"H-how how did you—", the words catch in my throat, and I cough.
"I can see well enough when someone is dealing with the same pain I am." Hazel seems to slink back, withdrawing into heart-wrenching memories of her own.
It's then that I decide I can trust her. "Six months." I say, eyes fixed on the blue carpet pattern of the seat in front of me.
"Eight."
"What?"
"Oh. I mean mine. I mean… Gus—Augustus. He died eight months ago yesterday."
I have no idea what to say, so I just sit there, staring silently at my hands.
"What was she like?" Hazel asks, then quietly adds, "It really is easier if you tell someone instead of trying to keep it all down inside."
The flight attendant walks up at that moment, asking if we want anything to drink. Hazel turns to me, "Champagne?"
I frown, pushing away the thoughts of Tris, and whisper, "Don't you have to be twenty-one to drink here?" hoping the attendant won't hear.
She either ignores my question or doesn't hear it, and orders a glass of champagne. The flight attendant throws her a wary look and asks, "Can I see your ID?"