Chapter 2
My eyes lock on Shayna’s. They’re such a deep brown that they’re almost black in certain lighting, just like the way I enjoy my coffee. They’re warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the death grip she currently has on my hand.
My gaze drops to our joined hands as a tingle shoots up my arms. It’s probably just a lack of blood flow from how hard she’s squeezing it. Nothing to do with the way she said my name or the fact that she’s the first woman who has touched me in years, aside from my family.
What are the odds that Shayna would end up on the same plane as me, thousands of miles away from her home? Not to mention the fact that we unknowingly ended up sitting beside each other.
I inhale sharply, clenching my free hand into a fist in my sweatshirt pocket. I should’ve continued to pretend I was asleep with my hood pulled low over my eyes. If I had, I wouldn’t be stuck in this predicament. One where I’m holding the hand of my little sister’s best friend.
It was purely instinct. My firefighter training kicked in the second I heard the woman in the seat next to me start to hyperventilate during takeoff. There was no way I could morally not help.
But the second I saw it was Shayna with a white-knuckled grip on both armrests, my stomach dropped. It’s one thing to help a stranger in a moment of need and never have to see them again, but it’s something else entirely to help someone you know. Someone my path will inevitably cross with again.
“What’re you doing here?” she whispers.
For some unexplainable reason, I find myself rubbing the pad of my thumb along the back of her hand. “Flying home.”
The plane shakes from some minor turbulence, and Shayna squeezes my hand so hard, I’m worried she might break my fingers. She inhales a shuddering breath before digging through her purse.
With the way her hand is shaking, she can’t seem to find what she’s looking for.
“Shrinking violet,” she mutters under her breath.
I’m not sure what that means, and I don’t feel like asking. Not when I can see how much she’s struggling.
A memory pops into my brain of Shayna using an inhaler after a particularly elaborate dance routine she and her friends made to a song back when they were in middle school. “Do you have asthma?” I ask.
She nods. I lean down and grab her purse from under the seat and quickly rifle through it until I find her inhaler. I take the cap off and pass it to her. She grabs it and inhales a few puffs while still squeezing my hand with a strength I didn’t know she possessed.
Shayna slides her inhaler back in her purse, and I try to recall what I learned in my training about helping someone through a panic attack.
“Tell me five things you can see,” I say, desperate to help her calm down for the sake of my poor fingers.
“What?” she squeaks, shutting her eyes as the plane jolts again.
“Shayna.” I say her name softly. Her eyes slowly open and find mine. I wish I could take away the fear I see in them, but I have to settle for doing what I can to help her feel safe. “Tell me five things you can see,” I repeat.
She inhales through her nose and slowly exhales through her mouth before looking around her. “The flight attendant. The plane seat in front of me. The safety instruction pamphlet.” Her eyes drop to her lap. “My seat belt.” Then she turns to face me. “And you.”
My mouth goes dry, but I push forward. “Good. Now, four things you can feel.”
“My butt on the plane seat. The vibrations of the plane. The armrest. And the calluses on your hands.”
I try not to feel self-conscious about my rough hands. When I’m not working with my hands at the station, I’m usually doing one of the three hobbies that help me feel relaxed: working out, fishing, or woodworking. All things that probably only contribute more to my calluses.
It doesn’t matter if she feels them, I remind myself. It’s not like this is a romantic moment. I’m helping Shayna come down from her state of panic. I have a job to do.
“You’re doing great,” I encourage. “What about three things you can hear?”
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, eyeing me warily.
I press my thumb against the pulse point near her wrist and feel her heartbeat finally starting to slow to a normal pace. “Just keep going.”
“Fine. The loud sound of the jet engines. The flight attendant talking to someone about the drink options. And your voice.”
I don’t know why she keeps mentioning me. We’ll go with the fact that she’s in a state of panic and I’m the only person on this plane she has a history with. Er, not a romantic history. But just someone that knows her.
I nod. “Now, two things you can smell.”
“The smell of the Clorox wipes I’m sure you cleaned your seat down with before I got here. And the disgusting stench coming from the bathroom. I think they’re going to need a biohazard team for whatever happened in there.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and wrinkle my nose. She’s not wrong about either. “How about one thing you can taste?”
Her gaze drops to my lips, and I really wish I had used the beard grooming kit my sister’s boyfriend—also known as the famous actor, Griffin Reynolds—bought me for Christmas.
I’ve been wearing my beard longer than usual, and it’s gotten a little unruly, but the way Shayna is examining my mouth makes it seem like she doesn’t mind.
Why is she looking at my lips? A rush of heat spreads up my neck.
I swallow hard as she slowly drags her eyes from my mouth up to my eyes, her cheeks flushed. “Does my horrible morning breath count?”
A small laugh slips out before I can stop it. It sounds dead coming from my lips, like it needs a good dose of happiness to bring it back to life.
Shayna finally smiles, making her look more like the girl I remember. “Did I just hear Connor Porter laugh?” She loosens her hold on my hand but doesn’t fully let go. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
She probably hasn’t. I don’t laugh. Or even smile.
It’s not that there aren’t things in life worth being happy about, but I’ve learned that the more stoic and quiet you are, the fewer questions people ask you.
And the fewer questions people ask, the fewer opportunities for me to mess up or say the wrong thing.
I school my features. “I’ll allow morning breath to count.”
“You forgot the horrible part.” She smiles again, making it look easy.
“I’ll allow horrible morning breath to count.”
“Thank you.” Shayna blushes. I’m not sure why. Morning breath is nothing to be embarrassed about. Happens to the best of us. She finally grants my captive hand its freedom. I let it fall back into my lap. “Now will you please explain why you just asked me a bunch of random questions?”
“Learned it in my firefighter training. It’s an exercise to help someone feel more grounded when they’re experiencing a panic attack.” I slide my hand back into my pocket. “Do you get them a lot?”
“Not too often anymore. Mainly when I’m dealing with heights or feeling super stressed or overwhelmed about something.” She pulls at the collar of her sweatshirt but suddenly stops, dropping both hands and her gaze to her lap. I follow the movement, and my eyes catch on the logo of her hoodie.
Or should I say, my hoodie.
On the right side of her chest are barely legible words that read Waggener Wildcats Baseball with the faded outline of our school’s mascot underneath.
It’s the sweatshirt I wore every game day of baseball season, but I lost it my senior year before I left for college. Or, at least, I thought I’d lost it.
“Is that mine?” I ask.
Shayna worries her bottom lip as her eyes slowly drag up my torso before finally meeting my eyes. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’m sorry.”
I look at her, waiting for her to continue. That was a tactic I learned early on in my life, when words were hard for me to come by. If I stay quiet, most people will continue to fill the space, either giving me time to figure out what I want to say or letting me not say anything at all.
“I should’ve given it back, but…” She shoves her hands into the oversized pocket. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t give it to me to keep.”
“Give it to you?” I think I’d remember giving my favorite sweatshirt away.
“Yeah.” Her brows furrow. “You let me borrow it at one of your baseball games in your senior year. Remember?” I keep my mouth shut, and she continues.
“It started raining and your game was delayed partway through.” When I don’t say anything, she leans forward and keeps explaining.
“I was there with your mom and Mal. They both thought ahead and brought rain jackets, but I was only wearing a T-shirt and got soaked.”
The memory—one I’d apparently blocked out of my mind—comes back to me in an instant.
We’re in the middle of the fourth inning against our biggest rival when the gray sky dumps buckets onto everyone.
My team runs back into the dugout as the umpire calls a delay of game.
When I look at the bleachers, I see Shayna sitting next to my sister and mom.
They’re huddled together, but I can see Shayna shivering, even from this far away.
Then I notice how her light gray T-shirt clings to her skin.
My mom and Mallory are fine in their rain jackets, but I can’t let Shayna freeze.
I go to my bag, digging through it. I don’t have a rain jacket or umbrella to offer her, but I do have my lucky sweatshirt.
The one I wear before every game, regardless of the temperature.
I grab it and run out in the downpour. My uniform sticks to my body within seconds.
Drops roll off the brim of my baseball hat as I carefully make my way up the bleachers to them.
I extend the sweatshirt to Shayna. She looks up at me with her big brown eyes as her dark hair sticks to her face in clumps.
“You sure?” she asks, hesitant.
I nod, and she takes it from me, her cold fingers brushing mine.
Shayna pulls it over her head, takes off her pearl headband, repositions it back on her head, and pulls some of her hair back from her face.
She slides her hands into the large pocket and sighs happily, even as the rain continues to fall around us.
“Thanks.” She smiles up at me, looking like the sun amidst the storm around us. I half expect a rainbow to appear.
I dip my chin again and turn around, returning to my teammates in the dugout as the rain begins letting up.
We start playing again soon after, but I can hardly focus.
I make more errors in this game than I’ve ever made in my life.
My eyes keep drifting to her in the stands, cheering me on in my sweatshirt.
My teammates razz me for the rest of the season, but I don’t care. Seeing Shayna smiling in the bleachers and no longer shivering is worth all the teasing.
“Right,” I grumble, and avert my gaze, keeping my expression neutral. Guess I didn’t lose my sweatshirt after all.