Chapter Five
When Tyler said “international location” I pictured Fiji, Costa Rica, Spain—somewhere sunny and warm, conducive to wearing a bikini all day long and sipping fruity cocktails by the pool.
I was so wrong.
What the actual fuck.
My first flight brought me to Toronto, where I’m waiting for my connection to the illustrious Thunder Bay.
The airport is mostly empty, and it takes no time to find the gate.
A few people are already there—a young mother, pacing the floor, bobbing a whimpering baby up and down.
There’s an old couple wearing matching denim shirts and jeans.
Canadians rocking the Canadian tuxedo—amazing.
And there’s a guy—hold up, a hot guy. Things just got more interesting.
The hot guy in question is sleeping in his seat.
He’s got broad shoulders, and through his baggy grey sweatsuit I can see that he’s built, but not bulky.
His hoodie is pulled low over his eyes, obscuring most of his face, but what I can see is promising: a strong jawline, golden skin and full lips.
His long legs are outstretched, and his arms are crossed over his abdomen.
I stare at him. Is he truly hot, or is he just the only guy my age at the airport? Sometimes you have to ask yourself this question, but in this case he’s definitely hot. And he’s looking right at me.
Oh shit. I look away quickly. I study my phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he has stood up.
He stretches his arms over his head, revealing a swath of stomach, all taut skin and rippling muscles.
Hot damn. My eyes follow the trail of hair below his belly button down, down, all the way down to, oh god, his feet.
Which I can see in great detail in their flip-flops.
Flip-flops!
No one wants to see your dogs, dude! Put them back in their kennel!
And just like that, the attraction is dead. Sure, he’s objectively hot, but flip-flops are a major Ick.
Oh well. It would have been fun to have some eye candy for the rest of the journey, but I’ll manage. I put my head down, and thumb through an abandoned copy of Canadian Living magazine. I don’t look up when he walks by me.
The gate is still mostly empty by the time it comes to board. It’s a small plane, with just two seats on each side, and my seat is near the back. I send up a prayer to the travel gods to give me a row to myself.
I watch every person get on, quietly celebrating every time they take a seat that’s not the one right beside me.
The Canadian Tuxedo couple sit in different rows—interesting.
The woman with the baby is laden down with bags, but the baby is asleep.
The Flip-Flop guy gets on, tucking a lock of wavy dark brown hair behind his ear as he checks his seat number.
He looks up, his eyes searching toward the back of the plane.
I avert my gaze to avoid further embarrassing myself.
And then—he’s right in front of me.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. Up close, I clock his long eyelashes, his straight, white teeth, his thick, dark eyebrows.
He’s familiar to me in a way I can’t quite place.
His height and staggeringly symmetrical face suggest he might be a model, which must be it.
Surely that face is plastered on billboards all over America.
He hoists his backpack into the overhead compartment and squeezes into the aisle seat beside me, his large frame filling the space.
Is this for real right now? The plane is practically empty, and yet I’m crammed in with this guy and his unfortunate choice of footwear.
Wait, he smells really good, actually. Is that coconut?
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” he says, flashing me a dazzling smile.
I don’t want to give the impression that I’m up for a chat. As a bartender, I am exceedingly good at making small talk, but you better believe I need to be paid to do it. I close my eyes in hopes that he’ll take the hint.
But he doesn’t.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” He bites his lip and wrinkles his brow, and it’s undeniably cute, until I remember that his toenails are right there.
“I don’t think so.” I close my eyes, hoping that’s that.
“Are you from Thunder Bay?”
I open my eyes. “No,” I reply. My tone is friendly, but I immediately close my eyes again.
“Me neither. First time going there?”
“Yes,” I say, without opening my eyes.
“Me too. I hear it’s beautiful up there. The Canadian Shield. Sounds so dramatic, right?”
“Yup.”
“What brings you up this way?”
Okay, enough. “Funeral,” I say. As far as lies go, it’s high on the dirtbag scale. “Just need to get some rest.”
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. For your loss. And for bothering you. I’ll just—” He mimes zipping his lips.
“Thanks.” I close my eyes again, wondering if he’ll move to his own row.
I’d do it, but to get past him, I’d either have to stick my ass in his face or straddle him.
I feel a heat building in my face, and I know I’m blushing.
Oh god. If he looks at me and sees me blushing with my eyes closed, he’ll know I’m thinking dirty thoughts.
Which I’m not. Or at least, I’m trying not to.
He’s so not my type. It’s just been a while since I’ve straddled anyone in any capacity, that’s all.
The last time with Dylan, we were actually standing up…No, not Dylan! I can’t go there. Never again.
The seatbelt sign illuminates, so I guess he’s not going anywhere for now. At least his big, solid presence is comforting. I take a long, slow breath, and try to relax.
The next thing I know I’m floating, momentarily suspended in midair, held back only by the persistent hug of my seatbelt. And then I’m crashing down, my bones jamming together as gravity sucks me down. And then another moment of freefall.
Turbulence.
Logically, I know it’s just air pockets, and that a plane has never fallen out of the sky because of it, but logic is no comfort.
I search for something to hold on to, but instead of grabbing the armrest, like a sensible person, I grab the Flip-Flop guy’s thigh, and squeeze.
Even through my terror I can feel that it’s pleasantly firm.
He puts his big hand over mine, pressing down slightly.
My logical brain wants to protest—I truly do not want to hold hands with this dude—but my animal brain needs reassurance.
And the heaviness and warmth of his hand is like an anchor, keeping me grounded.
We stay like that—me clutching his thigh, him clutching my hand—for a few more harrowing moments, until the plane rights itself and we’re back in smooth air. I look at my hand on his thigh and the full weight of my mortification hits me.
I snatch my hand back. “I am so, so sorry,” I stammer.
He laughs, but not in a mean way. “Honestly, not a problem. I kind of liked it.”
My cheeks burn, and I can’t look at him. Thankfully, the pilot comes on the loudspeaker to announce that we will soon be landing in the glorious wilds of northern Ontario. Soon we’ll be off this plane and I’ll never have to see him again.
As we’re disembarking, he turns to me. “I wish you strength and peace during this difficult time.”
This difficult time? Oh, right. The funeral I’m supposedly going to later. “Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a sad, brave smile.
The Thunder Bay airport is tiny, but I try to put some distance between us at the baggage collection.
I notice he picks up a guitar case off the carousel, which is another huge Ick.
There’s nothing wrong with playing guitar, but unless you’re literally on tour then travelling with one is unforgivable.
I packed lightly—not entirely by choice, as Dylan stole most of my clothes—which allows me to quickly collect my one suitcase and get outside to wait for my ride.
It’s surprisingly bright and warm, so I peel off my hoodie.
I close my eyes and tilt my face up to the sun.
When I open my eyes again, the Flip-Flop guy is also there, waiting, but he’s keeping a respectful distance.
The funeral excuse really threw him off.
I’ll put it in my back pocket for the next time I need to ward off an overly friendly stranger with exposed toes.
Another person joins us—a girl, about our age, with her face buried in her phone. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us.
After a few minutes, a black van pulls up. The Flip-Flop guy throws his bags in the trunk, and as he’s climbing into the van, he stops. “Hey,” he calls out to me. “Are you going to be okay there on your own?”
Huh. Why’s he being so nice to me? I wave. “I’m good, thanks.” He pauses for a second, then waves back before disappearing into the van.
The other girl heaves an impatient sigh, but when I turn to look at her, she’s still staring at her phone.
I notice now that she’s so stunning it’s borderline rude.
She’s got thick, curly hair that’s twisted into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, the exact perfect balance of polished and undone.
It’s a golden, honey blonde, either the result of great genes or a great stylist, and it makes me self-conscious of my straw yellow out-of-a-box job that Cori did in my bathroom two days ago.
In fact, this girl is everything I’m not. She has soft, round curves, while I’m all skin and bones. Expensive athleisure next to my Walmart sweats. Spotless white sneakers and shiny Prada sunglasses, versus ancient Converse and gas station shades. I’m glad she doesn’t seem to notice me.
A few minutes later, a white van pulls up. Gabby climbs out, smiling so intensely she looks a little unhinged. “Hi Cleo,” she says, beaming at me. And then she turns to the gorgeous girl. “Sue-Ellen, hi.”
Of course, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen is going on this reality TV show, too. And somehow, I have to beat her.