Chapter 18
I watch Miles arrange our dinner. It feels as if we’ve grown so much over the last few months.
The time we’ve spent together makes my heart feel so full.
The stresses of work and life feel so small with him by my side.
It sucks to think about what will happen when it’s time for me to go home—but before even that, I have to think about leaving for just a few days.
“I hate that I’m going away for so long.” I pick at my plate, too devastated to have much of an appetite.
Miles laughs at my dramatics and the way his lips twist into a smile make my heart sing. I wish we never had to part. I wish he’d follow me forever.
Miles brings up the stalker, and a knot forms in my stomach.
I hate thinking about that. They’ve been harassing me for going on a year now.
Joseph and the agency keep pushing it off.
Miles and I agreed we’d put it off until things slowed down enough for him to focus on it—which sadly seems to be now.
I write down as many names as I can remember, but, to be honest, there aren’t as many as there should be. Half the time we didn’t exchange information, and the other half, I forgot.
Miles insists on helping, probably because he feels a duty to do so.
And I insist that he doesn’t have to if it doesn’t feel right.
But he maintains that he wants to. I grasp his warm hand in mine and stare into his bright green eyes.
They’re captivating and brilliant, and they make me feel safe and happy.
He sighs and says the three words that catch me off guard so quickly I start to panic.
I hadn’t thought about that before; it never even crossed my mind.
Hell, it’s never crossed my mind with anyone.
Sure, I like him; sure, I want to spend a long time with him, but is that really considered ‘love’?
The hesitance in my eyes alarms him, and he tries to backtrack. He rips himself away to busy himself in the kitchen, and I follow. I try to explain, and he cuts me off, and when he looks at me with trembling, tearful eyes, I’m devastated.
“I think you should go home…” His voice trails—trembling.
I don’t fight him. If he thinks that it’s the best right now, I’ll let him. “I’ll call you.” I kiss him on the forehead, grab my coat, and leave.
The blades of the helicopter are still spinning as I exit.
The Delta employee scrambles around, shouting into her radio, and guiding me into a large, black SUV.
I slip my noise-canceling headphones over my ears and pull my baseball cap further down.
I haven’t been able to get that night out of my head—Miles’s tear-filled eyes staring into mine, the quiver of his voice telling me to ‘get out.’ Like a coward, I haven’t contacted him like I promised, and he hasn’t contacted me either.
I know he’s probably waiting for me to make the first move, as he should.
The car trip is quick, and my plane waits for me on the tarmac. The same woman ushers me from the car, up the stairs to the jet bridge, and passes me off to a flight attendant. The stale scent of heated cabin air assaults my nostrils. I look around the Delta cabin at a sea of high-walled pods.
I can hear the faint, muffled sounds of rustling bags and crying toddlers in economy.
I never understood why people got so angry at toddlers and babies crying on planes.
Sure, it can be annoying, but they’re babies—the whole experience is new and frightening.
I remember my first flight vividly. How frightened I was.
I had just booked my first non-local modeling gig.
I was sixteen—unknown, quiet. They’d put me in an economy seat.
I remember how stuffy it was, how claustrophobic I felt sitting in the window seat next to a stranger.
I remember the woman who sat next to me fondly.
She was an older woman, likely in her sixties.
She had wise gray eyes that made me feel safe.
We didn’t speak much, but she held my hand during takeoff and landing when she noticed how anxious I was. I think about her often these days.
“Have a nice flight, Mr. Ellis.” The woman makes her exit back down the jet bridge.
I smile at her as she leaves and follow the flight attendant to my seat.
I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with any of the other passengers, and they don’t even care to look up.
After slipping into the pod, I slide the privacy door closed and lean back into my seat.
I take my cell from my jacket pocket and stare at the screen.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I slowly type out a message: I’ll see you when I get home.
I miss you. But I don’t press send. I just stare at the screen, my heart thumping against my ribs. What an idiot. What a coward.
A voice over the intercom announces for passengers to put away their electronics.
I slide mine into my pocket without sending the message—too conscious of the decision.
I close my eyes and block out the pre-flight announcements.
I didn’t get much sleep last night, and the dark circles around my eyes can attest. Miles was all that I could—no—can think about.
He told me he loved me, and I should have said it back, right?
If I had, we would have had a good night, and I could have left knowing that we were in a good place.
But now…now, all I can do is be anxious.
What if that was the last straw? What if I come home, and he’s done with me?
I don’t think I could live with myself if that happened.