Fine. Fine. Who needed water, anyway? I slumped back into my seat with a sigh.
The older woman in the window seat was already fast asleep, slumped over against the side of the cabin, her mouth slightly open, a line of drool trailing down to collect on her shoulder. At least it wasn’t me she was leaning and drooling on. Small blessings, I supposed.
I directed my gaze past her, out toward the endless expanse of clouds beyond the window. The sunlight shimmered off their fluffy tops, the kind of view that might have been inspiring under different circumstances.
That was when it happened.
The plane just…dropped. Not just run-of-the-mill turbulence, but it lurched so hard that drinks went flying into the air, and I lifted about an inch off my seat, pressing up into the belt that was thankfully still secured across my lap. One of the small dogs on board yapped, and a baby started crying somewhere behind me.
I clutched something. The armrest? Nope. A masculine arm? Yep.
Did I care?
Nope.
If I’d claimed not to be a nervous flyer, strike that, because I was not handling this very well. An ominous amount of saliva suddenly coated my mouth, and every muscle in my body tensed.
The turbulence that followed wasn’t as bad—but that first drop had left me feeling a little lightheaded, a little…green.
“Close your eyes.” A low voice came from beside me.
I turned, startled, and found myself momentarily distracted by Aisle Seat Guy’s eyes.
“What?” I uncurled my fingers from his forearm and pretended not to notice the little halfmoons left by my nails.
“Close your eyes,” he repeated, thankfully ignoring them too. “Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, still clenched all over.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I can take care of myself, thanks,” I managed.
“It’s just that you’re doing such a great job of it,” he said dryly. Then, with a quick once-over: “You’re pale, your pulse is rapid, and your breathing’s shallow.”
I blinked at him.
“Long slow breaths,” he added. “I’d rather not be thrown up on today.”
“Today? That’s a common occurrence for you?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Before I could think of a response, he reached into the seatback pocket in front of me and pulled out a stiff paper bag.
“If you don’t want to take my advice,” he added, holding the bag out toward me, “at least take this.”
I stared at it for a moment, my pride and my queasy stomach waging an internal battle.
“Right,” I mumbled, snatching the bag but hoping I wouldn’t need it. Then I leaned back, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing.
Gradually, I started feeling better.
He was right; I’d simply forgotten how this worked.
“Good girl,” he said, and then settled back into his seat, for now, abandoning the armrest and acting like nothing had happened.
Good girl?
