The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

by Jennifer E. Smith

Is it possible not to ever know your type—not to even know you have a type—until quite suddenly you do?

“Scared of flying?” Hadley forces herself to unclench her hand, where she’s been gripping the handle of her suitcase with white knuckles. She smiles ruefully. “Scared of landing,” she says, then steps onto the plane anyway.

“Last time I checked, you’d chosen an American college.” “True,” he says. “But I’m able to supplement it with my wealth of British intelligence and charm.”

“No girlfriend.” With this, it seems to Hadley that some sort of door has opened, but now that it finally has, she isn’t quite sure how to proceed. “How come?” He shrugs. “Haven’t met anyone I want to spend fifty-two years with, I guess.”

The OCCUPIED lights are on above both bathroom doors, so Hadley and Oliver stand in the small square of space just outside. They’re close enough that she can smell the fabric of his shirt, the whiskey still on his breath; not so close that they’re touching, exactly, but she can feel the hair on his arm tickle hers, and she’s again seized by a sudden longing to reach for his hand. She lifts her chin to find that he’s looking down at her with the same expression she saw on his face earlier, when she woke up with her head on his shoulder. Neither of them moves and neither speaks; they just stand there watching each other in the darkness, the engines whirring beneath their feet. It occurs to her that—impossibly, improbably—he might be about to kiss her, and she inches just the tiniest bit closer, her heart skidding around in her chest. His hand brushes against hers, and Hadley feels it like a bolt of electricity, the shock of it moving straight up her spine. To her surprise, Oliver doesn’t pull away; instead, he fits his hand into hers as if anchoring her there, then tugs gently, moving her closer. It almost feels as if they’re completely alone—no captain or crew, no rows of dozing passengers stretching the length of the plane—and Hadley takes a deep breath and tips her head to look up at him. But then the door to one of the bathrooms is suddenly thrown open, bathing them in a too-bright wedge of light, and a little boy walks out trailing a long ribbon of toilet paper from one...

Oliver’s head is resting on her shoulder this time,

“Cumulus clouds. Best clouds ever.” Hadley shrugs. “I guess I never really thought about it.” “Well, then, see?” Oliver says. “There’s loads more to talk about. We’ve only just gotten started.”

Ahead of them, the old woman takes a few small, birdlike steps out into the aisle before pausing to peer up at the overhead bins. Oliver moves quickly to help, ignoring the crowd of people behind them as he pulls down her battered suitcase and then waits patiently while she gets herself situated. “Thank you,” she says, beaming at him. “You’re such a nice boy.” She moves to begin walking, then hesitates, as if she’s forgotten something, and looks back again. “You remind me of my husband,”

Hadley takes a deep breath, trying to remember what Oliver said on the plane about her being brave. And though at this particular moment she feels quite the opposite, something in the memory makes her stand up a bit taller, and so she holds on to this as she sets off after the group, her eyes wide under her makeup.

It’s hard to tell whether she’s warm because there’s no air-conditioning or because of the panicky feeling she’s trying hard to push away, that familiar sensation that comes with too many people in too little space.

But when she reaches for her purse the napkin with Oliver’s drawing flutters to the floor, and she finds herself smiling as she stoops to pick it up, running her thumb across the little duck with sneakers and a baseball cap. Maybe this is a mistake. But there’s still no place else she’d rather be right now.

Her eyes travel up to the sky, where she’s surprised to see a plane flying overhead, and something about the sight of it calms her again. She’s suddenly back in seat 18A beside Oliver, suspended above the water, surrounded by nothing but darkness. And there on the street corner, it strikes her as something of a miracle that she met him at all. Imagine if she’d been on time for her flight. Or if she’d spent all those hours beside someone else, a complete stranger who, even after so many miles, remained that way. The idea that their paths might have just as easily not crossed leaves her breathless, like a near-miss accident on a highway, and she can’t help marveling at the sheer randomness of it all. Like any survivor of chance, she feels a quick rush of thankfulness, part adrenaline and part hope.

But Hadley had known even then, that first time; it was something in the way he’d looked at her, with a hopefulness that made the worry Hadley had been carrying around with her feel somehow lighter.

He nods at the stone bench a few feet away, the rough surface still damp from the earlier rain. They walk over together, heads bowed, the mournful sound of an organ starting up inside the church. Just as she’s about to sit, Oliver motions for her to wait, then whips his jacket off and lays it on the bench. “Your dress,” he says by way of explanation, and Hadley glances down at herself, frowning at the purple silk as if she’s never seen it before. Something about the gesture cracks her heart open further, the idea that he’d think of something so trivial at a time like this; doesn’t he know she couldn’t care less about the stupid dress? That she’d gladly curl up on the grass for him, make a bed out of the dirt?

“He was a complete arse. No use pretending otherwise now.” Hadley looks up in surprise, but Oliver seems relieved. “I’ve been thinking that all morning,” he says. “For the last eighteen years, really.” He looks at her and smiles. “You’re sort of dangerous, you know?” She stares at him. “Me?” “Yeah,” he says, sitting back. “I’m way too honest with you.”

“No one is useless in this world,” it reads, “who lightens the burden of it for any one else.”

a tray of colorful vegetables on the table in front of them and several bottles of champagne on ice.

There’s a whole wedding party just outside the door, a new bride and bottles of champagne, and there’s a schedule to keep, an order to the day. But as he sits here listening, it’s as if he has nowhere else to be. It’s as if nothing could possibly be more important than this. Than her. And so Hadley keeps talking.

By the time she gets to the part about losing him at the airport, she’s talking so fast she’s tripping over the words. It’s like some sort of valve has opened up inside of her, and she can’t seem to stop.

“You look great,” he says, and Hadley smiles at Charlotte, standing there in her wedding dress, the ring on her finger throwing off bits of light. “You look great,” she tells her, because it’s true. “Yes, but I haven’t been traveling since yesterday,” she says. “You must be completely knackered.” Hadley feels a twang in her chest at the word, which reminds her so sharply of Oliver. For months now, the sound of Charlotte’s accent has been enough to kick-start a massive headache. But suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad at all. In fact, she thinks she could get used to it. “I am knackered,” she says with a weary smile. “But it’s been worth the trip.”

“Sometimes I like to pretend I’m back home again.” Charlotte, who has been watching them with a look of great delight, turns her attention back to the computer, where she zooms in on the photo so that they can see a close-up of the frames. “You have a beautiful garden,” she says, pointing at the tiny pixelated lavender bushes on the screen. Hadley moves her finger a few centimeters over, to the actual window, which looks out over a small yard with a few rows of flowering plants. “You do, too,” she says, and Charlotte smiles. “I hope you’ll get to see it for yourself one day soon.” Hadley glances back at Dad, who gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Me, too,” she says.

“I don’t want to miss out anymore,” Hadley says in a rush. “I don’t want the new baby to grow up thinking of me like some long-lost second cousin or something. Someone you never see, and then instead of going shopping together or asking advice or even fighting, you end up just being really polite and having nothing to say because you don’t know each other, not really, not the way brothers and sisters do. And so I want to be there.” “You do,” Dad says, but it’s not a question. It’s insistent, even hopeful, like a wish he’s been holding back for too long. “I do.”

“Sorry, darling,” Charlotte says. “I’ll have to side with Hadley on this one. My poor bruised toes speak for themselves.” “Married only a few hours, and already you’re disagreeing with me?” Charlotte laughs. “I promise I’ll be disagreeing with you till death do us part, my dear.”

“No, I’m glad you did. It’s been surprisingly… okay.” Mom lets out a low whistle. “Really? I would’ve bet money that you’d be calling me demanding to come home on an earlier flight.” “Me, too,” Hadley says. “But it’s not so bad.” “Tell me everything.” “I will,” she says, stifling a yawn. “But it’s been a really long day.” “I bet. So just tell me this for now: How’s the dress?” “Mine or Charlotte’s?” “Wow,” Mom says, laughing. “So she’s graduated from that British woman to just Charlotte, huh?” Hadley smiles. “Guess so. She’s actually sort of nice. And the dress is pretty.” “Have you and your dad been getting along?” “It was touch-and-go earlier, but now we’re fine. Maybe even good.” “Why, what happened earlier?” “It’s another long story. I sort of ducked out for a while.” “You left?” “I had to.” “I bet your father loved that. Where’d you go?” Hadley closes her eyes and thinks of what Dad said about Charlotte earlier, about how she talks about the things that she hopes might come true. “I met this guy on the plane.” Mom laughs. “Now we’re talking.” “I went to go find him, but it was sort of a disaster, and now I’ll never see him again.” There’s silence on the other end, and then Mom’s voice comes back a bit softer. “You never know,” she says. “Look at me and Harrison. Look what a hard time I’ve given him. But no matter how many times I’ve pushed him away, he always comes back around again. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.” “This is a little bit different.” “Well, I can...