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I should be grateful that he's not talking to me or wasting our time. And maybe I am, but I can't stem the tide of overwhelming curiosity that courses through my body. Why does he seem so quiet? So guarded? Why is he behaving the exact opposite of every male I've ever known in my life? Instead of giving me all of his attention, and trying to command all of mine, he's giving me absolutely nothing. And that's a strange departure from my life experience, which makes me want to examine the situation. Not because I want his attention - I don’t - I simply want to know why he’s unlike the other people we share this world with.
My phone chimes and I glance down at the device. My mom’s picture pops up alongside a text box, interrupting the fragile peace of the moment, but I don't read the message. Instead, my thoughts turn toward her as old resentments resurface.
My mom is the epitome of the type of woman that I dislike. Meek and meager, quiet, willing to fade into the shadows if it makes a man happy. She spent her whole life living under my father's thumb and refusing to try to do better in life. She spent my childhood miserable, and now she spends my adulthood miserable. I don't understand someone's unwillingness to change their life if they're unhappy. This isn't a practice run. We get one life to live, and if your entire life has been lived in misery, what's the point of being alive?
My thought process makes it very difficult for me to talk to or connect with my mother. I settle into my seat, getting comfortable and occasionally giving my companion glances before my eyelids start to feel heavy. It’s a seven-hour flight from New York to London where the wedding is taking place. I'll say this for Olivia - at least she picked a wealthy man. Someone with a London Estate and a thriving business in the States.
As the gentle rumbling of the plane has me drifting off to sleep, I wonder what lies ahead.
I awake with a jolt as the cabin begins to rattle and everything feels like it's coming apart at the bolts, shaking so hard I don't know how the plane is staying together. All around me, I hear gasps and short shrieks of people realizing that something isn't right, and I squeeze my eyes closed. My heart begins to race as white-hot pinpricks race across every inch of my skin.
I grip the armrest in terror, only to discover the man next to me has his hand on the rest. Our fingers lace together and I cling to him, certain we’re about to hear the pilot at any moment, telling us the plane is going down like in the movies.
Struggling to breathe, I inhale, hating Olivia all the more for forcing me to come to her wedding. Though I guess if everything pans out the way I expect it to, I won't go to her wedding at all. Chaos ensues around us. Someone begins chanting a prayer to the lord, another cries, a baby cries inconsolably, and the man next to me holds on, his touch warm and comforting.
I promise myself, if I survive this, it's the last time I'll be on a plane. I'll take a boat home, even if that makes the trip exponentially longer and more complex. As fear grips like a drug into my veins and my heart slams my ribs as if looking for a way out, I cling to my companion, my other hand finding his arm and holding on for dear life.
The stranger pats my hand with his and I focus on that touch, wondering if he’ll be the last person I ever find comfort in, if this is the last moment of my life. And I wonder what mistakes I’ve made along the way and what regrets I should be lamenting over.
Of course, I only find fear, pain, and the lingering sadness that this isn’t my time.
I should have read my mother’s text and responded.
I should have trusted Olivia when she said this man makes her happy.
I should have forgiven my father... and maybe the men who hurt me.
Nah, not the men who hurt me, but maybe my father.
“It’ll be okay.” His words somehow permeate the loud noise around us and everything else settles to a low din and I focus on him. His light brown eyes meet mine, and I notice a slight crinkle at the corners of them. “We’re going to be alright.”
His words bring me some measure of comfort...
But how can I trust him?
Chapter Two
Michael
I hate flying. I always have cramped seats. The stale air, the constant noise, the press of bodies, the lingering smell of body odor. It's not my idea of relaxing air travel. But sometimes you do what you have to do, and this time I had to fly to London for a not-so-business meeting that I couldn't postpone or do online.
I could have chartered a private jet. I could have opted for first class, but instead, I’d decided to remind myself where I came from to make how far I’ve come seem that much sweeter. A decision I've been kicking myself for because either I forgot how small these seats are, or they've made them smaller since I last flew business class.
When I boarded, I'd hoped to sit at a window seat where I could at least pretend to enjoy the view on the way. Except that's not what happened. I glance down at the woman sitting in the window seat.
She's still clinging to me, her bright red curls trembling like live flames as her brilliant blue eyes meet mine. Her creamy, unflawed skin boasts a handful of freckles, and she’s beautiful in an almost perfect, supermodel way.
In my experience, though, beautiful women know they're beautiful, and they're tired of hearing the same tired comments from strangers. I could sense that she wanted to be left alone, which is perfectly fine with me because I also wanted to be left alone.
And I'd held true to that beyond a couple of glances where our eyes had met... and the way she grabbed me when turbulence struck, of course. What am I going to do, shake her off and tell her not to touch me when she's clearly terrified?
She'd spent most of the trip with the shutter to the window closed, looking beautiful, lonely, and occasionally angry.
I wanted to talk to her, ask her where she was going, if she was okay, anything to break the ice. But I'd hesitated, again, because she didn't seem like she wanted to chat with anyone and looked like she wanted to be left alone, just like me. She had even ignored a text.
And leaving her alone was fine with me. I have enough problems of my own without getting involved with someone else’s, so I'd respected her privacy and let her be for the entirety of the trip. And no, that doesn't make me some freaking hero like my bitter ex would have said. It just makes me a human being.
Crazy how she hadn't even seemed to notice me at all when I sat down next to her, but now I feel like the only person who matters in her life. Maybe it's because of her very real fear that we're about to die. Maybe she's finding very real comfort, and maybe because I have no concern about how this moment 's going to pan out - turbulence doesn't bother me. I hate flying, but I'm not afraid. To be honest, I'm not really afraid of death either; if it's my time to go, it's my time.
