Crushing on You

by Jen Trinh

  The waitress reappeared with a clean set of plates and flatware and began setting the table, not looking my way.

  “Did you run the card?” I asked her.

  She fiddled with the alignment of a fork for a moment before turning my way. “Ah, no. The family sitting behind you offered to pay for your table.” Her tight-lipped smile didn’t even meet her nose. “Have a good night, miss.” She resumed setting the table, so she missed my eye roll at her extra emphasis.

  But...whoa. I thoughtfully gazed at the empty table where the older Chinese woman and her family had sat. What had induced them to pick up my check? Had the mother wanted to ingratiate her son with me? If so, why hadn’t they stayed and waited for an introduction? I definitely wouldn’t have been interested in him, but I would have thanked them, at least.

  Or...I gritted my teeth. Had they done it because they’d pitied me? Like the waitress, could they somehow detect that I couldn’t afford the meal? That I was dependent on the man I’d just rejected, and had no one else to turn to?

  Either way, they were gone, and I could neither ask them nor thank them.

  With one last passing glance at their table, I picked up my credit card and headed home to face Asher.

  Chapter 1

  -Anna-

  Four months later

  Who the hell was calling me at 1am? I blearily reached under my pillow and pulled out my phone, which had been buzzing incessantly for the past two minutes. The name on the screen, Cassie Green, surprised me because:

  I hadn’t spoken to Cassie in years;

  She knew from our four years as college roommates that she should never call me this late. I’m bad when I’m hangry, but I’m especially bad when I’m slangry.

  I swiped the screen and slipped the phone under my face. “Ugh, Cass, why are you calling me so late?” The words were nearly unintelligible through my mega-yawn. I considered greeting her with the usual, hi, how are you, we haven’t spoken in forever...but not now. Not at 1am on a Monday.

  “Girl, you have not responded to my wedding invite. Are you coming? Yes? Good.”

  “Wait, what? What wedding invite?” I frowned, trying and failing to recall an invitation. I didn’t remember receiving anything from Cassie, other than her annual Christmas cards.

  “The Christmas card! It had all the details about the wedding on it. Did you get it?” What?

  “One sec.” Groaning, I rolled onto my belly and switched on my bedside lamp. I yanked open the drawer with all of my sentimental crap in it, then flailed my hand around until I found the card in question.

  On one side, Cassie and her boyfriend of five years, Michael, wore matching Santa outfits, though he didn’t have an impractically large diamond on his finger like Cassie did. They were both holding onto their black german shepherd, Frankie, who wore a festive green elf hat, and all three wore giant goofy grins on their faces.

  I flipped the card over and read the following:

  Wishing you a happy holiday season and a beautiful new year.

  Much love from the Green and MacDermott household!

  By the way, here’s your fortune for next year:

  September 20, 2019

  The Vineheartery

  Marin County, California

  4pm - 10pm

  YOU’RE COMING

  I snorted. “That’s not a real invite, Cass. But that’s nice that you’re getting married.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to congratulate her. Marriage was a terrifying bullet that I myself had dodged just months ago.

  “Yes! In two months! And you’re coming. That’s it.” Her tone brooked no objection.

  “Cassie, that’s not how—none of this—is this a prank call?” My tired brain could not even.

  “You wish! I’ll email you the official RSVP form, but I wanted your verbal commitment. Your word. Can I count on you to be there?”

  “No. Bye.” I prepared to hang up and go back to bed. I’d call her back with regrets and excuses at a sane hour.

  “Please, Nana,” she charmingly wheedled, using her personal nickname for me. “I haven’t seen you since college and this is the perfect excuse to get our old crew back together. You didn’t come to Jessa’s or Lisa’s weddings this year, so you have to come to this one.”

  Ah, a change in tactics. She was pulling out all the stops, trying her best to confuse and guilt me into attending her wedding. The late call was likely part of it. I lived in New York and she lived in San Francisco, so with the time difference, she’d called me right after I’d fallen asleep, when I was groggiest and my defenses were low. Wily woman.

  “Yes, but—”

  “It would be so so fun. Like, when will we ever be together like this again?”

  “Sure, but I—”

  “So you’re coming? Nana, you haven’t even met Michael yet. We’ve been together for FIVE YEARS and you’ve never come to visit. Have you ever even BEEN to San Francisco?”

  “Cassie, no, I have—”

  “Then you’re coming. You have to. Oh my god, I’m so excited, I’m going to tell the girls! Love you!” She hung up, deaf to my protests. I knew that she wasn’t really that dense, but she was so good at playing it, and I did love her. My life had completely fallen apart in college, and if Cassie hadn’t been there for me every step of the way, things would’ve ended up so much worse than they had. I didn’t want to let her down on what she considered to be her Big Day. And luckily, I did have a few days of vacation available, as well as a tiny bit of savings.

  But weddings. Ugh.

  Marriage is a trap, and weddings, the ultimate bait, so cleverly crafted by the well-oiled marriage machine. After all, there’s no escaping the propaganda—weddings are all about the photos. There are very few other non-business occasions for which you’d be expected to pay literally thousands of dollars for a photographer. But really, you’re just paying your taxes and doing your patriotic duty, because Uncle Sam (and everyone else in your family) wants you to get married. Keep calm and marry on.

  And don’t think that guests are passive participants, either. As a guest, it’s your duty to get into that photobooth, take photos of yourself looking as hot and attractive as you’ll ever get, then spread the images on social media. Look, weddings are fun! Marriage is great! I want one of those!

  All. Fake. News.

  Even the games they played at weddings, like catching the bouquet or garter, were like sending chain letters out into the crowd, spreading the curse of marriage. Hurrah! You’re next!

  No thanks. I’m good.

  To be clear, it wasn’t relationships that I railed against. Just marriage. I readily acknowledged that human beings need physical intimacy and social interaction to survive. But relationships were not meant to last forever. People are individuals, with their own dreams and wishes, and it’s impossible to always want the same things as someone else. Better to just pair up when it suits, and go our separate ways when it doesn’t.

  So I’d RSVP’ed NO to almost every wedding that I’d ever been invited to. I’d be a hypocrite not to. Besides, in addition to perpetuating false dreams, weddings are lame, formulaic, and lastly, expensive, and I’d rather just travel for the sake of traveling.

  But for Cassie, that beautiful, charming dictator...I would deal. Just this once.

  I fell asleep again not long after, but my dreams were invaded by fascist brides who drove giant, sparkly-white wedding cake tanks, all shooting bouquets at me.

  ◆◆◆

  Two months later, on the Friday night before the wedding, I boarded the plane and found my aisle seat, shoved my bag into the overhead compartment, and quickly got settled in. The plane was old, one of the ones that didn’t have any seatback screens or device holders, and the seat leather was well-worn, with little cracks and tufts of fluff here and there. A middle-aged woman with short auburn hair was resting in the window seat, eyes closed, already snoring lightly. The middle seat was empty, and as people filed in and continued to pass me by, my hopes increas
ed that it would stay that way. I put my earphones in and smiled.

  But soon, there was a slight commotion towards the front of the plane. Someone (probably a guy, based on the jeans and deep voice) was carrying a large black duffel bag in front of him, awkwardly brushing against everyone who was seated in an aisle seat. He muttered, “Sorry,” as he went, unable to see in front of him, until he reached my row and stopped. Damn.

  I’d just put my bag up there, so I knew that there was no way in hell that his bag was going to fit. But he threw the bag into the remaining space anyway and began to push, rocking back and forth as he adjusted the suitcases around it and forced the bag in deep enough for the compartment to close. As he pushed, his hips repeatedly brushed against my shoulder. I leaned away from him, trying to keep his crotch out of my face, but he shifted his weight forward to be able to push the bag in deeper, and therefore pushed his crotch deeper into my field of view. I turned my face away, refusing to look. What a dick.

  With one last big shove, the duffel slid into place, and he finally closed the compartment. Then he glanced down at me, and I scowled up at him.

  “Hey, really sorry about that. I’m in E.” He pointed at the empty seat beside me, an apologetic smile on his face. My scowl deepened as I took in his appearance: chiseled, bearded jaw, nice tan, black side-swept hair, plain gray tee and dark jeans. Jeans that I was now all too familiar with. I continued scowling as I stood up and into the aisle, allowing him to slip by me and into the middle seat.

  While he’d been thrusting his crotch into my face, I hadn’t been able to focus on much else. But as he passed me by, I caught a hint of his cologne: subtle and masculine, a little bit spicy...and very delicious. Even though he looked like a New York tech bro (so not my type!), I discreetly flared my nostrils and inhaled. Mmm.

  He threw his hoodie onto the seat and his backpack under the seat in front of him, then awkwardly tried to situate himself. He was tall and leggy, probably around six feet, so his knees pushed up against the seat in front. I slipped back into my own seat and reached for my seatbelt, which he was now holding.

  “That’s mine.” I took the buckle from him, fingers brushing his.

  “Oh, sorry.” He felt around and beneath him until he found his own seat belt and clicked it into place. Finally settled in, he leaned back and let out a sigh. For a moment, he just sat there and looked about, tapping his fingers on the armrests, each tap-tap-tap vibrating up along my own arm, which was pressed against his. He was manspreading, using more than his share of both armrests, and he had fairly broad shoulders, so it wasn’t like he was just touching the armrests—his warm, meaty arms spilled over them. I could see that our window neighbor had her hands in her lap and was leaning further into the window than before, ceding extra territory to our male neighbor. Guess she wasn’t as asleep as I’d thought she was. Meanwhile, I didn’t plan on budging. I’d paid for my space, and I was going to use it.

  Besides, my thin silk blouse was virtually nonexistent against the cold blasts of air coming from all sides of the plane, and my sweater was buried in my bag in the overhead compartment, which he’d just crammed his own oversized bag into. I did not want to deal with removing his bag, rummaging in my bag, and then throwing it all back in there and trying to close the compartment again. So while I was annoyed that he was encroaching on my space, I secretly welcomed the feeling of his arm against mine, and greedily absorbed as much warmth from him as I could.

  Two quick cracks of his neck was all it took to skim his eyes over me, but his face revealed none of his thoughts. He just turned to look out the window, his fingers continuing their steady beat on the armrest. Finally, he reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out a book from his backpack, and began to read.

  I closed my eyes and tried to ignore him, though I could still smell him and feel his arm flex against mine with every page turn. As we taxied to the runway, my focus narrowed to the music that I was listening to, a new song from one of my favorite bands, The Llama People. The lyrics:

  The steady rhythm of our piston,

  Smooth and lubricated,

  Internally combusting in my head,

  Revving me up with each mile marker…

  The thought of performing road head on my neighbor came unbidden, and my eyes snapped open to dispel the visual. I hadn’t even gotten a good look at him and now my sex-starved brain was already inserting him into fantasies? Stupid brain. It’d been six months since I’d last gotten laid, but I could tell that Crotch Guy was not my type. Definitely not.

  Crotch Guy turned another page, and I felt his arm shift again. I pretended to look out the window at the rain and used my peripheral vision to glance his way, just to confirm how not-my-type he was.

  He was probably close to my age, but it was hard to tell. I’d been mistaken for anywhere from 20 to 35, and the same could be said about him. I was surprised at how well he was built—lean and long, with tan, muscular arms. His t-shirt hugged his chest, and I bit my lip as I studied the outline of his shapely pecs. I was definitely more of a pecs girl than an ass girl, and I could not deny the appeal of his. And underneath, there was no sign of a paunch; just the opposite.

  A neatly trimmed beard darkened his chin and jaw, which he thoughtfully rubbed as he read. I peeked at the book. It was some thick fantasy or sci-fi looking book by Something or Other Liu.

  Yup. No thanks.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes again, satisfied with my findings, as the plane took off and left JFK behind.

  Chapter 2

  -Ian-

  She’d been checking me out. I could tell because I’d been secretly checking her out. But after looking-not-looking my way, she closed her eyes and withdrew into whatever she was listening to (The Llama People, according to her phone). Guess she wasn’t impressed.

  My back was still sore from the previous night’s climbing session, so I took a moment to roll my neck and shoulders, which felt amazing, but more importantly offered me the opportunity to casually glance at my aisle-seat companion. Her long, wavy black hair transitioned to a deep teal on the ends, and her thick eyeliner and cute sapphire nose stud contrasted starkly with her creamy white skin. My eyes followed the deep v-neck of her flimsy pink blouse, which revealed her modest, but still very appealing cleavage...and also revealed how cold she was. Ahem. Goosebumps peppered her forearm, which was rigid on her half of the armrest where it firmly pushed against my own.

  She looked like she could use a hoodie, and luckily, there was one just sitting in my lap. Perhaps unluckily, her eyes were closed and her earphones were blaring music in the universal do not disturb sign. So I didn’t bother her—I could take a hint.

  But when she shivered a moment later, visibly uncomfortable, I took action.

  I lightly tapped her hand, which immediately earned me an annoyed scowl. She removed an earbud to hear me say, “Hey, I know this is kind of forward, but you look cold. Do you want to borrow this?” I held up my warm, gray, Stumpstash-branded hoodie.

  Her nose twitched and she scowled even harder, as if I were offering her a live squid instead of an article of clothing. But after a moment, she ran her hands up and down her arms and answered, “Yeah, thanks. It is really cold on this stupid plane.” I nodded and handed her the hoodie, which she quickly slipped around her shoulders and zipped up to her chin. It looked good on her, better than it looked on me.

  She shot me an appreciative smile. “Thank you. This is much better.”

  “Sure. I hope you’ve got warmer clothes in your bag. People always think it’s warm in California, but it’s almost always chilly in SF.”

  “Oh.” She frowned, then asked, “Really? Even in…ah...” Her brow furrowed in thought, “Marin County?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. It’s nice during the day sometimes, but evenings can get pretty cold. Is that where you’re headed?”

  Pouting slightly, she nodded. “Yeah. For a wedding.”

  “Oh...huh. Not Cassie and Michael’
s, by any chance?” I asked, hopeful. How many weddings could there have been in Marin County that weekend?

  Her eyes widened. “Uhhh, actually, I am.” She paused her music and took out her other earphone, giving me her full attention. “I’m Anna, nice to meet you. How do you know them?”

  I snapped my book shut and shook her offered hand, which was long-fingered and creamy soft. Shame that she wasn’t a climber. “I’m Ian, I’m a colleague of Cassie’s. We both work at Stumpstash, but I’m based in the New York office and she’s in the SF office. What about you?”

  “I was her college roommate.”

  “Well, nice to me—wait, you’re her college roommate?” I rubbed my chin, recalling what Cassie had told me about her college roomie.

  “Yeah, why?”

  I chuckled, the details clicking into place. “She told me about you.”

  Her eyes narrowed, clearly suspicious, but she playfully asked, “What’d she say?” When I only chuckled again, she casually flipped her hair behind her shoulder and said,”C’mon, you can’t just say that and then not tell me.”

  “Well...she told me that you love music. That you write about it and create awesome playlists. That you live in New York.” I leaned towards her across the armrest, then whispered conspiratorially, “And that you don’t date Asian guys.”

  She stiffened beside me, then exhaled slowly. Didn’t back away, just coolly met my eyes. “Is that so? And why was she telling you that about me?”

  I hoped that I hadn’t just gotten Cassie in trouble. Cassie and I’d been a couple of beers in when she’d started telling me about Anna, and her filters usually disintegrated after just one.

  Leaning in slightly further, I caught a hint of her rose-scented hair as I said, “She was telling me that you and I would be perfect together, if it weren’t for your No Asians rule.”