Chapter 9
JFK International Airport
Brady
Why the hell did I pack so much? I can barely move the luggage cart, but I will not let Hayes come in and save me like he always does.
Like he always did. Past tense. I’ll just make sure I squeeze my backside with each step forward since I know he can’t keep his eyes off that part of my body.
I don’t even have to look back to know he’s looking. I can feel him.
We’ve been together less than ten minutes and already I’m feeling the way I used to with him.
My palms are so sweaty they keep slipping off the damn handle of the stupid cart.
I wanted to start off on the right foot.
I had planned to apologize for what happened during the road trip, at least my part in it.
Then I was going to explain the fact that the For Us people thought we were still boyfriends and that we were going to have to fake it for the summer.
I figured revealing this on U.S. soil meant I would be fully disclosing everything before we officially left, allowing me to preserve some integrity.
Of course, he could have stormed out of the terminal, but that was a risk I had to take.
I’d worked on memorizing a short but well-worded speech all morning, but when I saw him seated at the terminal all I could do was stare at the back of him from as far away as possible.
The recently shaved uneven neckline, fresh from some ten-buck barber back in Alabama.
How his shoulders expand across his body, making his shirt stretch across his muscles.
For a moment I questioned my motives. Did I want him back?
Absolutely not. There is no future for us as a couple, I remind myself for the millionth time.
We board and find our seats. I take a smaller bag out of my carry-on and place a few even smaller bags into the medium bag with what I’ll need for the flight – slippers, eye mask, lip balm, moisturizers, skin toners, noise-cancelling headphones, my tablet, a bottle of alkaline water, vitamin C, vitamin D, tweezers, hard candies, gum and other essentials.
I start the moisturizing routine I do when I fly with my family but double the amount of everything since I assume the air is dryer in coach.
I warm three drops of Sunday Riley’s Superfood Face Oil between my palms and feel a pang of guilt for not telling Hayes that we need to pretend to be a couple once the plane lands.
Maybe I should seize the moment, but when I look over at him, he’s staring straight ahead, his eyes wide and unblinking, focused on the seat a few inches in front of him.
His bag is stowed in the overhead and his anatomy book is on his leg, but he’s got nothing else.
Not even a pillow. The blanket, which apparently comes in a horrible plastic bag in coach, is still in the bag.
He has his fingers on his neck, checking his pulse.
This is not the time to confess and add to his stress.
It’s not like he’s going to be checking the posts with the plastic brick he calls a phone.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says without looking at me and maybe without breathing. “Tachycardia starts at 100 but it’s normal to experience readings as high as…” He pauses and counts to himself. “122 bpm under stress.”
“You don’t look fine,” I say softly.
The bells that signal something to the flight attendants ring in rapid succession and it startles Hayes. “What’s that? What does it mean? Is everything okay?” He grabs the flimsy plastic card with the safety instructions and starts studying it like it’s part of the MCAT.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Totally normal.” I remember that Hayes has only flown a few times before in his life.
“There is nothing normal about flying over an ocean in a metal tube,” he says through gritted teeth.
Hayes is not someone who wears his emotions on his sleeve.
He wears them wrapped up in a paper towel inside aluminum foil inside a Ziploc bag.
He’s usually inscrutable. But right now, there are beads of sweat over his eyebrows, his mouth is scrunched small, and his body is trembling.
Still, his analytical mind must know that flying is safer than driving.
At least that’s what you hear. I try to take the safety card from him to place it back in the seat pocket, but his grip is too tight.
“Hayes, the very nice flight attendant is going to a do a safety briefing. Let me put the card back,” As soon as I say safety he releases the card, and I put it in the seat pocket.
“They’ll tell us what to do in an emergency,” I say.
“What kind of emergency?”
“Like if we have to land in the ocean or something,” I say, not thinking.
“Land in the ocean!” he says in a voice louder than I’ve ever heard him use outside the bedroom. “You can’t land a plane in the ocean. That’s insane.”
The woman across from us gives a concerned look and I smile to reassure her. I turn to Hayes.
“No one is landing in the ocean. Look out the window,” I say, and reach across him to raise the blind on the oval opening.
“See all those planes taking off and landing? It’s perfectly safe.
” I pull my arm away from the window and the seat is so narrow, my hand accidentally lands on his lap.
I go to pull it away immediately, but his strong thick hand grabs my wrist.
“Are you sure it’s going to be okay?” he asks, his fingers now gently pressing down on me.
I can feel his strength and his worry through each knuckle.
When we were together, I was the one who needed the comforting.
I was the one who leaned on him all the time, maybe too much of the time.
We got stuck in our roles. Him the level-headed, serious and more mature one and me the hysterical, needy, emotional one.
Maybe those categories aren’t as set as either of us thought they were.
“Yes, it’s going to be fine,” I say, feeling his body connected to mine.
“I almost forgot. I packed you a comfort kit,” I add.
I wasn’t going to call it that, but the words slipped out.
In college I’d make him a “comfort kit” when he was preparing for an important exam or for each day of the week leading up to the MCATs.
“No way,” he says, and a giant smile pushes away his nervousness.
“Yeah, this one has a Sudoku puzzle book, ear plugs, Mountain Dew flavored gum…” Hayes loves his Dew, but I find it repulsive.
“Some car magazine I picked up at a newsstand, and these.” I hold up a container of dry-roasted chickpeas with my special blend of seasoning.
I had planned to share them with him before we boarded but things got too tense with that fucking cart.
I know the chickpeas are one of Hayes’ favorites.
“Do you still use that black garlic seasoning? I swear, I have looked everywhere in Alabama for it, and they just laugh at me.” He stares at the caramel-colored orbs covered in green and black flecks.
I nod, pleased that he remembers my secret ingredient. “But I’ve made a few improvements. Tell me what you think?”
He pops a few in his mouth and is oblivious to the fact that the plane is taxiing and has turned onto the runway in preparation for takeoff. He throws a few more in his mouth and puts his hand to his chin, trying to figure out what has changed in my recipe.
There are a few things I know Hayes loves – his truck, science, solving puzzles, snacks and… I used to be on that list, and near the top, but it’s been a while.
Hayes is looking right at me, and I am looking right back at him. Before either of us knows it, we are up in the sky together.