Eight
O N SUNDAY I’M IN ANOTHER fluster. This one can’t be fully classified as a tizzy because the excitement is mingled with concern for Isaac and anxiety that’s been growing over the weekend.
Not just worry for how he and his family are doing but also anxiety for me.
After Friday, whatever this thing is with Isaac feels real to me. Grounded. Like a lot more than interest and attraction.
And that changes things.
It might change everything.
So I ask my dad to call for a car to take me to the airport an hour earlier than normal so I’ll have some time by myself, sitting at the gate to process exactly what’s going on and how I feel about it.
When passengers start boarding the flight, I don’t have any clearer answers.
I’ve always poured myself into relationships too fully, too quickly, which invariably leads to my getting hurt by them. I believed I was doing better with Cash about protecting my heart, but now I’m acutely aware the main reason for my discretion with him was a lack of genuine interest.
I was content with Cash because I was entirely safe with him. My heart was never at risk.
But that’s not true of Isaac. I can already feel too much of myself spilling away into our connection and all the unintentional hopes I’ve been building up around it. In a different situation, I might simply go with it. Take the risk because of the chance of it working out.
There’s too much standing between me and Isaac, however. I’m not going to move back to Boston, and he’s got a good job there, moving up the corporate ladder in exactly the way he wants. The physical distance alone is reason enough for us to apply brakes.
Isaac is probably thinking we could have a good time in the remaining weeks our timelines match, but I’m not a casual person. I’ve never been able to detach well enough to manage one-night stands or no-strings-attached hookups.
But I also don’t want to give this up.
I have absolutely no idea what to do when my boarding group is announced. No sign of Isaac yet, but that’s not unusual. I walk down the aisle and take my seat, still trying to decide how best to handle whatever happens between Isaac and me today.
Before I realize what’s happening, they’re closing and securing the door. Then the plane jerks slightly before it begins to back away from the gate.
Isaac isn’t here. He didn’t show up at the last minute.
He’s missed his flight this evening.
I’m immediately upset but not because I’m hurt or believe for a moment that his absence is about me. It isn’t.
I know without question why he’s not here right now.
His grandfather is either about to die or he’s already dead.
***
I DON’T HAVE A VERY good week.
The fact that I know Isaac must be hurting right now but I have absolutely no way to reach him—to check on him, to offer comfort, even to let him know he’s on my mind—is endlessly frustrating.
It feels wrong to be so disconnected, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be capable of going through the steps of my regular life without knowing if Isaac is okay or not.
So the days drag endlessly, and I spend half the time watching the clock or trying to distract myself with Jane Austen movie adaptations and five different film versions of Little Women .
When Friday finally trudges its way onto the calendar, I don’t let myself get excited about seeing Isaac. For all I know, he never came to Savannah this week and so he won’t be flying back to Boston with me this evening.
The soonest I can put my hopes in will be Sunday evening. Surely no matter what happened with his grandfather, he’ll be heading back to work by then.
So I don’t get to the airport early, and I don’t scour the crowds in the airport, searching for his familiar, handsome face.
I’m in line for boarding when I sense a presence behind me. There’s no way I can keep from a quick glance over my shoulder.
Isaac is standing there, looking tired but smiling at me.
“Hey,” I say, all the churning worry from the past week spiraling up in a way I can’t ignore. I pull him into the hug I really wanted to give him last week.
He stands very still for a moment as I wrap my arms around him and press my body into his. But then something cracks in his tension. He lets out a hoarse breath and hugs me back, more tightly than I expected.
I love the smell of his suit—clean and natural both. I love the urgency in his arms and the warmth of his firm body.
I love how safe I am wrapped up in this way. Safe and full and needy and strong .
All at the exact same time.
It’s not until the woman scanning tickets calls out another announcement for our flight that he releases me and I step back.
He looks slightly sheepish as we hurry through the gate and down the ramp onto the plane. I wait until we’re seated before I ask the obvious question.
“How is everything?”
“He died on Sunday.”
My face is tight with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Have you had the funeral?”
“Yes. We had it on Monday. We’re Jewish, in case you didn’t already have that figured.”
“Oh. Well, I thought maybe, but everyone holds their heritage differently, so I didn’t want to assume anything. Are you... devout?”
He gives his half shrug. “I’m not as observant as my parents, but I try to do what I can. I had to get back to work on Wednesday, so I couldn’t sit shiva with them for more than a day.”
“Are they upset about that?”
“No. They’re glad I stayed as long as I did.”
“That’s good at least. How are you feeling about everything?”
“I’m okay. Really. I was closer to my grandparents than a lot of people I know, so the loss is probably... more. But I think I’m holding up okay. It helped getting back into work.”
“Yeah. I guess maybe returning to normal things helps to pull us along. Were you... were you with him at the end?”
“No. He died just before dawn on Sunday. My mom was sitting with him, but my dad and I had gone to get a few hours of sleep. But I was able to say goodbye. I feel like... like I had some closure.”
I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder for just a moment before I straighten up. “I’m glad you got back home in time.”
“Me too.” He gives me an adorable quirk of a smile. “You’re just dying to hug me again, aren’t you?”
“No!” I give an unconvincing little flounce. “Of course not. I hugged you once. That’s all the hugs you’re getting.”
He chuckles softly and reaches an arm out to drape behind my shoulders. He gives me a squeeze. “Maybe I need a little more hugging.”
I giggle. I can’t help it. “Nope. You had all you’re getting for now. Serves you right for misreading a nice person’s attempts to offer comfort.”
“You have offered comfort,” he says in a different, softer tone as he pulls his arm back. “Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.” My mouth quivers, no doubt revealing my dimples. “I try to be a nice person whether the recipient deserves it or not.”
He’s smiling as he pulls out a bottle of water from his bag and swallows down almost half in one series of gulps.
“Tell me about your grandpa,” I say, picking up my knitting since I can do that while we talk.
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Anything. Tell me one of your favorite memories.”
For a moment it looks like Isaac is going to object, but he doesn’t. He starts telling me a story of when he was ten and he and his grandfather went out on a fishing boat for a weekend. His grandfather wasn’t a soft man, and he made Isaac work hard learning to fish and drive the boat and deal with unexpected turns of weather and waves.
But he was patient. And never got frustrated or angry when Isaac wasn’t a particularly fast learner. And that weekend ended up being one of the best of his life.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick it up quickly,” I comment idly.
“Why?”
“Because you seem like the kind of person who’s good at everything.”
“Do I?” He preens and then breaks into a smile.
“Yes. You do.”
“Well, I was always good in school. I made A’s without having to try very hard. I got a scholarship to college and then a fairly prestigious fellowship for grad school, and none of it really... strained my abilities.”
“I guess that means you sailed right through.”
“Not exactly sailed. But I didn’t have to work as hard as other people. So yeah, I guess I was good at school, and I’m good at my job, and those come naturally so it never feels like I’m trying very hard. But I’m not good at everything.”
“Were you good at sports?”
A flicker on his face intrigues me.
“Were you?” I prompt. “Don’t tell me you weren’t athletic? You look like you’re in good shape.”
“I run regularly and lift weights at least a few times a week, so I stay in okay shape. I was always good at running.”
“Running? What about sports?”
He narrows his eyes.
“Did you play any?”
“I told you. I run. I ran some track in school and did all right. Nothing fantastic, but decent.”
“So you didn’t play baseball or football or basketball or anything?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He doesn’t answer. Only looks at me.
I’m bubbling with laughter at his intentionally cool expression. “Were you bad at them?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he finally admits. “I was bad.”
“How were you bad if you could run well?”
He sighs and shakes his head with a warm, tired smile. “I had issues with balls.”
“With balls?”
“Handling balls. It didn’t matter if they were small or big. I could never throw, and I could never catch.”
I can’t seem to stop laughing at this sardonic expression.
“Why is that so funny?”
“I don’t know. You’re just one of those people who always seems to have things together and who are good at whatever they try. It’s just kind of nice to know that there’s something you’re bad at.”
He finally relents and laughs softly too. “My poor dad kept trying to teach me to throw when I was a boy. Then he foisted me off on Grandpa, and he tried too. But I couldn’t do it. It would have been okay if I was good at catching, but I was equally bad at that. One time when I was like eight, my dad wasn’t thinking and tossed me an apple I asked for in the kitchen. It was a mistake.”
“What happened?” I’m wide-eyed and smiling, completely engaged by the conversation.
“He threw it right at me, but I missed. Of course.” He clears his throat. “It hit my forehead and rebounded over to knock a vase of flowers off the counter. That in turn knocked over my glass of water. So all of it—the apple, the vase, the flowers, the glass, and all the water went tumbling down onto the floor.”
“Oh no!” I’m giggling so much I try to smother it with the soft cowl-neck of my sweater. “Did your mom and dad get mad?”
“No. My dad cleaned it up. He knew by then that I can’t catch to save my life, so he took the blame. I felt like crap though. Who can’t catch a toss that’s aimed perfectly?”
“Some people just aren’t coordinated that way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I guess you’re one of them.”
“I know that.” He pauses as he watches my attempts to stifle my hilarity. “And some people are kind of heartless in mocking others who happen to not be coordinated.”
The plane is in the air now. I was barely conscious of takeoff. Isaac seems to also be unaware. He’s entirely focused on me, and it’s a heady feeling.
An intoxicating feeling.
I could definitely grow accustomed to him gazing at me that way.
“I’m not mocking,” I whisper, my heart hammering in my chest and my throat and my ears since it looks so much like he might kiss me.
And I want it.
Desperately.
Even though it makes me feel like the ground is about to drop out from beneath my feet.
He’s got his laptop on his tray table, but he hasn’t opened it yet. He shifts slightly so he’s closer to me. “It looks like you’re mocking.”
“I’m not. I’m just glad to know you’re human after all.”
“Of course I’m human. You already knew that. You know I hate flying, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know at first, but I know now. Is it motion sickness? Or a fear of heights or something?”
“No. Not either of those. I hate being... trapped. And it’s worse if the thing I’m trapped in doesn’t feel secure.”
“Well, that’s a reasonable fear.”
“Did I say I was afraid?”
“No, but I read between the lines. And it’s a perfectly rational fear—a perfectly rational dislike to have. Is that connected to why you always sit in this seat way in the back?”
“Yes. It’s irrational, but having people behind me always made it worse. Made me feel more trapped or something. So I always sit in the back, but I have to have an aisle seat so I’m not trapped by the person beside me.”
“Have you tried sitting in the back row of the business cabin? So there’s a divider behind you?”
“Yes. I’ve tried everything. And this seat is the only thing that works.”
“Oh. Well, I guess it makes sense why you refused to move then. And it’s not because you’re attached to your seat like I am.”
“No. I’m not attached. It’s a purely strategic choice on my part.”
“I wish I would have known earlier. I wouldn’t have teased you so much if I’d known you were dealing with all that. And it’s terrible that you have to travel so much for work. How have you handled all the flying you have to do?”
“I just grit my teeth and suffer through it. Although lately it hasn’t been so bad because I’ve had something to distract me.”
I want to melt at the words and the look in his eyes. But something about his word choice pokes a tiny hole in my ebullience.
Because I don’t want to only be a distraction for this man.
His eyebrows draw together. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”
“Nothing. You didn’t say anything.”
“It looks like you got your feelings hurt.”
I gasp and stiffen. “I didn’t get my feelings hurt!”
He chuckles. “And now you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Okay. You’re not mad. You didn’t get your feelings hurt. Nothing I see as plain as day on your face has any basis in reality at all.”
“That’s right,” I tell him with a sniff. “Try to remember it.”
“I will.” He’s smiling again as he relaxes back in his seat. “But I do want to know why you reacted that way just now. Surely you know that you’re the distraction I was talking about.”
“I do know.”
“So what do you have to say about it?”
“I...” I gulp as a wave of nerves washes over me. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t.”
“No. It seems... I don’t know. It seems a little difficult.”
“Why?”
“Well, we live in different states. We’ve never known each other at all outside the confines of these flights. It doesn’t feel like a very secure foundation for... for pursuing it.”
“Maybe. But I’m not convinced.” He doesn’t look hurt or disappointed, which is a relief. Mostly he appears curious. “Since when am I the one more willing to go with emotions out of the two of us?”
“That is a strange turnaround,” I admit. “And I’m not saying I don’t want to... to see what happens. But I’m kind of nervous about it too.”
“Oh.” He looks away, appearing to be hiding a smile. “I see.”
“What do you see? Why are you looking so smug?”
“No reason.”
“There isn’t any reason to be smug about this. I’m serious about my concerns.”
“I know you are.”
“Then why do you look like you’re sure you’re going to get your way?”
“No reason.” His mouth is twitching just slightly. It’s adorable and infuriating both.
“Stop saying that.”
“Then stop asking questions that have that as an answer.”
“Ugh! You’re the most obnoxious person! You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve been told more than once. Mostly by you, but still...”
I’m torn between giggling and continuing the argument. The conflicting impulses tighten my throat until I end up in a coughing fit that eventually leads to tears streaming out of my eyes.
Without missing a beat, Isaac leans over, finds another one of those luxury napkins, and offers it to me.
I wipe my face and finally clear my throat. Then I glance at the wadded napkin in my hand. “Why do you always have such a good supply of these?”
“They lay them out with bottles of water whenever I have a meeting in the conference room at the Savannah office. I never use them, but they seem like they might come in handy, so I keep them.”
“Oh. Very convenient.” I flash him a quick smile before I dab my eyes one more time.
“I think so.” He pauses for a minute while we look at each other. Then, “So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About my smugness from before. What are you thinking about it?”
“Oh.” I know exactly what he’s asking. Whether I want to pursue whatever it is that’s been growing between us. The question hits me squarely and terrifies me for a moment.
“If you’re not sure,” he says after a minute, “then we can just let it sit for the weekend.”
“Let it sit?”
“Yes. Let it rest. Not get all uptight about it.”
“I’m not all uptight!”
“I know you’re not, but you’re hesitant. And I’m not a pushy, demanding kind of person. I can wait.”
“Until Sunday?”
“Until whenever. Until you’re sure.”
I swallow. Process what he’s telling me. Then I smile and nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Let’s let it sit for the weekend.”
“That sounds like a plan to me.”