Almost Pretend

I I HELLO, MR. BRIGHT SIDE （ELLE）

I’m going to be brutally honest.

I have a track record of making bad decisions.

Usually, I don’t mind it. There’s always something right side up in upside down.

One door opens, another closes.

You know how it goes.

Like when I was five, and I decided to make a net trap out of sticks, yarn, and cheese to catch the raccoon in our yard. Sure, I wound up with two spitting-mad raccoons, my mother shrieking, and my dad lecturing me for an hour about rabies while he freed the little beasts from a safe distance with a rake.

But I learned that I loved being a little spontaneous—pretty important for a lifelong love affair with the arts.

Or maybe when I was twelve and I asked a classmate, Kenny Purdue, to the Sadie Hawkins dance. He laughed, called me a zombie vampire bitch, and threw mud on my dress.

He also taught me how to tell which boys suck real fast.

Plus, the fact that splattered earth tones look pretty cool on fabric.

Oh, and my gothy phase in high school?

I’m a master at pairing contrasts. I had to do something with the anemia and pale skin. Fashion forward, always.

I think I’m still looking for the bright side in the fact that I chose to go to art school and graduated just in time to be replaced by an AI algorithm that can whip up a masterpiece in a fraction of the time it would take any human. Luckily, it hasn’t totally stopped me from finding freelance work as a children’s illustrator with my uniquely human imperfections—so it can’t be all bad, right?

Right?

Like I said, I can find the good in any situation.

Even the tattooed stoner rock star wannabe I dated in college because I forgot how to tell which boys suck, a guy who cheated on me with two of my friends, taught me a valuable lesson. I don’t need a boyfriend, or friends with grabby hands.

That was also the first time I tried painting angry.

It landed me an exhibit in a New York art gallery. The perfect dot on my résumé to keep the freelance work rolling in for the last few years.

So, sure.

I’ve made gallons of lemonade out of my weight in lemons.

Right now, though, I’m having a hard time finding the good in a cross-country flight when we’re not even done boarding and my eyes are aching with the spangly white flashers again.

That’s what I call them before the headache from hell hits.

This time, it started in the terminal at JFK before my red-eye flight.

So much noise and motion, all of it bouncing off high ceilings. Just a dull throbbing behind my eyes, but it’s the only warning I get that I need to hydrate and lie down in a cool, dark place to head things off before the pain turns volcanic.

But I didn’t have that option today.

Not when I had to slog through security, check in, and run to my gate just in time for the boarding call. By the time I got on the plane, my head was spinning.

Now, as I wedge through the aisle and try not to gag, and the sounds of someone’s upset, teething baby pierce my skull like an ice pick, I wonder why I didn’t just book a train.

A nice, leisurely Amtrak ride from NYC to Seattle. It would take almost a week. No sudden takeoff, no noisy crowds, no screaming anything.

But noooo. I had to be Efficiency Girl and book a flight, forgetting that in her off time the fantabulous Efficiency Girl moonlights as Mistress Migraine.

So I grit my teeth, squint, and force my eyes to focus so I can count down the steps to my seat without vomiting.

At least I booked a window seat.

Sometimes watching the clouds helps ease the earthquake in my head, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll still have a nice corner to hide in.

When I get to my row, though, the aisle seat is already occupied by my seatmate.

It takes me a second to process the big, stiff man perched in the seat when there are sparks popping across my vision like the Fourth of July.

But when I finally see him—

Holy hell.

Did I say there was no bright side to this flight?

I was very, very wrong.

For a split second, I forget I’m battling the mother of all migraines.

My seatmate looks to be around his late thirties.

He’s tall. So tall that his knees press against the back of the seat in front of him, even with the extra legroom in business class.

He’s got a face cut from granite, stern and so handsome and intimidating he could be peeled right off the pages of a fashion magazine—especially with his perfectly tailored clothing.

A dark three-piece suit with a gorgeous dark-blue silk tie brings out the cutting, icy tints of blue in eyes brighter than the summer ocean. The suit is all angles, but it fits him in a way that says he’s nothing but solid muscle underneath.

Of course, he’s got the devil’s lips. Cruel, sensuous, and framed by a dark, close-cropped beard just beginning to pick up a few streaks of silver here and there.

His brows are decisive, dashed thick and dark under striking black hair swept neatly to one side, though one unruly lock arcs over his brow.

A flaw in his armor? Imperfectly perfect?

He’s killing me already.

And he does it again with his posture.

There’s something broody and furious about him.

The lines carved in his face tell me this is just his default look. It’s not whatever he’s glaring at on the laptop settled on the tray table in front of him that’s putting it there.

The stranger just flipping smolders.

There’s a visceral simmer radiating off him, taking up even more space than the man himself.

Hello, Mr. Bright Side.

Can you go from zero to daddy issues in thirty seconds flat?

Someone bumps into me from behind, and my headache drags me back to earth.

I wince—and not just because I’ve been gawking at a total stranger who isn’t acknowledging my existence while I’m next to him, blocking the aisle.

Right.

I need to sit down, take a deep breath, and swallow a couple of the Imitrex I barely managed to get through security. Dry, if I can’t flag down a flight attendant to ask for water in the middle of people getting seated.

Sighing, I adjust my carry-on and pin on a smile for Jet Daddy.

I always try to smile like I’m not in excruciating pain, but today I probably resemble a demented carnival doll with the way my left eye keeps twitching.

“Excuse me,” I say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t even look up.

It’s like I’m not even here.

Except the people behind me waiting to climb into their own seats make it crystal clear I didn’t just turn invisible. While someone at my back coughs and curses for me to hurry it up, I clear my throat and try again.

Louder this time.

“Excuse me.”

Nothing.

“Sir? Excuse me. I’m in the next seat. Can I squeeze in here?”

He doesn’t even lift an eyebrow, let alone look up.

What the hell?

Is he deaf? Is he ignoring me intentionally?

No one can possibly be this oblivious. His screen looks like nothing but Excel charts and spreadsheets, so it can’t be that fascinating.

“Sir?” I try again before I sigh and reach out to tap his shoulder. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but—eep.”

I never make contact with his shoulder.

His hand snaps up and locks around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

My first impression is that his hands are enormous.

More like paws with fingers, but his fingers are thin with large knuckles, giving them a sort of brutal elegance.

They wrap around my wrist so fully that his fingers overlap the heel of his palm. The pads of his fingers are callused, shredding the image of the pampered suit. The graze of his thumb against the pulse point under my wrist turns my breath into a stutter.

My second impression is that even though he cut me off before I could touch him, he’s holding my wrist so gently I can barely feel it.

No matter how quick and sharp that slashing movement was, he doesn’t want to hurt me.

Again, those glacial eyes slide toward me without his head ever lifting.

They watch me from under decisive brows with a cool, penetrating look that feels like being dunked in arctic waters.

I’m about as overstimulated as I can get between the noise and the headache and his touch and the way his indecipherable look cuts through me.

If I don’t sit down in the next thirty seconds, we’re going to have a much bigger problem than me blocking the aisle.

Thankfully, he seems to get the message.

He lets go of my wrist with a light push that sends me back a half step, clearing the aisle so he can lift the outer armrest and slide his legs out, making room for me to slip past. Barely.

Like I said, he’s not a small man.

My knees still brush his outer thigh as I edge past him with a flustered “Thank you.”

I try to tell myself my face only feels so hot because the migraine has all my wires crossed, especially when my blood pressure is likely plunging and I should feel cold.

But even with my distracting seatmate, it’s a relief to throw myself down in my seat.

I can’t be bothered to toss my bag in the overhead bin. Not when that would just piss off the horde behind me even more while I fumble to get my little carry-on packet of pills out.

Which I do now, hefting the bag into my lap and then digging inside.

Please. Please let me get this medicine down fast enough to stave off the worst of it.

I find the prescription bottle, fight with the childproof cap, then shake out a dose and gulp it down.

Closing my eyes, I go limp, hugging my bag close and idly listening to the caveman next to me moving back into position and the faint rainfall of his fingers on his keyboard.

The darkness behind my eyes is soothing.

The violent flashers slowly fade.

The worst is over.

I hope.

I can’t do anything about the noisy people settling in, but I can at least choose which noise to focus on. Jet Daddy’s typing is actually pretty soothing.

It’s rhythmic and predictable. As long as I focus on that, I won’t jolt every time a toddler shrieks like they’re trying to turn my head into a broken Easter egg.

Once we’re in the air, I’ll be fine.

I will.

Cabin pressure will even out, and, assuming the migraine hasn’t put me in a coma by then, I’ll be able to ride it out like I always do until this flying metal tube drops me off at SeaTac.

I stay still until the telltale ping tells me the Fasten seat belt lights have come on, and I wince as the captain’s voice rattles over a staticky loudspeaker.

Not helping, but at least some of the pounding has stopped. Enough that I feel more human and less like a reanimated corpse.

Opening my eyes, I fish my laptop out, then tuck the bag under the seat and the laptop against my hip while I fasten my seat belt.

Next to me, Jet Daddy has finally closed his laptop, put his tray table up, and tucked the laptop away in the seat pocket in front of him so he can fasten his own seat belt.

I could almost live with the migraine just to watch him move.

There’s a flexing flow under his suit that’s fascinating. He’s thick enough in the waist—no, thicc, like muscle thicc—that he has to yank the seat belt tight just to fasten it comfortably.

I catch his head starting to turn slightly toward me when I realize I’m staring again.

Yikes.

I look away quickly, riveting my eyes on the window and holding my breath. It’s at least a solid thirty seconds before I dare to glance back at him.

Now, he’s not looking at me at all.

Welp.

So much for hoping I could distract myself with a little light flirting.

Still, I should try to be friendly.

Even though he’s looking straight ahead, I offer my hand and try another smile.

“Hi. I’m Eleanor Lark, but you can call me Elle,” I say. Then it hits me how weird it must be that I’m talking to him after I dove into the seat like I was falling and immediately went for my pills. I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I just really needed to sit. I know I was being, you know, kinda weird. I’m not a nervous flier or anything. I just get these nasty headaches and needed my meds.”

Jet Daddy lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.

He turns his head, just enough to look down at my outstretched hand like a prince contemplating why any mere mortal would be so stupid as to try to touch him.

There isn’t a flicker of a reaction.

No smile, no frown, no Ew, cooties, get your dirty paw away from me.

He just looks away again without making eye contact.

O-kay, this guy is weird.

Frowning, I pull my hand back, curling my fingers against my palm.

Hey, I tried. Hot pricks and me don’t mix, I guess.

His attitude problem doesn’t need to make my bad day worse, when I’ve got better things to focus on.

Like the fact that the engines are whirring and the airplane’s jolting to life, this giant steel dragon with us in its belly.

Overdramatic?

Yes.

I get a little dramatic when I’m praying my skull won’t implode at thirty-six thousand feet.

Ready or not, though, it’s coming.

That powerful push forward, faster and faster, gravity pinning me to my seat.

Most people don’t get that migraines aren’t just in your head.

When they hit like this, they attack everywhere. It’s like being crushed in a trash compactor until your entire body rings with pain, blindness, nausea, throbbing, dizziness.

I dig my fingers into the armrests as we take off. I close my eyes and try to time my breaths in deep, slow movements.

I try to find my happy place where there are no soul-shredding migraines or antisocial sexy freaks cramping my breathing space.

It’s not much, but it helps with the pressure changes.

It still sucks.

So I just try to keep my internal organs in one place as the pressure builds, peaks, and—

Then it just bursts.

The worst migraine ever slugs me dead in the face before we hit cruising altitude.

I’m reeling, sick, trying not to cry.

I hate this.

I hate this so much.

All it takes is a change in the hydraulic pressure in my veins to turn my world into a special hell.

It’s why I try so hard to just be happy when I can.

To counterbalance these moments of sheer torture and enjoy the good times while I have them.

That’s definitely not now.

It feels like years pass before I can breathe again.

I can’t stop the tears that leak out, trickling down my face. The pain is too deep, but it starts to ease up, so I no longer feel like I’m going to shatter by the time the ding sounds that tells us we can unbuckle our seat belts, use our devices, and enjoy a six-hour nonstop flight from coast to coast.

I’m suddenly glad I picked a night flight. Even without opening my eyes, I can tell the people around me are just settling in to sleep, and those who aren’t sleeping will stay quiet for those who are.

By the time we land, I’ll be stable again.

Until then, I can at least keep my overhead light off and try to settle in.

I hear a faint click over my head, followed by a second one to my side, grounding me where I am. I’m still clawing armrests.

I’m also holding my breath.

I exhale in a rush and slowly peel my fingers loose from their death grip one by one. Wary of the lights, I crack one eye open—but my overhead light is off, though I’m sure I didn’t turn it off.

As I open my other eye, I realize the overhead light next to me is off too.

Oof.

Jet Daddy knows I exist.

He’s watching me so intently my lungs stop working.

He still has that cold, reserved look of disinterest bordering on disdain. His winter-blue eyes could gut someone if he glanced at them too fast.

But he’s holding something out to me.

Something that resembles the same dark-blue silk as his tie.

The pocket square from his suit?

Oh.

He noticed.

He noticed I was crying, and I don’t know what to make of that. But if he’s offering ...

My movements are creaky as I reach for the silk gift with a trembling smile.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Amazing how a headache on steroids can screw up my entire body this badly. “Sorry, mister. Um, like I said, migraines. The medicine hasn’t kicked in yet.”

He doesn’t say anything.

He just looks away from me and leans forward to retrieve his laptop and fold his tray table down.

Seriously, this guy is weird.

But his strangeness is a welcome distraction, if I’m being honest.

Though I have to look away from the brightness of his screen when his laptop wakes up. I close my eyes again, dabbing the wetness from my cheeks.

I feel self-conscious giving it back to him when it’s wet with my tears, so I curl the silk against my fingers and bite my lip, opening my eyes again.

“I can have this cleaned and return it to you, Mr. ...?”

He’d started tapping on his laptop—is it me, or is he deliberately typing with a lighter touch?—but now he stops.

Still no eye contact.

His screen is way more interesting than me. I mean, I know I’ve already made too awful a first impression to hope for a little flirting, but man, this guy is hell on a girl’s self-esteem.

“Keep it,” he rumbles.

Whoa.

For a second, I wonder if audio therapy is a real thing.

Because his voice ... it’s like standing under a waterfall that’s the same dark blue as the pocket square in my hand. Deep, soothing, heavy with this scorched sensuality that makes even those two mundane words feel like a caress.

It’s an odd contradiction when his tone is just as cold as his eyes, but the timbre and resonance are all heat and whisper-sweet darkness.

It messes me up so much I forget my headache again in the sound of his voice before I really process what he’s said.

Keep it?

He can’t be serious.

I bite my lip, but I’m too tired and hurt to protest.

So I tuck the silk square into the pocket of my jeans and mutter another “Thanks.”

I don’t expect him to answer.

I’m absolutely right.

I don’t exist in his bubble yet again, but for some reason, I’m still smiling.

I guess even weird stuffy Jet Daddies can be kind, now and then.

I’m pretty sure he turned the lights off for me too.

Someone else who’s kind: the stewardess who passes by and leans past him to look at me with a worried smile. “Hon, are you all right? You look pale.”

“Kind of my default,” I say dryly. “I get bad migraines. Already took some pills, but if I could please ask you for a water, a pillow, and a blanket, I’d be so grateful.”

“Of course!” She reaches over Jet Daddy and lightly pats my shoulder, then bustles off.

A minute later, I’ve got an ice-cold water bottle, a little airline pillow, and two blankets. I glug down the water and tuck myself into the corner, nesting with the pillow cushioning my skull.

It’s not perfect, but a little rest in Satan’s own jet is better than none at all.

Hopefully by the time I wake up, the meds will be doing their job.

And maybe Jet Daddy will remember how to grunt more than two words at me.

For now, I pull one of the blankets over my head, willing myself to sleep with the sweet distraction of his gentle typing in my ears.

When I wake up, he’s still on his laptop.

I’d almost think the whole flight hadn’t passed and I’d only been out for a few minutes. But the sky is turning pink outside above the pillowy clouds.

We’ll be landing soon, which means I’d better brace for round two of crushing pressure changes.

At least my own brain isn’t trying to claw its way out of my head like a starving animal.

With a heavy yawn, I poke my head out of my blanket nest. My hair floofs into my face as I peer out from the hood the blanket’s turned into. I’m sure I look deranged.

Good thing Jet Daddy doesn’t give a damn if I’m cute or not.

I peek at him, rubbing one sandy eye, and consider trying to talk again. But I think I’ve learned my lesson.

So I watch him tapping away for a few seconds, check my watch, and wiggle my laptop out from under my hip and prop it open on my tray table.

As soon as the in-flight Wi-Fi connects, there’s an email waiting from my grandmother.

Subject: Dinner tonight

From: Grandma Jackie

Elle Dear,

I hope you’ll see this before your flight. I wanted to make your favorite for dinner tonight, but I do hope you still love five-cheese tortellini. Please let me know before your flight lands, my darling. If you have something different in mind, we can always stop by the grocery on the way home.

Yours always,

Your loving Gran

My smile feels too big for my face.

Jacqueline Lark always talks that way, like she’s trying to remind me how much she loves me with every word. She’s practically my mother at this point, although my real mom is happily retired with my father down in the Florida Keys.

I tap out a quick reply.

Subject: Re: Dinner tonight

To: Grandma Jackie

Gran,

You know I’d never turn down your tortellini, especially if you’re making your special cream sauce. But I told you—no coming to the airport. You shouldn’t be on your feet if you’re still in your knee brace. I’ll Uber, and we can order anything else. See you soon. Love you!

Elle

Knowing Gran, she’s probably already at the airport, and I’m too late to stop her.

I’ll just have to take the keys and drive so she’s not hurting her bad knee. After her hiking accident last summer, her doctor hoped that she’d be able to walk unassisted with her new knee plate after recovery, but she refused the surgery in favor of other options.

Over six months of physical therapy and she’s still struggling—which is partly why I’m here.

Sure, life wasn’t working out that great in NYC.

But I could’ve roughed it out until things started looking up.

I just didn’t want to, not when Gran needs me more.

I glance at the time again. I should have a few more minutes before I have to put everything away, so I kill time looking for local jobs.

Might as well get a jump start on settling in. As I sink back in my chair, I prop my elbow on the armrest between me and Jet Daddy.

He’s so quiet I’d forget he’s there, if not for the heat of his thigh stretched out next to me and my aching skull quieting enough to be very aware of just how close his mile-wide shoulders are to touching mine.

But I remember him well when my elbow bumps his and knocks it off the armrest.

“Oops,” I say. “So—”

I never get the word out before he plants his elbow back down and sweeps mine off. He never stops typing—and he’s still not looking at me.

I narrow my eyes.

Look, I’m grateful to him for turning off the lights and giving me his pocket square, but a single human sentence from him would be nice.

Annoyed, I nudge my elbow back on the armrest and send his dropping back down into his lap.

Then he does it right back without missing a beat.

Oh, now it’s on.

Hiding my smile, I sweep his elbow back off again, this time more forcefully—and there he is again, his huge arm brushing mine as he pushes right back.

Again.

Again.

Again and again and again until I’m hard pressed not to grin. He never pushes hard enough to come close to hurting me. Mostly, this feels like some weird game.

Okay.

I may look like a corpse and my hair is probably sticking up everywhere, but maybe I am getting to flirt with Mr. Walking Daddy Issues a little bit.

Even if he’s still no closer to showing the slightest hint of a smile, let alone breaking that no-nonsense expression. He still wears the same broody look of intense concentration as he scrolls through the data on his screen.

It looks like financial projections and profit reports that seem negative, I think.

But our weird little game ends as the Fasten seat belt light dings on, and my amusement turns into dread.

Here we go.

I just hope I don’t cry this time when the shifting pressure crushes my head like a grape.

As the pilot announces our arrival, we put our laptops away.

Jet Daddy keeps very pointedly ignoring me, but as we both fasten our seat belts, it happens.

He leaves the armrest free.

I smile slightly and hold on tight, bracing for pain.

But the pressure change doesn’t hit me as much like a plane crash to the face. I still end up clawing at the armrests until my fingers hurt, pinching my eyes shut.

The vise squeezing my skull only lets up once the wheels touch down on the runway and we start taxiing in.

My mouth feels sour, but I think I’ll make it to the terminal without showering Jet Daddy in my last meal.

I do go fuzzy and dark for a second, though.

Maybe more than a second—or is it a few minutes?

When I pry my eyes open again, people are disembarking and Jet Daddy is gone like a ghost that never existed.

Did I imagine him the whole time?

I smirk a bit to myself.

Never had a guy so eager to get away from me before, but I guess if I were him, I’d want to lurch away from the sick girl too.

Steeling my dizzy vision, I get my bag and stumble through the aisle and off the plane.

Until now, I thought I was okay, holding it together long enough to make it out on my own.

I was wrong.

Because the second the noisy terminal hits me in the face, the migraine gnawing at the back of my brain charges to the front again.

I make it out of the gate, swaying violently, bumping into people who shout their irritation as I weave through the crowd.

Then that red flood over my eyes becomes a drowning roar.

I’m blind.

Blind, fighting for breath, and going down.

My mind feels like it’s swirling down the drain as angry red fades to bitter black.