I’m Only Me When I’m With Him (Sweeter Than Fiction #3)

Chapter 1

Running through the airport in my pajamas is not how I saw my morning going.

Unfortunately, that’s my current state as I sprint through the crowd, trying to catch my flight.

It’s not even one of my cute matching pajama sets.

No, I’m in the ratty high school sweatshirt I stole from my best friend’s older brother nearly a decade ago and a grungy pair of sweatpants I sleep in that probably should be retired.

There’s a solid chance the booty region is see-through from how many years I’ve worn them. But I can’t think about the thousands of people who might be seeing my cute floral underwear. All I can think about is how I must make my flight home.

I had the best week attending the Northwest Flower and Garden Festival in Washington. I can’t wait to implement all the helpful tips I learned about growing cut flowers and integrating underused blooms into bouquets. But the whole traveling across the country part…that I could do without.

Heights are my greatest fear, so let’s just say flying and I are not a match made in heaven. Seriously, who thought it was a smart idea to add wings to a giant chunk of aluminum and put it in the air? I’d like to personally not thank them for this utter disservice.

But I’ll admit, it is nice that I can get home to Louisville, Kentucky, in mere hours rather than a thirty-four-hour road trip.

And I know, statistically speaking, I’m more likely to get in a car accident than a plane accident…

but there isn’t a fact out there that will calm my anxiety around flying.

I already worked myself up enough last night, fretting over today’s travels.

If I have to wait in the airport for hours or—heaven forbid, overnight—I don’t think my body could handle that level of nerves.

Which is exactly why I need to get on that plane, see-through sweatpants and all.

“This is the final boarding call for Flight 7613 to Louisville. Final boarding call.” The announcement comes through the speakers. I huff, picking up my pace as I drag my carry-on behind me.

“Sorry, excuse me,” I rasp out between sharp breaths as I squeeze between groups of people, not slowing my pace. Even if I’m running way late, I’ll never lose my manners.

Stupid phone alarm. But I’m the one who accidentally set it to vibrate rather than a sound, so I guess that makes me the stupid one. I would’ve won the Olympic gold for how quickly I threw my remaining items into my suitcase and caught a shuttle from my hotel to the airport.

But there isn’t a gold medal that can save me if I don’t make my flight.

Sweat forms on my forehead and upper lip, and my armpits are definitely damp since I didn’t have time to apply deodorant this morning, but there’s no stopping to take a breather. I shout an internal hallelujah when I finally spot my gate.

I frantically wave my phone in the air as I approach the desk. “I’m here. So sorry. I didn’t hear my alarm go off this morning, and I woke up with, like, negative minutes to get here.” I let out a dramatic sigh. “But I made it.”

The woman drags her eyes from my hair, which probably looks like a rat’s nest, to my old sweatshirt and grungy sweatpants.

I reach up, readjusting my signature pearl-studded headband.

I wouldn’t feel like myself without it. So, even though my hair is in a messy ponytail that I slept in and didn’t bother redoing in my rush to get to the airport, at least I have my headband that makes me feel the slightest bit put together.

But I don’t think the gate attendant sees the effort. She purses her lips, looking like she’s debating quitting her job just so she doesn’t have to let me on the plane. “Boarding pass?” She sounds both unamused and annoyed.

“Right.” I pull it up on my phone, thankful I at least remembered to charge it last night. She scans the pass and gestures to the jet bridge without another word.

I slide my phone into my large sweatshirt pocket.

“Thank you. Have a beautiful day.” Even when I don’t receive kindness in return, I always try to leave the world and people better off than I found them.

Sometimes that requires biting my tongue when I’d rather say bless your hateful heart.

But maybe my kindness will help turn her day—and attitude—around.

“Welcome aboard,” a flight attendant greets with a tight smile as I step onto the plane. She’s probably frustrated at my tardiness, too, and I don’t blame her.

I offer her as much of a grin as I’m able to muster with the anxiety building in my chest before walking down the aisle, looking for an open seat.

Of course, the only one available is at the very back of the plane, next to a man who has his hood pulled low over his face and looks to be asleep.

Thankfully, he’s next to the window, so I’m able to sit down in the aisle seat without bothering him.

I hear the sound of a toilet flushing, followed by some running water.

When the poor soul who was in there opens the bathroom door, the stench of a dirty porta-potty hits my nostrils, and I grimace.

Now it makes sense why the only open seat was in the back of the plane…

it’s right next to the restroom. Wonderful.

Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse, I’m going to have to smell that for the entire flight home.

I blame past me for not recognizing the importance of paying the extra charge to pick my seat on the plane so I didn’t get stuck sitting where no one else wanted to.

I slide my purse under the seat in front of me and click the seatbelt into place over my lap as the flight attendants go through their usual safety spiel. I half listen, not wanting to hear about worst-case scenarios when my brain is already reeling with them.

The engines roar to life, and I realize yet another reason why this seat was empty. Who knew that sitting near the back of the plane makes the engines sound even louder? Not me. I tap my fingers in a random rhythm on my worn sweats to distract myself as we begin to taxi.

Takeoff and landing are always the worst for me.

But especially takeoff, thanks to the one time I flew with my parents to the beach as a child.

While we were ascending, our plane shook and bobbed like it sometimes does with turbulence.

It didn’t feel normal, though. It felt like the pilot wasn’t in control and we were going to careen back down to the earth.

People around us screamed and vomited as the violent shaking continued while I clung to my mom for dear life.

After several nerve-wracking minutes, the turbulence finally stopped, but the damage was done. Ever since then, I’ve hated flying.

Scratch that, I’ve hated anything where my feet aren’t firmly planted on solid ground.

My heart races faster than the sound of the plane’s wheels barreling us down the runway like we’re in a high-speed chase.

I try to practice a breathing exercise I learned from my therapist. I inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, and slowly release for eight.

But the second we’re in the air, my belly swoops like I’m on a roller coaster.

I feel weightless, but not in a good way.

In a I’m-very-aware-that-I’m-no-longer-on-the-ground-and-I’m-freaking-out kind of way.

My breathing strains as I grip the armrests on either side of me, accidentally knocking the arm of the man next to me off the one between us. Normally, I’d apologize, but I’m unable to form complete sentences. Fear grips my chest, constricting it. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

Suddenly, a hand grasps mine, grounding me.

“Breathe. Just breathe, Shayna.”

The familiar voice pulls me out of my panic just enough that I’m able to suck in a sharp breath, filling my lungs with precious air again.

“There you go. Keep going, just like that.”

I focus on my breathing exercises. It’s only once my breathing has slowed and my heart rate feels as close to normal as it’s going to get while on a plane that I’m finally able to form coherent thoughts.

Like why the voice next to me sounds familiar.

And how he knows my name.

I slowly drag my eyes from the hand holding mine up his sweatshirt with a Seattle Station 7 logo to the face I memorized when I was in middle school.

With his hood now pulled back, I can see that his blond hair is standing up in the same way it used to all those years ago.

He has always run his hands through his hair as a nervous tic. I guess some things never change.

“Connor?” I whisper his name in disbelief, as if my mind conjured him. But I feel his hand in mine. And I heard his voice, the one I’d know anywhere.

This is really happening. I’m sitting next to Connor Porter.

My best friend Mallory’s older brother. The same Connor I’ve had a giant crush on since I first met him when I was eleven and he was thirteen.

The same crush I’ve convinced myself time and time again that I was over, only to see him again and have all those prepubescent feelings come rushing back.

I’ve never told another soul about it. I just deny, deny, deny whenever any of my best friends—lovingly referred to as the Long Live Girlies—ask me if I’m interested in anyone.

Mallory, Alyssa, Kelsey, and I all met in the sixth grade when we were in the front row at a Taylor Swift concert, and we’ve been besties ever since.

They’re my ride or dies…but just not people I can share my massive crush with.

From the weekend we met onward, the four of us alternated having the others over for a sleepover every Friday night.

The first time we slept at Mallory’s house, she introduced us to Connor, and I immediately thought he was cute.

But when we became friends, we all agreed we’d never let a guy come between our sisterhood, so we swore off dating each other’s exes and siblings.

It sounded simple, a way to protect our friend group from fighting over boys… until I met Connor.

I’m not the kind of person to break girl code. So, I’ve sucked up my feelings for him like the last precious sip of a strawberry matcha and just lived for every inkling of a moment I shared with him.

It felt wrong back then. Over ten years later, as I stare into his hazel eyes, it still feels wrong.

I mean, it’s not one of the Ten Commandments or anything, but maybe it should be.

Thou shalt not kill, steal, or covet thy best friend’s older brother.