I call Steven. “Hey, it’s me. They cancelled my flight and now I’m on the 2 p.m. non-stop flight,” I say in exasperation. I navigate my way to the first-class lounge where I’ll hang out for the next three hours.
“Well, that sucks ass. I’ll call the restaurant and change our reservations.” Wow, his mood is sour.
“Is everything okay? You sound . . . different.” I’m trying not to be alarmed by his tone.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’ve had a bad week, that’s all. How was New York?” he asks absentmindedly, like he’s trying to force a conversation.
“The photo shoot came out great, better than expected.”
“Oh, that’s good.” What’s wrong? I sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t press him.
“Hey, I’ll see you in a few hours then? I need to call my mom,- you know how she gets when I travel.”
“Yeah, just like me.”
“I’ll text right before take off so you’ll know we left on time.”
“See you soon,” he says, curtly.
As we hang up I think that is the most cryptic conversation I’ve ever had with Steven. He’s usually too talkative. I wonder if everything’s okay with Sampson. Lately, Steven’s been anxious about their relationship. Maybe he’ll be ready to talk when I get home.
In the lounge, I find an outlet to charge my phone. Wouldn’t want to be on the plane without my music and you never know if the plane’s outlets are working.
I call Mom. After six rings she finally answers. Why do I think she’s been running?
“Hi Mom. What took you so long to answer?”
“Hi, Button. Is everything okay?” She’s panting.
“Yes, I’m okay, but Mom, are you? You sound like you can’t breathe.”
“Yes, honey, I’m fine. I’ve just had a workout.” She giggles. Giggles? There’s silence, then I hear her muffled voice. Is she covering the speaker with her hand?
“Where are you? Is this a bad time?”
“I’m home. No, it’s not a bad time. Not now.”
A ding goes off in my head; she’s not alone. That’s not an image I want in my mind.
“I wanted to let you know I’m flying back to San Francisco today.”
“Okay, Button. I want to hear all about your trip. Have a safe flight and I’ll call you tomorrow, after you have rested. I know you’ll be exhausted after your flight, and I may be too exhausted, myself, to talk tonight.”
“Oh my god, Mother. I don’t want to know or think about that. I need to go. Love you Mom.” I can’t get off the phone fast enough.
She laughs loudly and I can’t help but laugh a little too. “I love you too, Ali.”
We hang up and I don’t know whether to be mortified or appalled. She could have let it go to voice mail. No child should have to have a visual of what her parents do. I shudder at the thought. My own Mother… The phrase “brain bleach” comes to mind.
#
An hour before my flight, I decide to freshen up a bit. Upon my return from the restroom I freeze in my tracks. Oh no, it’s him, Mr. Arrogance Personified, in the flesh. Please don’t let him be on my flight. He’s the last person I expected, or wanted, to see.
I look down to avoid eye contact and make my way back to my seat. I pick up a magazine and hold it up, covering my face. I don’t care what page I turn to, as long as I don’t have to see him.
“Ms. Quinn, I’m delighted to see you again. Are you on the two o’clock flight also?” He’s standing over me like a tower.
“Oh, hello Mr. Steede. I didn’t see you there.” I look up at him, trying to feign interest.
“Yes, that’s understandable, seeing that you’re totally engrossed in your reading.” His eyes are sparkling under raised brows and his parted lips are drawn back into a crooked grin, showing off perfect white teeth.
I tilt my head to one side, “I do like to keep up with the competition. It’s always good to see what I’m up against.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Motor Trend type person.” His grin widens as he opens his mouth and lets out a laugh. What the hell is wrong with him?
My face begins to heat up. “It’s always good to keep up with all trends in photography, no matter the subject.” I’m trying to keep sarcasm out of my voice – after all he is a client.
Why can’t he go away and leave me alone?
“The article must really be a page turner.” He takes the magazine out of my hands, turns it right side up and hands it back to me.
“Good day, Ms. Quinn. I do hope you enjoy your reading.” He turns to walk to his seat. From the way his shoulders are shaking, I can imagine that it’s taking everything he has not to double over in laughter.
How embarrassing. I’m sure I’ve turned every shade of red known to man. Right now, I wish my seat were a monster and would swallow me alive. I plop the magazine down on the table, harder than I mean to. He turns the page of his newspaper and glances at me over the top of the page. His twinkling blue eyes tell me he’s smiling. At least his paper is right side up.
I gather my things and move to the opposite end of the lounge, away from his gaze and from that complacent look on his face. That’ll be the last time he laughs at my expense. Then it dawns on me. He’s on my flight. In first class. All the way to San Francisco. I inwardly groan and sink into a chair. An horrific thought crosses my mind: what seat is he in? I put my head in my hands and groan again, but this time it’s louder, not inward, and a couple of people look at me, puzzled.
When our flight is announced, a furtive glance tells me he’s already left. Maybe I could make someone who’s seated in economy happy by changing seats with them? I weigh the pros and cons of that long flight in economy and decide against it.
How dare he make fun of me? I feel like an idiot. I am so angry now, if I could scream bloody murder without the cops coming to drag me away, I would. Then, immediately I decide I’m not going to let him get to me. I don’t need to be wasting this energy on him.
When I reach the gate, first class has already boarded and general boarding is underway. I’m in no hurry, so I wait. First class has one empty seat – mine - waiting for me to claim it. And, who’s sitting next to me? It’s not my day. He’s wearing that smug look I now can’t stand – his lips pursed in a quiet smile. Not saying a word, he gets up to let me sit down. I hope he’s this quiet for the rest of the flight.
The plane’s full and the conversations all merge into one loud buzz. The flight attendant offers me a drink. As much as I want alcohol, any type of alcohol - hell, I’d down rubbing alcohol at this point to put me out of my misery - I opt for water. I scroll through my music to select my playlist so I’ll be ready to go the minute we can use them.
“Hello,” he answers his phone, which must have vibrated because there was no ring. He talks in a low, clipped, irritated tone, and I can hear him slightly over the other conversations going on around us. He tells the caller that he is not interested. Business call? Then, “I told you no. I’ve been telling you no for months now.” His hushed tone sounds increasingly irritated. “I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. You need to move on.”
I gaze out the window, pretending there’s something interesting out there, but right now the most interesting and intriguing thing going on is the conversation coming from the seat next to me. Besides, he’s too close not to listen.
“I don’t need or want you to pick me up. No, there’s nothing to talk about. We’ve gone over this several times. You need to move on. I’m hanging up now.”
Oh wow. Sounds like Mr. Sex on Legs has a woman problem. Who would have thought? Did one of his many flavors of the month decide she has singular taste and that he should, too? I mean, come on, how dumb are these women? His pictures have been plastered all over the magazines with his different arm-candy, and I’m sure they all run in the same social circles. Hell, they all probably know each other. I keep looking
out the window, pretending to be oblivious to him and the conversation he’s just had, but I feel his eyes on me.
Don’t look at him.
I watch the ground crew scurry around, making sure everything’s closed and locked for take off. The flight attendants close the doors and the plane pushes back from the gate. While the attendants go over the safety procedures, I pick up the instructions card, totally disinterested, but feeling I need something to do. I make sure it’s upright before I open it to read.
The pilot says we’re next for take off and I instinctively grab the armrests and hold on for dear life. I hope he doesn’t notice. The engines roar and the plane moves slowly at first. My breathing increases with the speed of the plane. With my eyes scrunched closed, we hurdle down the runway like a bullet. I grab the armrests tighter and know my knuckles are turning white. Yep, I’m good to go.
Warmth spreads through me as his hand covers mine, but I’m too tense to jerk my hand away. Of all people to bear witness to one of my weaknesses, it would have to be him. For some odd reason, one I can’t explain, I feel a sense of calm with his hand there. Once we’re in the air, I loosen my grip and relax my hands. He keeps his hand on top of mine and I look over at him. He’s staring at me, concern written on his face.
“I take it you don’t like to fly.” His voice is smooth as silk.
“No, not really.”
“Are you okay now?”
“Yes, much better, thank you.” I wiggle my fingers and he removes his hand, reluctant to do so.
He leans over and asks, “If you hate flying so much, why do you choose a window seat?”
Why does he feel the need to talk to me?
“This way, I’ll be able to witness my own demise as we spiral toward the ground,” I say with as much irritation as I can possibly squeeze into my voice. I think he gets it, loud and clear, because he sits back and doesn’t say another word. Good. He puts his laptop on the tray table and begins doing whatever it is he does.
Why am I acting this way toward him? If I try to figure it out, that would be enough to send me to a padded room for the rest of my life. Who knew he of all people, would be the one to send me over the edge. I need to get a grip.
In that moment, the humiliation and anger from earlier returns. I hear the flight attendants say we’re free to use electronics again. If I could get up and high five them or do a chest bump for the save, I would. Since I can’t get lost anywhere on the plane, I’ll get lost in my music. My phone is still on shuffle, The Pet Shop Boys “Love Comes Quickly” blasts my eardrums. I simultaneously jump and jerk the earbuds out immediately. As I turn the sound down, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, sitting there with his fingers on his lips. He’s not looking at me, but has his head down, smiling, and it’s a good guess he’s laughing at me.
I’m so glad I’m able to provide the in-flight entertainment for him. I don’t look at him and I resume listening to my music.
A jerk of the plane wakes me and I notice Bryce is gone. Where’d he go? He’s not sitting beside me. Did I dream he was there? If only life was that simple.
Here he comes, sauntering down the aisle towards his seat. It’s not as though he could have walked off the plane. “Do you need to get up?” he asks politely.
“No, I don’t. Thanks for asking.” I rest my head against the window and close my eyes, letting the music do what it always does as I feel myself drift off again.
CHAPTER 6
I awaken with a jolt, thinking I’ve fallen out of my seat. As usual, when I fly, I end up scrunched all the way down on the seat as far as I can go. If I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt, I’d be on the floor. Did we hit something? Confused, I sit up, trying to assess the situation only to notice we’re in some awful turbulence. Angry, dark, purple to black rain clouds surround us. My heart starts pounding in my chest. The plane rocks side to side, bouncing us all over the sky. I pull out my earbuds hoping to hear the Captain’s voice saying everything’s okay.
Bryce pries my hand off the armrest and interlocks our fingers. I look over at him, my eyes wide with terror. He’s talking to me, trying to give me reassurance. The only thing going through my mind right now is how afraid I am.
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay, Ali.” He has such a soothing voice when he’s not being an ass. I try to say something, but I can’t speak. Nothing will come out of my mouth.
“Focus on me.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand. It’s serene and has an instant calming effect on me until we hit another pocket of air. Images of the Captain fighting for dominance over the weather and control of the plane against the storm flash through my mind. I know he’s doing all he can so we don’t spiral downward.
Other passengers cry out in panic. My head jerks back toward the window. I can barely breathe. I don’t want him to see me like this - raw emotions, so vulnerable. Weak.
He places his hand on my face, turning it towards him. “Don’t cry. I’ve got you. Just keep looking at me, okay?” He’s trying to calm me but the only thing I can do is nod. I tighten my grip on his hand and he lets me know it’s all right.
My heart is beating so fast, so hard, I can feel it in my ears and can hear each beat. Tears roll down my face and he gently wipes them away with his thumb. In this moment, as much as I despise him, I’m glad he’s here with me.
“I need you to take deep breaths. Can you do that? Do what I do, okay?” I watch his mouth and listen. We hit another pocket of air, but not as violent as the others. My eyes grow wider as more tears stream down my face.
“I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Keep looking at me. Ali, I need you to focus on me and listen. Breathe with me.” All the while, he’s still stroking my hand.
When my breathing gets under control, he leans over the armrest wrapping me in a blanket of calm in the comfort of his arms. I collapse into him. My cries are silent as he holds me and strokes my hair. He inhales deeply, gripping me tighter.
After a few moments, the Captain’s voice comes over the PA, telling us we’re through the worst of it and we’ll be making a slight turn to the North to go around the storm.
Bryce still holds me and I don’t mind. After a while, he leans back and looks into my eyes. “Are you okay now?” The concern etched in his features is evident.
My voice cracks, “Yes, I think so.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” is all I can manage but it comes out in a low whisper. I retrieve my hand from his grip and notice my palms are sweaty. He looks at his palms and we both have the same idea as we wipe our hands against our pants.
Leaning back in his seat, head against the headrest, his eyes close for a while, looking as though he’s decompressing from his own fear, which he hid very well. I suppose dealing with a hysterical woman forces you to put your own fear on the back burner for a while.
Exhausted, I drift off again, until I’m awakened by the flight attendant to prepare for our “final approach.” I try not to grab the armrests again, but it’s an involuntary movement. Landings are right up there with taking off. I hate them both equally. He looks over at me and gives me a reassuring smile and takes my hand and doesn’t let go for the rest of the flight. The warmth of his hand holding mine brings a small sense of calm to my jangled nerves. He tightens his grip and again, for some reason, I let him.
Holding on to the other armrest with one hand, I squeeze my other hand around his and grip as tightly as I can, not knowing, or caring, if I’m hurting him or not. As the wheels hit the runway, a round of applause and cheers erupts from the cabin. I guess I’m not the only one who is thankful we’ve landed safely, rather than the alternative we faced, not even an hour ago. I soften my grip on his hand, but this time, he removes his hand immediately. When he does, a sense of emptiness lingers.
“Mr. Steede. I want to thank you - for earlier.” I try to find words to convey my appreciation to him for comforting me, and for talking me off the ledge when I
though we were going to crash, but my mind’s blank.
“It was my pleasure. I’m glad I was here to help you through that ordeal,” he says in the most understanding tone.
“This flight is, by far, the worst I’ve ever experienced.”
“You know, there are several types of anti-anxiety medicines out there. Maybe you should talk with your doctor about it?”
“Yes, I’m well aware of what is available. Thank you for your interest in my well being.” I can’t believe I just snapped at him and he looks surprised by my reply. I’m surprised by my reply. The rows ahead of us are getting off. He stands in the aisle and steps back to let me go ahead of him.
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