brain just needed a few days to remember that detail—or it could be that after a few days of obsessing, my brain manufactured a false memory while I was sleeping.
    To prove to myself that I haven’t been obsessing over Aiden, and that I don’t care whether I’ve remembered his surname correctly or not, I intentionally bypass my laptop on the way to the shower. It already feels about five hundred degrees hotter than any day should ever have the right to be at 8 a.m., so I turn the shower tap until the water is as cold as it will go. Afterwards, I take my time choosing a pretty summer dress. I eat breakfast slowly, make my bed, and start packing my bag for a weekend at Matt’s grandparents’ farm—all while pretending half my brain isn’t focused on the laptop in the corner of my room, as if it has some magnetic influence over my thoughts. I choose a pair of shorts, another dress, some summer pyjamas that are appropriate to wear in front of other people— not my old-enough-to-be-transparent nightie with the cartoon cow and Over the moooooooon written on it—and then try to remember which of my three bikinis Matt likes the most. Because I’m supposed to be thinking of him, not Aiden. Matt is my boyfriend. Matt is the guy who loves me. Matt is the one I’ll probably spend the rest of my—
    “Oh, this is ridiculous.” I drop the tangle of bikinis onto my bed and rush to the corner of my room. I sit down at the desk and open the lid of my laptop. The machine whirs for a moment or two, then blinks out of hibernation mode and shows the last page I was on: my email. I open a new tab and navigate to Facebook. The moment the site loads, I type ‘Aiden Harrison’ into the search bar. A second passes, and then a whole list of Aiden Harrisons show up. I lean forward, examining the tiny