Olivia rose, slipped the book into her backpack, and joined the short priority line. The people around her were dressed in every possible way, from tailored jackets to hooded sweatshirts and well-worn running shoes. An older white man ahead of her carried his shoes in one hand because his feet had swollen during a connecting flight. A younger passenger wore pajama pants beneath an expensive coat. Nobody asked either of them whether they had wandered into the wrong line.
The gate agent scanned Olivia's phone, and the boarding reader gave the same cheerful chime it gave everyone else. "You're all set, Ms. Bennett. Seat 2A. Enjoy your flight." Olivia thanked her and walked down the jet bridge, unaware that the ordinary courtesy she had received was about to become the last uncomplicated part of her morning.
At the aircraft door, a male flight attendant with neatly combed blond hair introduced himself as Richard. His smile was bright and practiced. He told the businessman directly ahead of her that it was a pleasure to have him aboard and offered to take his jacket. When Olivia stepped forward, Richard's eyes traveled from her sneakers to her backpack and back to her face.
"Are you boarding this flight, ma'am?" he asked.
Olivia glanced behind her at the jet bridge, then returned her attention to him. "Yes, dear. Boston."
"Economy is straight through," he said, gesturing past the divider.
"Thank you. I'm in first class." She tilted her phone slightly so the seat assignment was visible. "Two A."
Richard's smile did not disappear altogether, but it became something different. He looked at her screen, then at a tablet in his hand, and stepped aside without offering another word. Olivia moved toward the window seat and placed her small suitcase in the overhead compartment with help from a passenger across the aisle. She settled into 2A, adjusted the cushion behind her back, and looked out at the service vehicles moving beneath the wing.
For a few moments she let herself enjoy it. The seat was wider than she remembered from earlier flights, and the morning light rested softly on the polished trim. She put Samuel's photograph between the pages of her novel as a bookmark, an old habit that made her feel he had accompanied her. She was fastening her seat belt when she heard Richard speaking quietly near the galley.
"Are you certain that's hers?" he asked somebody.
"I saw her sit down," a woman answered. "Something doesn't look right."
Olivia did not turn immediately. She had grown up in a world where certain conversations were held just loudly enough for the person being discussed to hear them, and she knew the peculiar humiliation of pretending not to notice. Sometimes ignoring the comments made them stop. Sometimes it encouraged people to believe they could go further.