On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production)

by Jenny B. Jones

  And we dance.

  He twirls me around the deck floor and pulls me back into his arms.

  “Just so you know . . .” I stare into his face. “I don’t normally kiss on the first date.”

  “Just so you know,” he drawls, “I wasn’t gonna try.”

  He gives my fingers a squeeze and I smile. “This is pretty sweet though.”

  “Are you considering an exception to your rule?”

  I press my lips to his cheek. “I’ll let you know.”

  And under a canopy of stars and one giant Texas moon, I attend my very first dance.

  With my very own Chihuahua.

  Can’t Let You Go

  A Katie Parker Production Novella

  Summer 2014

  Katie Parker is now a twenty-three year-old college graduate, fresh from a year of performing on the great stages of London. When she runs into old flame Charlie Benson in the airport, both of them are bound for In Between, brining their baggage and more secrets that can be stuffed in an overhead bin. A flight mishap throws the two together, and Katie finds she can’t escape Charlie when she returns to their small town. But does she even want to? Katie’s returned to mend a broken heart and figure her life out, but when she discovers what has really brought Charlie back to town, she’s thrown in the middle of an all-out battle.

  Can she risk her heart again for a guy whose kisses make her weak in the knees, but whose secret could destroy all that she holds dear?

  Chapter One

  “What do you mean my bags aren’t here?”

  I lean over the counter at the O’Hare airport, fresh out of patience and smiles. The TSA employee’s fingers clickity-clack on his keyboard, his generous brows knit together like an escaped wooly worm.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Parker. Something apparently went very wrong, and your luggage seems to be on a flight to Reykjavik.”

  “This is unacceptable. Who goes to Iceland?”

  “Apparently your bags do.”

  I want to slap my hand on the counter and yell until Mr. Brows makes this all okay. Because I just can’t handle one more catastrophe. My bottom lip quivers, and I hear the pitiful words tumble from my lips. “My whole life is in those bags.”

  “Surely not everything,” says a voice behind me.

  That voice.

  One I haven’t heard in years, except in my dreams of home and heartache.

  I turn around, pushing my tired, limp hair from my flushed cheek. Suddenly all the exhaustion of a ten hour flight evaporates, the weeks without sleep, the homesickness. All that I left behind in London. “Charlie Benson.” His name comes out of my mouth like a sacred whisper as he stands there smiling.

  I immediately burst into tears.

  “Hey,” Strong arms wrap around me, and I’m taken right back. My head pressed to Charlie’s chest, I inhale his achingly familiar scent, and I’m no longer this broken, exhausted twenty-three year old, who just spent a year studying abroad, the pieces of my heart, my only luggage that followed. I’m sixteen, back in my hometown of In Between, dancing with one sweet Charlie Benson on my back porch underneath the Texas stars.

  “How are you here?” I dash at the tears and take a much-needed step back. I take in the boy before me. Can I even call him a boy? He stands tall, shoulders broad, as if now carrying not just muscle, but some of the world’s responsibility. With his dark dress pants, white button down, and navy tie, Charlie looks all man. And a professional one at that. “Are you traveling for work?”

  “I live in Chicago now. Got out of a meeting only minutes ago. I’m on my way to In Between. You?”

  I gesture to the desk. “I was trying to track down my luggage. I flew in from Paris, but had a terrible layover. I’m finally headed home as well.” To my mom and dad, my crazy grandmother, to people who love me.

  “You were studying in London this year, right?”

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. “Yes.”

  “My mom keeps me updated on In Between. She said you were in some plays on the West End.” At my nod he smiles. “She says you’re kind of a big deal.”

  Glad someone thinks so. “Just lucked into some good roles, I guess.”

  “Flight 247 for Houston will now begin boarding our first class passengers. . .”

  Rain pelts the wall of windows at the gate, and I wonder if the crew has noticed.

  “Are you on this flight?” he asks.

  “Yes, you?”

  “Yep.” He reaches out, runs his hand down my arm, his head tilted just so. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “What, me? This?” I gesture to my mess of a face. “Jet lag, you know? And then the airline losing my stuff.” I give a laugh so genuine, the Academy should FexEx me an Oscar. “I’m sorry. I’m a little homesick, and when I saw you—” I shake my head and smile. “I guess you were just a sight for sore eyes.”

  His lips tip in a grin. “Last I heard you were engaged.”

  Another announcement for our flight cracks across the speakers, but it sails over my head. “Wow. Word travels fast.”

  “You can’t beat the small town communication system.”

  “You mean my grandma?”

  His laugh swirls around me, settling somewhere in the gray recesses of my heavy heart.

  The garbled voice comes across the speakers again.

  “Time for me to board,” Charlie says. “Where are you sitting?” He holds out a hand for my ticket, and I fumble in my bag to find it.

  “It’s here somewhere.” I dig through the outer-pocket, coming up with a nail file, half a Snickers, two pieces of gym, and ten wads of used Kleenex.

  “Hey.” He steps nearer. “You’re shaking.”

  I shrug and continue digging. “Fatigue.”

  He takes my worn leather messenger bag, looks in the middle compartment, his eyes never leaving mine, and pulls out my ticket. “You’re still afraid of flying, aren’t you?”

  The things people remember. One senior class trip to Miami Beach with me trying to storm the cockpit demanding two forms of identification from the pilots, and everyone thinks you have a full blown neurosis.

  Please. I’ve grown up since then.

  “Final boarding call . . .”

  “It’s been incredible seeing you today.” Charlie pulls me in for a hug, and I just breathe him in. The warm, the familiar, the safe. “We have more catching up to do,” he whispers near my ear. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Definitely. I haven’t had a flying meltdown in such a long time.”

  It’s been at least three hours.

  Clutching a water bottle and my wrinkled ticket, I follow Charlie as we board the sparsely populated plane. He stops off in row seven, while I schlep to the very back of the cabin. Next to the bathroom. How these odiferous seats don’t come with a discount is beyond me.

  I squeeze my bag in the bin above me, then settle into the window seat, hoping the two empty seats on my right remain that way. Buckling in, I check my phone one last time. I quickly respond to a text from my mom, two from my dad, and five from my grandma that consist of nothing more than her fish-lipped selfies with the message “My face misses yours!”

  And then there are those voicemails I immediately delete.

  Fifteen minutes later, we taxi down the runway. I sit in my blissfully empty row, push my breath in and out, and pray to the Lord Jesus to spare me one more day. I’m not afraid of what comes after death. I’m just a little terrified of the actual dying process. Especially if it involves crashing, flames, and wasted drink carts.

  I’m just promising the Holy Father my favorite mascara and first born when a shoulder bumps mine, as someone throws himself into the seat beside me. I continue to whisper my beggar’s prayer when a hand covers my clenched fingers.

  I look up.

  Charlie smiles. He brushes my damp hair from my face like he’s done it a million times before. His strong hand pulls one of mine into his. And he just holds it.

  �
�I’m not afraid to fly,” I say.

  “Of course not.” He gives our fingers a squeeze. “It’s the fatigue.”

  Thunder cracks outside. “Do you think it’s safe to fly?”

  “I do.”

  “But I read this report that when it storms, your statistical chances of—”

  “It’s perfectly safe.”

  “But sometimes lightning can be magnetically attracted to the wing and—”

  “Nearly impossible.”

  “And then there’s the possibility of—”

  “Katie?”

  My heart beats wildly, and my bones ache with exhaustion. “Yes?”

  His gray eyes hold mine. “I won’t let anything happen to us.”

  “Promise?”

  With a smile as safe as church and sweet as sun tea, he slowly nods. “Always.”

  Chapter Two

  I was practically raised on the streets. By twelve, I had a rap sheet, knew how to steal to eat, could pick a lock with just paper clips and spit, and could deflect the advances of my druggie mom’s boyfriends with one well-placed knee.

  I was fearless.

  And now here I sat in my cushy, cramped plane seat, a half hour into the ride, tremoring slightly, and noticing I’m still clutching Charlie Benton’s hand like it’s all that’s holding us upright.

  I let go and give a small laugh. “Sorry.” Nothing like reuniting with an old friend by welcoming them into your neurotic phobia. “Takeoffs make me nervous.” And the part that comes after—the whole driving in the sky thing, hanging by clouds, winds, and various gravitational whims. His piercing gray eyes soften, and I remember all the times as a teenager I’d stare into them, sure there was a God, and He had baptized this boy with a benevolence of genetic blessings that resulted in one beautiful, intelligent boy who had routinely taken my breath away.

  “I love to fly,” Charlie says. “I’ve put in a lot of miles in the last year. I love the rocking of the plane, the hum of the engine. Some of the best sleeping conditions.”

  “Right.” I would have to be drugged unconscious. “So tell me about your job.” Charlie had gone to college in Chicago, leaving the town of In Between, while I had stayed behind, doing junior college, then university.

  His gaze leaves mine, and he looks down the aisle toward the flight attendant pushing a cart. “Nothing exciting. I interned for this company my senior year. They hired me right after graduation.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m very entry level,” he says. “I’m kind of a glorified paper pusher right now.”

  “I know that won’t last long. What company did you say you’re with?”

  “Would you like a beverage?” The flight attendant brings her silver cart to a stop by us, her red lips smiling.

  I request a diet soda, and the woman pops the top on the can and pours it over ice.

  “You probably want to give her the whole can,” Charlie says. “I think Katie here could use the stiff drink.”

  “Would you like me to pour in some complimentary tequila?” the flight attendant asks.

  I nod vigorously. “Yes, please.”

  “I was just kidding.” She laughs and pushes her cart down the aisle.

  More cruelty delivered mid-air. Thanks, lady.

  “You’re fine,” Charlie says. “The hard part is over.”

  “Maybe you could keep talking.” I snuggle my side into the chair, facing my old friend. My old boyfriend. “Keep my mind off our imminent doom.”

  He laughs. “Tell me about you. You haven’t been too present on Facebook the last year. Hard to tell what you’ve been up to.”

  Images of the last six months flash through my mind. Some of them amazing. Some of them. . .not worth thinking on. “I finally graduated.” I take a bolstering swig of diet soda, enjoying the way it burns going down. “Then I got selected to go work in London.” Had that been a blessing or a curse?

  “My mom said you were in some pretty impressive productions.”

  I’d forgotten how intense his gray eyes could be. So focused, like I’m the only person he wants to be talking to. Those eyes were older now, still full of mischief, always reflecting an intimidating intelligence, but now there was something more looking back at me. Something darker, maybe a little bit heavy. Like Charlie Benson might have some sadness and secrets of his own.

  “It was an unforgettable experience,” I finally say.

  “And now you’re back for a visit?”

  “Yes.” I leave it at that, clutching my arm rest as we hit a few bumps of turbulence. “And you? What’s bringing you back?”

  He lifts his drink and absently swirls it, studies the dark contents. “I want to check on my dad. Spend some time with him.”

  “I thought he was in remission.” My mom had told me last year when Charlie’s dad had been diagnosed with liver cancer. The whole In Between community had rallied around the bank president with prayers, well-wishes, and many a foil-covered casserole.

  “He is. And things are looking good.” Charlie looks past me and out the window over my shoulder. “My company gave me some time to come home and be with my family, so I took it.”

  I want to ask more, but one turn of mercy deserves another, and I let it drop. God knows I don’t want to talk about what’s really dragging me back to In Between, and given the set in Charlie’s jaw, this topic is not a welcome one.

  “You dated that Tate guy for a few years,” Charlie says. “What happened to that?”

  The plane makes a sharp jerk to the right, and I slap my hand on Charlie’s. I frantically look around, but neither of the flight attendants seem concerned. The person across from us reads a People, while the couple a row ahead amiably chats.

  “Um. . .” It’s okay. We just hit an air pocket. Calm down. “Tate, yeah. He’s now a missionary in Uganda. We’re still friends.” High School Love Number Two and I had simply moved in different directions.

  Lightning cracks outside, and I jump as it feels close enough to touch us. Charlie’s fingers slid back and forth over mine. “We’re fine,” he said as the plane dipped, sending my stomach to my feet. “Just a storm.”

  And just how many more of those did I have to endure?

  I look at my hand captured in his, and I knew Charlie was just being nice. That’s just who he was. But the rhythmic strokes of his fingers calmed my frayed nerves as nothing else had on this voyage home.

  The plane began to shake and rattle like the busted glove compartment on my old Toyota. Only I couldn’t turn up the radio, sing my car solos, and drown out the noisy vibrations.

  “Why do you think we didn’t work out?” I ask.

  Charlie doesn’t startle. Merely lifts a dark brow as he inclines his head closer to mine. “Where did that come from?”

  “Was it me?”

  “I—”

  “Is there something about me that pushes guys away? That asks to be dumped?”

  His hand on mine stills just as a flight attendant gives a staticky report. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. We’re hitting a brief patch of turbulence with this storm, but we’ll be out of it in no time. Food and beverage services will be resumed as soon as we get the all clear.”

  “That can’t be good, right?” I sit up as straight as my seatbelt will let me, frantically taking in every detail around me—the location of the flight attendants, the body language of fellow passengers, the reassuring presence of the wings that still seem to be blessedly attached.

  Charlie pours more drink into my icy cup. He’s probably regretting sitting by me. He probably wishes I’d drink my diet soda and happily pass out in a carbonated coma, so he could go back to his own seat and read his Wall Street Journal or whatever it is a calm, brainiac would read.

  I need medication.

  “Here, eat some of these.” Charlie reaches into the leather bag at his feet and pulls out a box of M&Ms.

  I snatch them out of his grip and down a handful. I c
hew vigorously, savoring the sugar and chocolate on my tongue. What if this is the last time I taste such heaven?

  The plane, deciding the shaking was just its opening act, brings on the full-on quaking, jumping up and down like a Pentecostal with the Holy Ghost. My butt gains some air, and I turn my frightened gaze to Charlie. “What’s happening?”

  “Turbulence.” He lifts a shoulder in such a lazy fashion, you’d think he didn’t notice the way his hair bounced on his head from the aeronautical shenanigans. “You were asking me why we didn’t work out.”

  “I was?”

  His smile is soft, slow. “Why do you think we didn’t make it?”

  I tighten my seatbelt, trying not to wonder at the age of it. “Because you had your eye on some blonde Barbie who I could never compete with.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “That you didn’t have your eye on Chelsea Blake?”

  He has the decency to look guilty. “That you couldn’t compare. You were prettier and smarter than her any day.”

  Men in shimmy-shaky planes will say anything. “But you dumped me to go after her.”

  “I believe it was a mutual break-up.”

  “Because I knew what was coming.”

  “It was you I took to the senior prom.” He squeezes the hand he’s still holding and gives me a look that zings right to my weary core. “And you and I spent most of the night camping with on a blanket under the stars.”

  “At the lake.” He’d built me a fire, made a pallet on the rocky ground, tucked me into the crook of his arm, and pointed out every constellation he could find in that April sky while I rested my head on his chest and listened to the crickets and the cadence of his heart.

  Then we graduated. And Charlie Benson, of the lingering kisses and spell-binding astronomy, had moved away.

  Rain and wind battle outside my window, and I utter a quick litany of prayers. Prayers that beg for calm skies and fifty more years of life.

  “Guys don’t stick around though,” I say, watching a bolt of lightning slash the sky. “Eventually they find someone else, something better.”

  He leans close. “Is that what you really think? That you weren’t good enough?”