I watch every person get on, quietly celebrating every time they take a seat that’s not the one right beside me. The Canadian Tuxedo couple sit in different rows—interesting. The woman with the baby is laden down with bags, but the baby is asleep. The Flip-Flop guy gets on, tucking a lock of wavy dark brown hair behind his ear as he checks his seat number. He looks up, his eyes searching toward the back of the plane. I avert my gaze to avoid further embarrassing myself.
And then—he’s right in front of me.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. Up close, I clock his long eyelashes, his straight, white teeth, his thick, dark eyebrows. He’s familiar to me in a way I can’t quite place. His height and staggeringly symmetrical face suggesthe might be a model, which must be it. Surely that face is plastered on billboards all over America.
He hoists his backpack into the overhead compartment and squeezes into the aisle seat beside me, his large frame filling the space. Is this for real right now? The plane is practically empty, and yet I’m crammed in with this guy and his unfortunate choice of footwear. Wait, he smells really good, actually. Is that coconut?
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” he says, flashing me a dazzling smile.
I don’t want to give the impression that I’m up for a chat. As a bartender, I am exceedingly good at making small talk, but you better believe I need to be paid to do it. I close my eyes in hopes that he’ll take the hint.
But he doesn’t.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” He bites his lip and wrinkles his brow, and it’s undeniably cute, until I remember that his toenails areright there.
“I don’t think so.” I close my eyes, hoping that’s that.
“Are you from Thunder Bay?”
I open my eyes. “No,” I reply. My tone is friendly, but I immediately close my eyes again.
“Me neither. First time going there?”
“Yes,” I say, without opening my eyes.
“Me too. I hear it’s beautiful up there. The Canadian Shield. Sounds so dramatic, right?”
“Yup.”
“What brings you up this way?”
Okay, enough. “Funeral,” I say. As far as lies go, it’s high on the dirtbag scale. “Just need to get some rest.”
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. For your loss. And for bothering you. I’ll just—” He mimes zipping his lips.
“Thanks.” I close my eyes again, wondering if he’ll move to his own row. I’d do it, but to get past him, I’d either have to stick my ass in his face or straddle him. I feel a heat building in my face, and I know I’mblushing. Oh god. If he looks at me and sees me blushing with my eyes closed, he’ll know I’m thinking dirty thoughts. Which I’m not. Or at least, I’m trying not to. He’ssonot my type. It’s just been a while since I’ve straddled anyone in any capacity, that’s all.
The last time with Dylan, we were actually standing up…No, not Dylan! I can’t go there. Never again.
The seatbelt sign illuminates, so I guess he’s not going anywhere for now. At least his big, solid presence is comforting. I take a long, slow breath, and try to relax.
The next thing I know I’m floating, momentarily suspended in midair, held back only by the persistent hug of my seatbelt. And then I’m crashing down, my bones jamming together as gravity sucks me down. And then another moment of freefall.
Turbulence.
Logically, I know it’s just air pockets, and that a plane has never fallen out of the sky because of it, but logic is no comfort. I search for something to hold on to, but instead of grabbing the armrest, like a sensible person, I grab the Flip-Flop guy’s thigh, and squeeze. Even through my terror I can feel that it’s pleasantly firm. He puts his big hand over mine, pressing down slightly. My logical brain wants to protest—I truly do not want to hold hands with this dude—but my animal brain needs reassurance. And the heaviness and warmth of his hand is like an anchor, keeping me grounded.
We stay like that—me clutching his thigh, him clutching my hand—for a few more harrowing moments, until the plane rights itself and we’re back in smooth air. I look at my hand on his thigh and the full weight of my mortification hits me.
I snatch my hand back. “I am so, so sorry,” I stammer.
He laughs, but not in a mean way. “Honestly, not a problem. I kind of liked it.”
My cheeks burn, and I can’t look at him. Thankfully, the pilot comes on the loudspeaker to announce that we will soon be landing in theglorious wilds of northern Ontario. Soon we’ll be off this plane and I’ll never have to see him again.
As we’re disembarking, he turns to me. “I wish you strength and peace during this difficult time.”
This difficult time? Oh, right. The funeral I’m supposedly going to later. “Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a sad, brave smile.
