The tip of my tongue pokes at my third molar to keep from laughing. “Do you always listen that closely when the flight attendant gives safety instructions?”
“Without fail,” Paisley confirms.
Thinking back to the night she made the comment about being a stellar pedestrian, I ask, “Are you a people pleaser, Royce?”
“It’s a flaw I’m working on.”
I nod, lips pushed out. “I’m insecure sometimes. It’s a flaw I’m working on.”
“To being works-in-progress,” she says, miming lifting a glass in the air.
We pretend to toast.
She opens her book. I take out my notebook and a pen, jotting down notes for another plot that’s been wiggling around in my brain for a few months.
The pilots position the plane for takeoff, and then we’re picking up speed and ascending.
There’s abump bump bumpafter a minute, and Paisley drops her book, white-knuckling the armrest.
I nudge her. “Are you ok?”
“Why is it bumpy?” Panic flashes in her eyes.
I pry her fingers from the armrest, keeping her hand in mine. “It’s the change in air temperature as we ascend. Think about how much hotter it is on the ground than it is up here as we go higher and higher. Air travel is bumpier in the summer.”
She nods as I speak, her eyes trusting. What is it about that look that gets me right in the feels?
She looks down at her hand in mine, appearing to be surprised that it’s there. Smiling sheepishly, she retracts her hand. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind making you feel better about something that frightens you.”
“I appreciate it,” she murmurs, reopening her book.
Paisley loses herself in the story. Her small smiles, the way she chuckles under her breath, the tip of her tongue that intermittently wets her lips, are all indications of how much Paisley enjoys what she’s reading.
Per Cecily’s instructions in a text she sent me this morning (Take pictures!!!), I snap a photo of the world outside the airplane window, making certain to keep the window frame in the picture.
We’re halfway through the flight when I lean over and whisper, “Did you make it to the hand job yet?”
She whips her gaze at me, eyes threatening. “Don’t make me regret telling you that.”
I lift my palms in innocence. “I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with hand jobs.”
Paisley makes a vibrating noise with her lips. She glances at my crotch, the faintest rose blush blooming on her cheeks. “Obviously.”
She goes back to her book. I go back to outlining.
Eventually, I notice Paisley hasn’t turned a page in awhile. “Did you fall asleep, Royce?”
“Hmm?” She looks at me in surprise. “No,” she answers, setting her book on her lap so she can untwist her messy bun. She finger combs her hair, then re-ties it on her head.
“All good?” I ask her.
She nods once, tight-lipped. I’m not buying it. I grew up with two women. They might say they’re good, but it doesn’t mean that. Oftentimes, it means the opposite.
I also learned pushing a woman who doesn’t want to talk can sometimes lead to a sharp-tongued comment, and very likely an insult to accompany it.
In the interest of starting out this trip on the best foot possible, I keep my mouth shut.
