“So,” he said, wiggling his (admittedly delicious, not that I was looking) backside into the middle seat. “What do I need to know about you in order to get through this flight? Do you snore?”
I looked back at Mom, who gave me a little wave and a covert thumbs up from her seat seventeen rows behind me. We were able to pre-board due to her condition, and Beckett came with us because he was the hero who gave her the window seat in the back. I untwisted myself to face forward, knowing she was okay for the moment. “I don’t snore, no,” I confirmed, as people filed down the center aisle, filling in the seats around us.
“Think you’ll sleep the whole way there?”
“Depends on how chatty you plan on being,” I teased him. He feigned a shocked, affronted expression. “I’m only kidding. No, I doubt I’ll sleep. I’m used to getting up at this time.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re an early bird?”
“I’m a teacher. The hours demand it. I get to school every day at seven.”
“What do you teach?”
“High school English.”
“Ah,” he replied. “A fun combination ofMacbeth,1984, andThe Scarlet Letter.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, actually. Some newer stuff too,but you’re not far off. So that means one of three things.” I count off on my fingers. “One, you have an excellent memory and loved taking English in high school. Two, you’re the absurdly young father of a child in high school.” This made him laugh. “Or three, are you a high school English teacher too?”
“Wow,” he said. “Quite the imagination you have. I guess it’s the first one. I have a pretty decent memory of high school, but I’m also fairly well-read.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I don’t know many guys who like to read.”
“Well,” Beckett said with a shrug, “guess I’m not like most guys.”
“That sounds like a line from a romance novel.” I grinned.
“Does it?” he asked. “I can’t say that I’ve encountered many of those.”
“Bummer,” I replied. “That’s what I write.”
“Wait.” He shimmied sideways to face me. “You’re a writer? Really?”
I nodded. “Indeed I am.”
“Like, published and everything?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m far from famous, but I have two books out in the world and another on the way.”
He looked at me as if I told him I was a billionaire. A combination of awe, admiration, and maybe the slightest hint of jealousy nestled in his features. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Another romance novel line,” I commented. “But sure, go ahead.”
“I’m a writer too. Not, like, arealauthor. Not yet, anyway. But I like to write. And I’m working on a novel.” His cheeks began to redden.
“That’s cool,” I said, meaning it. “What’s it about?”
“It’s sort of a family drama. Parents with secrets they hide from their kids and how it impacts the kids years later as adults.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Thanks. I’m at sort of a stuck point with it.”
“How many words in are you?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“What’s your target?”
