Ten Months Earlier
“Oh my God, Mom, do we have to discuss this? Now? Over the phone? Crap.”
I bit back a curse as my ankle rolled inside my boot, then stopped and shook out my foot. Stupid me, insisting on wearing stylish wedge ankle boots that were clearly not made for travel. That was me—I hid all my insecurities deep down inside my expensive shoes like a good New Yorker.
“Charli,” my mom said with exasperation, theiat the end coming out like a very longeeeas she begged me to listen to her.
“Yes, I know,” I said quickly into the phone. “I take birth control seriously. I will ... I promise to call the doctor. Yes, I swear, but honestly, Mom, it’s not important right now. I barely date, and no, Garrett isn’t the solution. Listen, I have to go.”
For the second time, I stopped in my tracks and looked up at the gate number, checking to make sure I was at the correct one, and only half listened to my mom’s reply.
She whined something more about Garrett and him being the solution, and then dropped the guilt card on me again.
“Honey, you need an important man, one who puts on a suit like your dad always did. That’s what he wanted for you, and I need you to do that for me. He made me promise you would find happiness.”
Happiness. I snorted to myself.Whatever that is.
“It’s been a hard week, Mom, but I think you’re getting overly stressed or something. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“No, it’s not that ...”
I tilted my head to pin the phone against my shoulder, feeling a jagged pain shoot down my neck and shoulder blade, and I didn’t bother to listen to the rest of what she was saying.
“I’m at the gate. I have to go. Don’t stress,” I whispered, handing the gate attendant my ticket while holding the phone awkwardly, my heavy bag cutting off the circulation in my shoulder.
“You just made it,” the woman said with more pep than a cheerleader at the Super Bowl.
“Thank God. I have to get out of here and back to New York, where reality is reality,” I told the overly perky blond attendant and shoved my phone in my tote, hoisted it back on my shoulder, and began walking the plank.
My life was a supersized episode ofBridget Jones. Except I wasn’t chunky and definitely wasn’t as nice as she was in that movie. I thrived on the grimy, rushed mess known as the Big Apple. My faltering ego and stunted soul relied on being better than at least half of the other 8.5 million souls in the city. That way, I continued to feel okay with my deficiencies.
As usual, I was the last to board the flight. Eternally grateful for first-class upgrades and checked luggage, I walked through the door and looked toward seat 2C.
Another perky blond airline employee stood in the entryway to greet me. “Welcome aboard.”
I couldn’t respond because I’d just caught a glimpse of seat 2D. In it was a pretty large man, huge by Manhattan standards, and not in that alpha-male, football-player type way. No, he was big—just big—with half his thigh rolling over into my seat.
Blech.I’d grown less and less tolerant of others during my years in the city. I used to be different, but now I was a cookie-cutter model of two-thirds of the arrogant women in New York. On the small island, I’d grown accustomed to everyone looking like Sarah Jessica Parker or Mr. Big. They were the golden standard of life and love, even though they were fictional and an unrealistic ideal.
There the man was, next to my well-deserved cushy leather seat, the one freaking perk I actually liked about my job. The big career—the one I wasn’t sure I even wanted anymore—but at least I could sit in my first-class seat thanks to the frequent-flyer miles I had accrued.
I quickly scanned the remainder of the first-class cabin and saw every seat was taken. His dark brown eyes took in my frown and defeated sigh before they quickly cast down to his open tray. I made a half-feeble attempt to plaster a fake smile on my face and slid into my seat, cocking my whole body toward the armrest nearest the aisle. Without a word, I shoved my bag under the seat in front of me just as they closed the cabin doors and started the safety announcements.
The big guy finished off his drink—a Bloody Mary, from the looks of it—and closed his tray without so much as a glance my way. The least he could have done was grab a mimosa or something for me, but nope. He’d sat his fat ass down in 2D and drank to his heart’s content, waiting for the unlucky person to be seated next to him.
It was my own doing, but I was fully wedged into the outer steel armrest ... this was my fucking luck. There was plenty of room on my oversized leather seat for my slender size 4 hips, but I was pissed and letting it show.
Perky blond number two came through and collected Biggie’s empty glass without offering me anything.
“Can I get one? Or is it too late?” I pointed at the fancy airline glassware and prayed to every god I knew that she would say yes.
“After we take off.”
Shit squared. The one time I desperately needed the complimentary cocktail.
Snatching my phone as we taxied to the runway, I sent my best friend, Janie, a quick text.
CHARLI: On plane, taking off, seated next to the Biggest Loser. Really. Will need a drink later.
