by Marni Mann
Spring 1984
The first time Honey heard Andrew’s voice, she saw stars. That was because she was on a bed, being rolled through the emergency room, and the lights above were completely blinding her. But the flashes of light in her vision were also from pain. Every time an intense cramp pounded through her abdomen, her vision would turn spotted and blurry.
When he joined her, Andrew introduced himself as the attending physician of Maine Medical Center’s emergency department, and he asked her questions the entire trip down the hallway. By the time they got in an exam room, a nurse had placed a cold washcloth over Honey’s face, so she didn’t have to strain to keep her eyes closed.
“I’m going to touch your stomach,” Andrew said once the wheels of the bed were locked. “You can stay in the position you’re in. I just need you to tell me if it hurts.”
“It hurts!” Honey shouted the second he put pressure on her right side. She tried to fight through the torture as he moved to her back, but it was too much. “Ow!”
“Honey, take a deep breath for me.”
Even though it sounded more like a term of endearment, she didn’t focus on that. While she lay on her side, she kept her face tucked into her knees, her eyes shut, and tried to open her lungs, taking in the air as slow as she could.
“How about here?” he asked, his fingers returning, now in a lower spot.
A searing agony tore through her, and her bravery vanished. “Make it stop.” She sucked in a sob. “Please, Doctor. I can’t take it.”
“I ordered some X-rays, which we’re going to do right now. If it’s appendicitis, which I believe it is, we’ll take you in for surgery.”
“Surgery?”
With her roommate being at work, Honey had driven herself to the hospital. Not in all the time she had been sick—during the hours in her apartment before she left for the hospital, during the drive when she pulled over to throw up, when she walked in from the parking lot, doubled over in pain—did she think she would need surgery.
“We do about fifty a month,” he said. “It’s very common.”
She had to see his face; his voice wasn’t enough. So, slowly, Honey began to unravel her body and lift her head, the washcloth dropping from her eyes. They weren’t open more than a crack when a wave of nausea passed through her, and she dry-heaved on the bed, immediately covering her face again. “Just fix me.”
His fingers went to her shoulder. “You’re in good hands.”
There was something about his touch that reassured her, that truly made her believe she was going to be all right. She didn’t know why she believed him or how someone’s fingertips could make her feel that way.
But his did.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” he asked. “A husband? Friend?”
“No.” Her leg twitched when a cramp shot through her. “My parents are out of town, and my roommate is at work. You’ll never be able to reach either of them.”
“Don’t worry; we won’t leave you alone.”
Honey hadn’t spent much time inside hospitals or doctor offices, but she couldn’t remember when a doctor had been this kind to her. Especially one who probably had an emergency room full of patients.
She reached up, and when she felt his wrist, she circled her fingers around it. “Thank you.”
“We’re going to lift you,” Andrew said, and that was when Honey heard more people coming into the room. “Then, we’ll take the X-rays.”
She took a breath, wanting to scream when it stabbed her so sharply. “Okay.”
“You can squeeze my hand if it hurts.”
She didn’t thank him again, but her grip tightened the minute she was in the air, and she didn’t stop clutching him until the medicine in her IV caused everything to go from dark to black.
Four
Billie
I wasn’t a diva when it came to traveling. At least, not in comparison to the other vloggers in my industry whose list of requirements were much more extensive than mine. There were only two things I asked for, and that was a minimum of a four-star hotel and a window seat in a row that had just a little extra leg room.
I didn’t think those were unreasonable requests.
I certainly appreciated the few additional inches of space on the longer flights, like the one I was taking today. As I arrived at row fourteen, which was the emergency exit row, I stored my bag in the overhead bin, taking my tablet, earbuds, and coffee to the seat with me. The shade was down, so I lifted it, and through the darkness outside, I saw the gleaming white plane next to ours. Two men were loading luggage into the belly, lifting suitcases like they weighed only a few pounds. I was so focused on what they were doing that I almost didn’t see the reflection in the window of the man standing behind me.
When you flew weekly, you really took notice of the people you sat next to. As an observant person by nature who captured the finest details, I couldn’t help but see their characteristics. When my eyes traveled up the Plexiglas, I took in his stature and build. Both were impressive. Enough so I turned around to see more, and I got as high as his chest when he ducked. Within a second, I had his entire face memorized. Even the small lines at the corners of his eyelids and the harder ones on his forehead and the pieces in his beard that were speckled with gray. The most demanding of all his features were his eyes. They were the color of chocolate fudge and just as heavy as the thick dessert.
You didn’t stare at this man because of his looks, although he was extremely handsome. You stared at him because underneath his piercing gaze and expensive suit was someone profound.
I learned that after a one-second glance, and it took me completely off guard, to the point where, “Good morning,” randomly came pouring out of my mouth.
He was already in his seat, eyes on the newspaper that was on his lap. “Morning.”
His voice was extremely masculine, deep, a little rough like the coarseness that covered his cheeks.
Realizing I was still staring at him, I turned toward my tablet, opening the website for the restaurant I would be visiting tomorrow night. Studying the menu was the first step, and I always did it before I arrived. The menu set the tone and prepared me a bit for what to expect. Things like font and adjectives told me so much about a chef.
When I looked at Basil’s menu, simplicity was what came to mind. The dishes weren’t oversaturated with sides. They weren’t rich with description either. Three, four words maximum, with script font. Several of the main courses were named after Grandma Sofia.
This restaurant screamed traditional.
I was clicking the About page when the man next to me leaned forward and put his arm in the air. His other arm rose, too, and he began removing his jacket. Once it was off, he stood to put it in the overhead space. As he returned to his seat, I was reminded of what I had smelled earlier when he first sat down. It wasn’t an overpowering cologne. It was fresh, crisp, like the middle of the forest during a rainstorm.
A scent I would purchase for a boyfriend … if there were one.
Some things I could justify in my head, but needing to hear more of this man’s voice, I couldn’t. It was over a six-hour flight that I had to spend working, so there was no reason to strike up a conversation. But the desire to know more about him was stronger than wanting to get caught up on my email.
I faced him again. “Are you headed to San Francisco for work or play … or maybe that’s home?”
His eyes slowly shifted toward me, his hands still holding his paper upright, which told me he planned to return to it. Several beats of silence passed, the powerfulness in his gaze as thick as when he’d boarded.
And just as he opened his mouth, a flight attendant came over the intercom and said, “Thank you for boarding Flight Eighty-Eight with nonstop service to San Francisco,” cutting him off.
Five
Jared
“Are you willing and able to help in the event of an emergency situation?” the flight attendant asked as she stood beside
our row. She had appeared directly after the announcement that informed us that all of the passengers were now on board the plane to San Francisco and the pilots were doing their final preparations before Flight 88 pulled away from the gate.
“Yes,” I answered, and I should have gone back to the article on the housing market in lower Manhattan that I’d started when I was waiting to board. Instead, my eyes were on her.
The girl in seat 14A.
She had dark hair that went well past her shoulders, a patch of freckles under each of her eyes, and lips that were pouty and full. She wasn’t beautiful. She was exquisite.
And she had no idea at all.
In the forty-seven years I’d been alive, I’d learned something about women. There were those you couldn’t help but look at and those you just shouldn’t look at.
She was both.
That was rare.
“Yes,” she replied to the flight attendant, and then she looked at me.
Before all of the interruptions, she had asked why I was going to California. I finally answered, “Some work, some pleasure. And yourself?”
“Same.” Her eyelids narrowed. “Are you from Manhattan? I don’t detect an accent.”
I felt the paper in my hands and knew there was no way I could go back to it. Not yet at least, not with her fiery green gaze on me.
“When you’ve lived in New York for as long as I have, you tell people you’re from there. It’s easier.”
She laughed, and it caused me to keep staring at her. “I’ve been here a while, too, and I agree. Once New York becomes home, you seem to forget everywhere else you’ve lived.” She tucked some hair behind her ear. “Why is that?”
When I’d asked my assistant to book this flight, I hadn’t considered flying commercial would put me in a position for conversation, like the one she’d just started. I hadn’t thought much about the actual flight at all besides knowing I had to be on it.
But now that I was here, I had no idea what the fuck I was thinking.
I really shouldn’t be going to San Francisco at all.
I looked away from her to glance up ahead. The main door was closed, telling me it was too late to get off the plane. The only thing I could do at this point was get some air.
I excused myself, halfway to my feet, knowing we were minutes from leaving the gate and supposed to be in our seats, and I went down the aisle. “I’ll be quick,” I said to one of the flight attendants as she approached me, and I continued to the lavatory.
When I got inside, I locked the door behind me, guessing I had about thirty seconds before I heard a knock.
If I were in any other restroom, I would have washed my face, but I wasn’t going to do that with the water from a plane. What I needed from this tight, crammed space was to catch my breath.
Because all of it had been sucked out of me, and there wasn’t any air to be found in row fourteen.
I gripped the edge of the narrow sink, looking at myself in the hazy mirror. Early this morning, when I hadn’t been able to sleep, I’d shaved the edges of my beard and trimmed the length. I was wearing one of my favorite suits. The Windsor knot at the base of my throat was perfect.
Maybe I wasn’t ready, but I sure as hell looked it.
I pushed back from the sink and came out of the lavatory, immediately greeted by the flight attendant who had her hand in the air as though she were about to knock.
“Please take your seat,” she said.
I knew I should ask her if there was a first-class seat available that came with more leg room and less chatter.
By not doing so, I knew I was making a mistake.
“Nervous flyer?” the girl asked when I returned to my seat, securing the belt across my waist.
It was the sound of her voice that caused me to look at her.
That was my second mistake.
And whatever happened next would be the third.
Six
Billie
I took a drink of my coffee, turning a little more toward the man sitting next to me as he replied, “I’ll be all right.”
I’d asked him if he was a nervous flyer after he got up in the middle of our conversation to go to the restroom. It made the most sense since he’d stood so abruptly, breaking a stare I had felt all the way in my toes. Anxiety was something I knew how to handle, so when the plane began to back away from the gate, I lowered the shade. Not all the way, just enough that he didn’t have a direct view of outside, which would help if he didn’t like heights.
“How about a cocktail when we get in the air?” I suggested, facing him again. “After a few, I assure you, this flight and everything about it will feel perrrfect.”
He just looked at me.
And one, two, three seconds passed before he said, “It might be a bit early for that.”
I laughed, partly because I was letting him in on a little secret and partly because I wanted to see if it would lighten things. “I live by the motto that it’s five o’clock somewhere. If you want a drink, have one. Don’t waste time debating it. Life’s too short for that.”
He wasn’t smiling, but his lips weren’t hard like when he’d just sat down. “You’re going to join me then?”
When a client was paying for my travel, I had rules. Not getting drunk was one. But there was no reason I couldn’t have a mimosa, considering I wasn’t going to the restaurant for another twelve hours. Besides, tonight, I was just taking pictures and shooting videos. Tomorrow was when I was eating.
“I’ll have one.”
His eyes narrowed. “What would happen if you had two?”
“I’d be fine. Three on an empty stomach is questionable. Four would be ugly and probably get me fired.”
“Strict boss.”
As I repositioned myself again, my body now facing him even more, I noticed his paper had flattened in his lap, and he was no longer holding it upright. I grinned at the sight, placing my coffee on my thigh as I said, “You’re looking at her.” I felt us make a turn and head for the runway. Keeping his mind occupied would help his nerves, and the only way to do that was to bury him in conversation. “Let me clarify … my job is centered around food and eating. That doesn’t mix well with a hangover.”
He nodded toward my tablet, which showed Basil’s website and pictures of a few of their dishes. “You made those?”
“Oh no.” I shut off the screen. “I’m a food vlogger, not a chef.”
Even though he showed no emotion, it seemed as though he was warming a little. I especially believed that when he said, “Tell me more about this job.”
“Well … where do I start—”
“We’ve been informed we’re second for takeoff,” the pilot said over the intercom, cutting me off. “Flight attendants, please prepare for departure.”
Out of habit, I glanced at the window. With the interior lights still on, I had the perfect shot of what was in front of me and the view directly behind me.
We were sitting on the runway, ready.
But then my eyes shifted, taking in the reflection, and the intensity returned to my body. It was the same feeling he had caused earlier and had broken when he went to the restroom.
That was because, in the Plexiglas, I saw his eyes.
And they were locked with mine.
Seven
Honey
Spring 1984
“You’ve got a nice, big corner room all to yourself,” the nurse said to Honey while she stood next to her bed.
She had been placed on the post-surgical floor where she’d be staying until tomorrow, assuming she was well enough to be discharged.
“Will the doctor be checking on me?” Honey asked.
She was still so groggy from surgery, her mouth dry, lips cracked. But she remembered the man who had been so kind when she came into the hospital, who had stayed with her until she was prepped for surgery, and she wanted to thank him.
“You’ve already seen him,” the nurse said, checking the connection on the I
V. “He spoke to you when you were in recovery.”
Honey tried to recall their conversation, but not a single word came to mind. Not even his face, which she would have seen for the first time.
“What did he say to me?”
The nurse propped Honey’s pillow a little higher. “He told you how well everything went.”
“I want him to”—she couldn’t believe how heavy her eyes were getting, how her limbs felt like lead—“come back.” A tingling was spreading, like little flecks of sun bursting inside her blood. “I’m … so tired.”
The nurse pulled the blanket up to Honey’s chin, and then she fell asleep.
“Hello?” Honey whispered into the receiver of the phone, her throat so scratchy that it was burning.
The ringing had woken her out of a dead sleep.
“What in God’s name happened to you?” Valentine screeched.
Her roommate’s voice was so loud that she had to pull the phone away from her ear.
Once Honey realized Valentine was looking for a response, she ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to produce some saliva that would dampen her mouth. “I have no idea,” she finally said. “I went home from work, not feeling good. I kept getting sick and ended up here.”
“It’s probably from your cooking.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” She held her abdomen, feeling the pull of her stitches. “I’m terribly sore, even with all the drugs.”
“I just got home and heard the message on the answering machine. I’m going to get changed, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“What message?”
Honey had left her a note on the kitchen table, saying that she was driving herself to the hospital, but that wasn’t what her roommate had said.
“The doctor left one for me,” Valentine replied. “And then I saw what you had written. I called the hospital, and they connected me to your room.”