by Dela
Seat 2A
Dela
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Dela
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Seat 2A
Copyright © 2017 Dela
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Published: Dela 2017
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by Taryn Lawson
Book Cover Design: Okay Creations
ISBN: 1544602014
ISBN-13: 978-1544602011
For my whim-taking, cat-loving, diamond chipper, who always has my back.
Success is an absurd, erratic thing. She arrives when one least expects her and after she has come may depart again almost because of a whim.
Alice Foote MacDougall
Chapter One
Jessie
I stopped in the restroom first to fix my hair. I almost didn’t want to, but my face needed attention. My eyes were still a little puffy.
I was leaving him behind, a man who—kindly put—cut up my heart like chopped liver. I caught him cheating with a girl on my cheerleading squad at Georgia Southern University. Because of him, that stupid-lying-cheating-cocky-self-loving prick, I was flying alone to Canada. I’d made sure of it.
I fixed my sweater back over my shoulder and threw a cap on over my caramel curls to avoid weird stares before walking through JFK airport to my next terminal. My feet were sweating uncomfortably in my boots, but I couldn’t help but notice all the awful smells whirling around in the air: eggs, bread, coffee. It all made me sick.
Whenever I had a great deal on my mind—like an unfaithful boyfriend—I tortured myself by not eating. Not intentionally. I just couldn’t keep food down. I clenched my jaw and focused on where I was supposed to go, hoping the hunger pain would stop long enough for me to make it to Minneapolis.
It was only going to be a short trip for Regina’s wedding. She’d been my best friend since second grade. A few months before, when she announced she was getting married somewhere other than home, I thought it was a bit of an inconvenience. Now, it was a lifesaver.
“Jessie Evans, please report to gate 12,” the overhead speaker said.
Hearing my name I realized how late my connecting flight had been. I picked up the pace, making my feet burn even more inside their boots. Luckily the gate came into view, but just as I’d picked up my stride, something hard pushed against my left shoulder and my purse slipped off, falling to the floor, all its contents—my wallet, my keys, my tampons—scattering in all directions.
I cursed under my breath as I dropped to the floor and threw my belongings back into my bag. I noticed the jerk’s shoes at my side and glanced up. He was a young man who looked older than I, like he should be sitting at a desk job trying to pay off his recently accrued college loans. But he didn’t look like the business type. Instead he wore red Vans and a black shirt with a backpack slung over one shoulder. He had dark hair and the deepest emerald green color in his eyes.
Suddenly the vapor of alcohol swarming around him burned my nose. He flashed me a crooked smile and pointed to the phone held against his smooth skin, mouthing something inaudibly. I understood perfectly that he was on the phone chatting, probably to another rude jerk like himself—one who was probably also bumping into women rudely—but I continued to glare anyways. I couldn’t believe he didn’t stop! That’s right jerk, I’m staring at you.
When I thought my hard glare was doing something, the good-looking punk turned with a shrug and disappeared into the souvenir shop on the corner. I had no choice but to grunt as I restored my belongings quickly, then hurried to the plane.
I sank down, exhausted, into my first-class leather seat 2B as the effects of last night’s crying session and early morning flight anchored in. My brown eyes were dry and sensitive, and my body ached for sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen. I was too anxious. I opened my new Cosmopolitan magazine as passengers boarded, not really interested, but there was nothing else to do.
A sudden plop! sounded on the chair next to me.
Confused, I shot up on the edge of my seat, fixing my gaze on a familiar pair of green eyes. I froze, my worst profanity edging to the tip of my tongue. He looked away briefly to place his duffle bag overhead, then slid past me and sat down near the window. He smelled good, like musk and leather and mint, and I cursed under my breath about it.
“What are you doing?” I asked sharply, knowing fully that this was his seat—my unfaithful pink-loving ex’s. I’d only cancelled it the night before.
He looked back to me with a pleasant smile and held out his ticket. “I’m seat 2A.”
I glanced briefly at the ticket with a confident assumption that it was a mistake. But then my vision tunneled onto one number and one letter. The stub indeed read seat 2A. I choked and moved in my seat uncomfortably, cursing to the mother-of-all-bad-luck that one number and one letter could have such an impact on my stress levels.
As he tinkered with his belongings, I squashed my feet beneath me and reached for my phone. I felt his stare boring into me as I flipped for my go-to break-up-because-you’re-a-sleaze song.
This guy next to me with slightly curly hair was beautiful—too beautiful. Above his grotto greens were dark eyebrows that carried a damn-I’m-hot-and-I-don’t-know-it boyish expression. It was like he had emerged from an ad for men’s underwear. I hoped he didn’t notice that I could barely manage to fumble my fingers over my phone. I was about to hit play when he moved closer.
“Sorry about your bag earlier,” he said, his voice tinted with amusement as he held up a new black neck pillow with the price tag still attached. Forty dollars?! That’s ridiculous. “I was in a rush.”
Is he serious? Way to go, jerk, hope your pillow feels better than your manners.
“Do you mind?” I exaggerated a shake of my magazine and was about to hit play on the phone when he angled his neck to the side, aligning his eyes with the article.
“How to please a guy in bed,” he read with a cocky smirk.
What? I flashed my eyes back at the magazine. No, that’s not what I’m reading! I didn’t even read Cosmopolitan, like ever—too many sex articles and not enough fashion. I quickly flipped the page, utterly embarrassed, before turning away from him, not minding how the armrest dug into my spine. Well, maybe I minded a little, but I’d succumb to anything to avoid his inspection.
One hour into the flight, once my butt had gone numb from being stuc
k in the same position, my stomach growled. Ugh, I should have eaten that expired yogurt.
I lowered my head, pretending to adjust my hat so I could see if he noticed my unbearable hunger. He was still for the slightest second, even though I swore I saw him flicker a glance at me, then he reached for a bag of chips in his backpack. Moments later he was chomping excruciatingly loudly.
“Are you serious?” I spat, louder than intended.
He licked the salt off his bottom lip very slowly and a small grin feathered on his face. “In the worst way.”
I blinked hard and swallowed. I wanted to punch him briefly, until his words settled into my mind and I realized what he was doing, that little sneak. Then I wanted to punch him just for making me want to hear him say those four words again. But the booze I still smelled changed my focus real quick.
I glared into his pupils. I wasn’t really good at reading wasted people. “Are you drunk?”
“Hardly.” He chuckled.
“When’s the last time you had a drink?”
He looked at his watch. “Two hours ago.”
At least he was honest. “Don’t you think it’s a little early to be drinking?” I asked.
“I thought you were a bubblegum girl,” he stated, as if he were confirming his own theory. He leaned onto my armrest. Stop it, that’s mine, but if you smile at me like that again I’ll let you do . . .
“Pardon me?” I shook my head, confused, wondering why I couldn’t stop myself from slowly moving closer to him.
His eyes flicked to the phone beneath my fingers. “You’re going to listen to Fall Out Boy?”
“What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”
“Nothing. I just thought you’d be more into Hot Chelle Rae.” He leaned further into my territory. I gasped. “Their horrible music tends to draw the chicks.”
“I like both,” I quickly responded.
“So you are a bubblegum girl then.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bubblegum girls listen to all that teeny-bopper crap while blowing bubbles with pink gum wearing perfectly curly hair.” He might have just rolled his eyes a bit.
My hands flung to my hair, down around my shoulders, and tucked it behind my back. Then I straightened up. “Do I look like I’m a teenager?”
Confirmed . . . he definitely just rolled his eyes.
He chuckled. “Hardly. You’re what . . . twenty?”
“Twenty-two,” I corrected rather swiftly. Why am I still talking to this idiot? I wonder how old he is. No, snap out of it, Jessie!
He popped the last chip into his mouth and crumpled the wrapper into the seat pocket. “So where you headed?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Touché. Well wherever you’re going, I hope you make it there safe in this storm.”
“Thank you,” I replied absently, glancing briefly out the window behind him, then turning my head the opposite direction.
And that was it. He understood the good old-fashioned cold shoulder and didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, all one hour and twenty-three minutes of it.
The plane descended through a foggy patch of clouds, and we dropped abruptly. My hand stretched for the armrest as butterflies filled my stomach. Only Mr. Seat 2A was there first, and I accidently wrapped my hand around his. I watched him as I retracted my hand at once, despite the instant warmth underneath my palm, loathing how his broad shoulders moved in rhythm from a low snicker.
Please let me remember to torment Regina for picking the middle of December to get married and for arranging the worst travel itinerary and for picking seat 2B. Then I reminded myself that he was supposed to be seat 2A, and I wasn’t as angry.
The turbulence went still again when I found myself succumbing to my curiosity and peering over at Mr. Seat 2A. His head was tilted back, resting on the headrest as he stared at the blizzard outside. The intercom suddenly cracked. I turned away quickly before he caught me checking him out and stared at my feet in an inconspicuous manner that wasn’t very inconspicuous. I looked guilty as charged, I was sure of it. I moved my hair to cover the side of my face he was on and leaned back.
“Good afternoon,” the stewardess announced on the speaker, “and welcome to Minneapolis. For those of you connecting to other flights please be advised that delays may be possible due to a severe weather advisory.”
Great.
The flight attendant was collecting last-minute trash as they announced connecting terminals and gates. The plane finally came to a stop, and I noticed everyone digging in the overhead bins for their luggage. I pretended to search for something in my purse since I didn’t have any bags to collect.
Grumble. Grumble. I need food. Now.
“Excuse me,” Seat 2A said, our knees slightly rubbing as he slid past me. I watched him reach overhead and gather his two bags, then exit rather quickly without a glance back in my direction. Must be catching another flight. Good.
Walking off the plane, the first thing I did was look for the international terminal. It seemed reasonably packed for midafternoon, and the lines for food were abnormally long. A smidge of disappointment discouraged my stomach, and it swirled around nauseously as I passed places like Mickey D’s and Cinnabon. I decided to explore other options and trace through the newer terminal before giving up. I found a smaller, less-popular café near the quiet end of the airport, but far enough to make me worried I’d miss my flight. I quickly chose a chef salad to satisfy my irritated stomach, then hustled back to the gate.
Salad in hand, I noticed Seat 2A sitting on one of the chairs with his back to me, his duffle bag and backpack on the chair next to him—in my gate. His rounded shoulder blades poked out a little from his bent back as he stared at the phone clenched tightly in his fingers. Though he wouldn’t be able to hear me with his earbuds in, I advanced quickly to the gate attendant.
“How much longer until we board?” I asked the tall woman.
She held one finger up and picked up the intercom phone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Canada Air flight 648 to Vancouver has been delayed due to extreme weather conditions. We will notify you shortly of the new time of boarding.” She looked down to me and smiled fakely. “It’s been delayed.”
“Yeah, I sort of got that when you said it the first time. For how long?” I glanced out the window. The storm obliterated the plane completely, a raging sea of white on white. It wasn’t looking good, but I chose to be optimistic.
“It’s not looking too good.” She grinned a stupid smile with stupid, uneven red lipstick that didn’t even line up with her stupid symmetrical lips. Neither are your lips, dear.
Unbelievable. Add that to the Regina-complaint list. I groaned as I picked the farthest seat from Seat 2A in our gate, sat down with a horrible stomach ache, and opened my salad.
Chapter Two
Kendal
3:52 p.m. Flight delayed.
I vaguely heard the announcement through the music playing in my ears. I looked toward the windows. The storm didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon, so I pulled the buds out and left to scout out some snacks. Twenty minutes later, I walked back to the international gate with a Coke in my hand and a load of junk food tucked into my backpack. Something in the way that girl had asked if I was drunk bothered me, so I opted alcohol out for a nice, bubbly soda.
That girl with golden hair was hot and wouldn’t leave my mind. I knew few girls who could pull off what she was wearing: boots, those stretchy pants that most girls shouldn’t wear, and a too-big sweater that fell off one shoulder. I wondered why she bothered to curl her hair when she just hid it underneath a hat. I was about to return to my old seat when I actually noticed bubblegum girl a few rows ahead.
She was pacing back and forth in front of the chairs, on the phone, looking pale—and stressed— and standing in my gate for my flight.
I chuckled to myself. What were the odds that she was going to Vancouver too? If she has the same seating arrangement
as last flight, things are about to get real interesting.
Before my last flight in JFK, when I saw her board my plane, I asked the attendant at the check-in desk where she was sitting. I knew she would know because she had only just checked her in. She was hesitant to give up the information at first but with a little Vargas charm, and probably a lot of luck, I was given the exact seat in minutes. I chuckled to myself when she also told me the seat next to her appeared empty.
Now it was time for round two.
I approached the gate attendant. “Good afternoon, I’d like to change my seat if you please.”
“Name?” she replied, not looking up, her fingers clicking on the keyboard.
“Vargas. Kendal Vargas.”
Her eyes shot up, as I expected, and her expression changed to hold a flirty grin—just like the last gate agent, except this one couldn’t apply lipstick to save her life. I ignored it, and the parts stuck to her teeth, and looked over to Bubblegum.
“I need to change my seat to be next to wherever that girl is sitting.” I pointed to my new friend.
“Name?”
“I’m not sure. Is seat 2A available?” I couldn’t be sure it would be the seat next to hers, but it was still worth a shot.
Her fingers pranced over the keys and within seconds a subtle look of shock changed her face. “It is.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Yes, Mr. Vargas. I just need to see your form of payment to confirm your insurance benefits for changing your seat. Your card won’t be charged.”
I slid my black card over the counter and grinned. Best whim ever.
I slowly returned to my seat, debating whether to approach her now or surprise her again on the plane.
“Ladies and gentlemen, flight 471 to Vancouver, Canada, has been cancelled due to severe ice. If you need assistance with hotel arrangements, please visit our desk.”
Delayed until tomorrow morning? I leaned back in my seat and tried to be nonchalant as I observed Bubblegum. Now she was sitting in the row against the wall, elbows on legs, leaning forward, her head resting in her hands.