by kj lewis
“I was taken by your accent,” he says slowly as if to clarify. “Where are you from, originally?”
“Memphis. Born and raised.”
“Ah,” he says, like a piece of a puzzle has fallen into place. I have long become used to comments and occasional snares concerning my southern accent. Despite my time away from Memphis, I still have it. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You can take the girl out of Memphis, but you can’t take Memphis out of the girl. Memphians are proud of our southern roots. I don’t notice my accent, but rarely a day goes by without someone commenting on it. You would think I was transplanted from another country.
The attendant makes another stop to replace my now empty Diet Coke, halting when he positions his hand to stop her from placing the new glass on the tray table.
“Could you bring her a bottled water instead?” He directs more than he asks.
“Certainly, sir” She retreats without even looking to me for approval. What the…? I’m so dumbfounded by the whole encounter that I find myself speechless, and only a small noise of protest escapes my throat when he looks at me. I know by the look on his face that there must be one of shock and confusion on mine.
“That would have been your third Diet Coke since boarding,” he says, in a voice that denotes his irritation at having to explain himself. Is he monitoring my alcohol consumption or something? Am I in Diet Coke’s Anonymous? Is he my sponsor? “You need to drink water. Flying can dehydrate you, and you stated you’ve been on a plane more than once already today.”
“You do know I’m grown right?” My tone is sharp. His eyes deliberately land on my chest before crawling their way up to my mine. There’s a heat in them.
“I’m aware.”
“I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. I think I can handle a drink selection. In fact, I’m certain of it.” My indignant manor is interrupted when the attendant drops off my bottle of water and two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I don’t know if she intends it to make amends, but they are deliciously warm and gooey. He declines his.
“Actually. I’ll take his.” I smile sweetly at the stewardess before looking defiantly at him. Two extra cookies almost offset my lack of Diet Coke.
Sitting back, I realize he is watching me. He looks like he is having a conversation in his head and needs no one else to participate or give feedback. Rotating the cap back on his water, I find my ire dissipating and my mind wandering again, wondering what it would feel like to be beneath those strong hands. I like men with strong, firm hands. It’s often one of the first things I notice about a man. It is a testament to his striking looks that his hands weren’t the first thing I noticed about him.
“What do you do in New York?” He distracts my wayward thoughts. I have to remind myself he’s had a crummy day and give him props for attempting polite conversation.
“I work for Jackson Hollingsworth. Are you familiar with him?”
“Not personally, but I know of his business and I’m sure I know many of his clients. What do you do there?”
“I am the styling and personal analyst for his company.”
“How long have you worked for Mr. Hollingsworth?”
“We met my first year in New York. I was leaving class one day and ran into Grays Papaya to grab a hot dog. He was on the Upper West Side to see a client. I made an unfortunate comment about the shape of my hotdog, and we have been close ever since.” I smile just thinking of Jackson.
Like Jules, Jackson Hollingsworth is my life line. I was drowning when he rescued me back to land. He is the successful owner of a very prestigious brand imaging company. He is beautiful in his own right with ebony skin, hair trimmed close to his scalp, broad shoulders, and a sculpted body. He is the epitome of masculinity. Jackson draws the attention of women everywhere we go, disappointing them when they learn he is engaged. To Patrick.
“So you attended Columbia?” His eyes lose a little of their warmth. Why, I am not sure.
“No.” Where did that come from?
As if to answer my unspoken confusion, he explained, “You said you were leaving class on the upper west side. I assumed, based on the fact that you work for Mr. Hollingsworth, that you were referring to Columbia.”
“Oh, no. Right. Sorry. No, Julliard. I was attending Julliard.
“You went to Julliard?”
“Yes. Then NYU.”
“You went to Julliard, NYU, and worked for Jackson Hollingsworth? In seven years, that’s quite a resume.”
“If that were true, it would be,” I laugh and clarify. “I accepted a scholarship to Julliard before my financial responsibilities changed. Once there, I realized that, between required practices and performances, the time frame was too stringent to allow me to work. So, I left Julliard after one semester and went to NYU. Unfortunately, I had to put it on hold, too. I couldn’t give school and studying the time required and take care of my responsibilities. I’ve been with Jackson ever since. What do you do?”
“I work in acquisitions.” He seems annoyed that I have directed the conversation back to him.
“If finances had not been an obstacle, would you have stayed at Julliard? I thought their scholarship program was competitive and covered all school and living expenses?”
While I don’t enjoy talking about myself, I also don’t shy away from answering easy questions. It gives people a false sense that I’m an open book. I am transparent about things most people might not comment on, but I hold close the things that matter the most to me. Share my thoughts, not my feelings, a lesson learned in deflection that has served me well.
“You know, I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to distract me with questions. I am sure you have more important things to tend to.”
“I don’t ask frivolous questions Emme, and I never ask a question I don’t want the answer to,” he pauses. “Expect it actually.” His tone is imperious, authoritative, but his eyes are kind and inquiring. “If finances had not been an obstacle, would you have stayed at Julliard?” he repeats. Something I also get the feeling he doesn’t do often.
I nebulously wonder how the questions have turned back to me so quickly but find myself compelled to answer him, for reasons I’m not sure I want to analyze. Is it because he is kind, or is it because he demands it? Either way, I wasn’t prepared for the question. No one has ever questioned my answer before. They have always accepted my reasoning that money was the issue, and it was. But the larger part was that I had lost my love for playing. Now, holding a cello was like holding a lifeless creature. It has been six years since I picked one up. I doubt I ever will again.
Taken aback by the direction of my thinking and the depth of my feelings in front of a perfect stranger, I opt for a fact that played a far less significant role in my decision to leave Julliard and give him my “blind date” answer to what, at that time, was an easy choice.
“No. I came to realize I didn’t want the life of a concert cellist. I didn’t want to travel eleven months out of the year. I wanted more roots than that life would give me.”
He stares at me with a long canyon of silence that I feel the need to fill with…I don’t know—something. But my mind can’t seem to form a sentence. I’m not comfortable with him looking at me like I’m a puzzle where the pieces don’t match up. It’s like he knows and is waiting for the real story. Sidestepping that mine field, I look forward and take a break to gather my wits about me. It’s been a long time since I have even looked at a man this way. Actually, I never have. I have never looked at a man this way, much less someone I only met forty-five minutes ago.
It’s in that moment of space that my terror comes roaring back, angry at being ignored. The plane hits an air pocket and drops what feels like a thousand feet, eliciting screams from the rear of the plane. The captain announces overhead that he is turning back on the seatbelt light and asks passengers to be seated. We are beginning to encounter some turbulence from a storm. I hate his calm voice that has no feeling, no understanding that I am being torm
ented. I know it is meant to soothe us, but I’d rather hear panic and determination, like he is going to fly this plane as if his life depends on it. His calm voice makes me think he has his head back, chillin’, and not correctly assessing the death-con level we are clearly experiencing.
He instructs us to stow belongings, put seats in the upright position, and close tray tables, while the attendants come around to clear trash before taking their seats. I close my eyes and concentrate on not needing my barf bag. My hands take a death grip on the armrests while my mind tries to control the pace my heart is beating. I’m stuck in this small space with nowhere to go, forced to endure whatever happens. I have no control. None. My breathing is coming faster now, and I realize if I don’t figure out a way to self-soothe, I’m going to hyperventilate and have a full-on panic attack. Every time the plane takes another dip, people cry out. Why the fuck doesn’t someone knock them out? Their screaming is only making it worse. Just when I have reached the height of powerlessness, I feel it: A calm. An equanimity. My fear is still there, but my breathing comes in deeper droves. My heart slows from a full-on gallop to a survivable canter.
I open my eyes to see him calmly sitting with one leg draped over the other. His suit is still perfectly pressed, as if he has no concerns in the world. Like we are sitting stationary and not about to meet an untimely death. He watches me, and I distantly process that it’s not his demeanor that is placating me, but it’s his hand—the one that has taken mine as he slowly and repeatedly moves his thumb across my knuckles in a circular motion.
“You’re safe.” His eye contact offers an assurance that I am far from feeling, but at the same time holds power over my fear. It is such a simple statement. A statement I have not felt or heard since I can remember.
“How much longer?” I whisper.
“How much longer?”
“How much longer till we land?”
“We’ll start our decent in about twenty minutes,” he assures me.
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. It might as well be a life sentence.
The captain, who I am sure has heard the cries of his passengers, comes back on over the intercom in his same steady voice, informing us that he has been unable to find a smooth patch of air to fly in and to expect rough turbulence until we land. All along, he continues to console me by steadying my hand with his. Another dip, another group screaming. Another jostle and crash accompanied by more screams. The fear I think I am doing so well to contain must be showing on my face, because he quickly explains that some overhead compartments have come open, emptying their contents on some of the passengers. It’s in that moment that I remember the little girl.
I always thought I would be heroic if the need ever presented itself. I would be Wonder Woman, wearing the stars and stripes, my metal-covered wrists ricocheting bullets. People would tell stories of my heroism and bravery. Yeah, no one will be writing that about me if we die tonight. I kick myself for being so selfish. Shaking my head in frustration, I whisper, “What a dick.” My comment stops the traipse of his thumb across my knuckles.
“Excuse me?” he asks with a dip in his eyebrows.
“Sorry, not you. I mean me.” I lean forward and ask the little girl if she’s ok, her face a mirror of my feelings. She looks at me with big, round eyes, and I have to strain to hear her small voice.
“I’m scared.”
Right then and there, I know I need to lock my shit down.
“Come sit with me. It’s ok,” I say at her hesitation. Regrettably, I squeeze his hand before removing mine to reach across him, making sure she isn’t knocked down as we continue to bounce. In a blink, she is in my lap. I undo my buckle, pull the belt around us both, and click it back in place. Wrapping my arms around her, I smile as she lays her head against my chest. Her face towards him.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I assure her.
Thunder booms around us, and I see an acknowledgment from him that we are having a rough ride.
“One of my favorite movies is Sound of Music. Have you seen it?” She nods while holding tighter to Walter.
“You remember the part where it’s storming and they’re in Fräulein Maria’s bed, scared, and she sings to them? Well that song has always made me feel better. Whether I’m happy or sad or scared.”
Softly, I begin singing “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…” as I unwind my earbuds from my iPod and pull up “A Few of My Favorite Things” on my cracked screen. I place buds in her ears and hit play. She closes her eyes and listens as I softly rock her side to side, rubbing her back in a comforting repetitive pattern that mimics the one across my knuckles minutes ago.
Still bouncing like a rock skipping across the water, we begin our descent into LaGuardia. Landing. I think I hate it more than take off. One runs a close second to the other. I glance to my right with a smile, to say a thank you for his kindness, and I am met with a heat-filled look.
“What?” I mouth with an inquisitive slope of my eyebrows.
“You.” He answers simply and follows with a glance from the little girl to me as clarification. I blush—not a response that is common for me.
I hear the landing gear lowering and feel the grinding of its machinations. I realize we have said fewer than three words to each other in the last twenty minutes of the flight, but I feel like we have had one of those high-school conversations where you talk all night long with your crush.
It feels like the pilot is working overtime to control the plane when the wheels finally hit the ground with a thud. The flaps shoot up with a roar to bring us to a crawl, and the plane erupts in an applause so joyous, you would think we just witnessed a miracle. Maybe we did.
The captain welcomes us to New York and doesn’t hide the appreciation in his voice that we have landed. Releasing the breath I was holding all this time, I say to the girl, pulling the earbuds from her ears, “We’re safe and we’re here!” She throws her arms around my neck and leans up for a kiss before making her way back to her seat. I remind her to stay put until everyone gets off the plane and then the attendant will take her to her grandmother.
We stand when the door opens and he takes a slight step back, motioning me in front of him. I move into the aisle and with a placement of his hand at the small of my back, he ushers me forward.
Walking up the short ramp, it dawns on me that we will be saying good-bye. It unsettles me for reasons I am not sure I want to understand. Deflecting my feelings for light conversation, I declare how happy I am to be on land.
“If I didn’t think security would detain me, I would kiss the ground right here,” I laugh.
We walk side-by-side to the escalator that moves from the terminal down to baggage claim and transportation. A feeling of sadness and loss lingers around us.
“Do you need help with your luggage?” he offers as we step off the moving stairs.
“Thanks, but it was a there-and-back trip, so I don’t have any.”
Missing my original flight has me getting home later than anticipated. It’s August, and even though its ten thirty at night, it’s stifling. I stop to place my oversized Louis Vuitton bag, a vintage that was my mom’s, between my feet, freeing my hands to remove my cardigan and knot it around my hips. I watch his eyes canvas my body, finally moving up to my face with no remorse at being caught. A smile plays across his lips.
“What part of the city do you live in? Can I provide your transportation? My driver is here.”
Provide my transportation? Why not just say “Can I give you a lift?” It doesn’t surprise me that he has a driver. Some of the most influential and powerful men in the city are my clients. I am used to being around wealth, and he exudes it.
“I live in SoHo, but I’ll just take a taxi. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He gives a shake to his head “It’s not an inconv…”
“James!” I turn towards the familiar sound and two of my dwarfs, Drew and Russ, walk up each pulling me into their arms, plant
ing a loud, wet kiss on me.
“What are y’all doing here?” I ask, surprised to see them.
“You’re in Memphis less than twelve hours and your accent is even thicker.” Drew mimics a ridiculous southern accent. Why can’t people learn to do a true southern accent? Must everyone make all southerners sound like we are missing four teeth and had a baby with Cousin Earl?
“We were at Kyle’s parents’ house in Queens for dinner, so we hung around to pick you up,” he explains. “You ready? No luggage, right?”
Deep down in a place I shouldn’t explore, I am disappointed. I wanted to see where this ride would take me.
“Sure,” I say with a smile I am not feeling. “I was just about to catch a ride. We were seated next to each other on the plane.” They look quizzically between me and my new friend. “I was bumped up to first class,” I clarify.
“Well good thing we caught you before you left. Save him an extra drop.” Drew gives him a direct look and then drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Thanks for looking out for James. We’ll take her from here.”
What the fuck? I look at him like he has lost his mind. Take me from here. What the hell does that mean? Like I’m suddenly the unaccompanied minor. I’m a fucking adult! I hand them my bag.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, dismissing them in irritation before turning my attention back to him.
“Thank you for the offer. I should probably go before security makes them move.”
“James?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Emme James. James is one of the names people call me.”
“You live with three men?”
“Actually, I live with six. One more and I’m Snow White. Although we don’t have space for one more, so alas, I’ll never make princess status. I call the boys my dwarfs, anyway. As a consolation prize,” I smile. “Thanks again for the offer.”
“Goodnight,” he nods to me.
In a move of showing him my true appreciation for his kindness during the flight, I wrap him into a strong hug before he has a chance to respond or anticipate my actions. It’s a one-sided hug for what feels like a very long minute. I feel his resolve finally snap, and his arms fold around me. Leaning my head against his chest, I squeeze and breathe him in. He smells divine, like…him. Releasing him I reach up and place my palm to his cheek. Idly, I register that he has leaned into my touch.