In Flight

Two

O N SUNDAY EVENING, I’m waiting at the gate for my flight home.

I left in plenty of time to stay organized, and I have my sketchbook in my lap so I can doodle as I wait.

I keep sketching the infuriating man from Friday evening. Crossing him out and then sketching him again.

Don’t ask me why. I really couldn’t tell you.

My weekend was as fine as it’s going to be with my mother and sister in a tizzy over Raven’s upcoming wedding. They made me solemnly swear to fly back every weekend for the next two months so I can help with the wedding preparations.

Every weekend might sound ridiculous, but it’s the bare minimum for a wedding as extravagant as my sister’s is going to be. Since I’m the creative and artistic one in the family, it’s one of the few times my services are required.

I agreed. Of course I did. I love Raven, and I want her to be happy. And no matter how high-maintenance my family happens to be, I’ve missed them. It’ll be nice to spend more time with them for a while.

My mom wants me to draw a design for the foil-stamped guest book, so I should be working on that. Instead, I draw another version of the infuriating man leaning back in an airplane seat with one eye open and glaring to the side.

It makes me giggle for the remaining five minutes before I board.

This weekend my dad bought me plane tickets for every weekend until the wedding. (I make okay money at my job but not nearly enough to fund so many trips home.) And I managed to reserve my favorite seat on every flight, which I take for a good sign.

I’m in a good mood as I find my seat, making a face at the empty one beside me as if the man was still in it. When most of the passengers have boarded, the seat is still empty, so I start getting hopeful I’ll have some extra room this time. I forgot to get my phone out of my bag when I got settled, so I lean over to dig it out.

When I feel a presence standing in the aisle, it triggers alarm bells. I bump my head on the seatback in front of me as I straighten abruptly.

My senses were right on target.

The same infuriating man. Standing right there. Staring down at me with an expression as startled and dumbfounded as I feel.

“You have got to be kidding,” he mutters at last.

“What are you doing here?” I ask at exactly the same time.

He glances around the plane as if searching for an escape route. There are a couple of empty seats scattered around, but they evidently don’t tempt him enough to ask the flight attendant if he can swap. With a soft groan, he slides in and flops down beside me.

He’s not wearing a suit today. He’s got on jeans and a worn brown sweater in a thin, soft knit. It doesn’t look like he shaved today. His hair is even more rumpled than it was on Friday.

He’s definitely nice to look at. Not movie-star handsome but undeniably attractive in a relaxed, natural way. Visually interesting. Like I could peer at him for hours and not discover all there is to see in his face.

He’s also got good shoulders and very appealing forearms. I get a good view at them because he’s pushed up his sleeves toward his elbows even though it’s chilly outside.

He’s been giving me a once-over while I’m doing the same to him. His expression doesn’t convey any degree of appreciation for what he sees. “How is this even possible?”

“I don’t know. I was in Boston for the weekend, and I need to be back to go to work at eight tomorrow morning. I assume your job in Savannah continues through next week.”

“It continues for three more months.”

I swallow hard. “Are you going to be on these same flights every weekend?”

“Yes.” He’s sitting very still, his bag on his lap since he hasn’t managed to pull out his iPad yet. “Are you saying—”

“I’m flying to Boston every weekend for the next couple of months. My sister is getting married, and they need me to help with the preparations.”

“Every weekend?”

His dubious tone makes me stiffen. “Yes. There’s a lot to do. And I’m not sure how it’s any of your business anyway. From now on, just pick a different seat and you’ll never have to interact with me again.”

“Why should I be the one to choose a different seat?”

“Why wouldn’t you? These are the worst seats on the entire plane!”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem sitting elsewhere.”

There’s that smug tone again. The one that makes me want to scratch something. Hard. “I’m not going to sit elsewhere. This is my favorite seat. I always sit here.”

“Why the hell is that seat your favorite?”

“Because it is.”

He rolls his eyes as he slides out his iPad and then stands up to fit his messenger bag into the overhead compartment, pushing my small suitcase out of the way in the process.

Even that annoys me. He shouldn’t be touching my stuff.

“I should have known you’d be superstitious,” he mutters.

“I’m not superstitious!”

Maybe I am a little bit. I get attached to rituals in the same way I get attached to possessions. But it’s not because I genuinely believe doing certain things will turn fate in my favor. I just like my little rituals.

“Uh-huh.”

“I said it was my favorite seat. Not my lucky seat. I don’t sit here because I think it will bring me good fortune. But while we’re on the topic, why exactly do you insist on sitting right there?”

He’s been focused on his iPad, but now he turns his head to shoot me a lofty look. “You’re not the only one with preferences.”

“I thought you were all about reason and logic and deduction. I’m the one who gets emotionally attached to things. According to you, you’re far above such silliness. So exactly why are you in that seat?”

He doesn’t answer. Just aims another look at me—this one long-suffering.

I make a face back before I can stop myself. I had vague ideas of acting smooth and unconcerned with him—as if he’s irrelevant to me—but that never works out for me. I care too much. I get too excited. I’m too into things to maintain even a pretense of indifference.

“So neither one of us is going to change seats?” I ask at last.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“And we’re going to be flying to and from Boston every weekend for two months?”

“Evidently.”

I blow out a breath and take a long sip of my spiced tea for comfort. “Just perfect.”

***

B Y MUTUAL ACCORD, WE sit in silence for the next hour.

He works on the laptop he retrieved after we reach cruising altitude while I knit until I get antsy and pull out my sketchbook instead.

I might as well work on the design for the guest book since I need something to occupy my mind other than the infuriating man’s silent smugness.

My sister’s design motifs are roses and champagne flutes. I tried to get her to go with something slightly less clichéd, but she wouldn’t be moved. So roses and champagne flutes it is.

I sketch out a few variations and then add some curling vines for some interest.

I’m on my third option to show her when the man asks, “What exactly are you working on?”

For a few minutes I was so absorbed in my work that I almost forgot about him, but that blissful state couldn’t last long. “A design for my sister.”

“The invitation?”

“No. I already did those. This is for the pressed foil on the guest book. You know that little book that people sign for the couple? It’ll be white leather with silver foil.”

Since he appears at least somewhat interested, I turn my sketchbook so he can see the illustration better.

“You did that whole thing just now? While we were sitting here? You drew that?”

I can’t really tell from the dryness of his tone, but I suspect the question might be an implied compliment. “Yes. I did these other two too.” I show him the other two pages I worked on. “I’m not sure what she’ll prefer.”

He studies each one. Then flips back to the last one. “I like this the best.”

“Me too. But she’ll probably like the second one. She’s of the mind that the fancier and more over-the-top the better.”

He lets out a soft huff. It takes me a minute to realize it was a faint, breathy chuckle.

“It’s not my wedding,” I continue, “so she can have it exactly as she wants.”

“So you’re really having to do a bunch of designs for free?”

My eyes widen as I stare at him. “She’s my sister. You think I should charge her?”

“No. Not necessarily. But it’s a lot to ask. What else are you having to do?”

“Nothing too terrible. I’m doing all the illustration designs. And working with the florist on the flower arrangements. And she wants me to sketch something out for the cake. And—”

“And you’re saying all that isn’t unreasonable?”

“Well, no. Why would it be? I like to do that kind of thing, and we’re talking about my family.”

“Is she expecting you to design her dress too?”

“Oh no. She wouldn’t trust me with that.” I lean over and add in a stage whisper, “She hates my fashion sense.”

I see his brown eyes run up and down my body, taking in my soft, comfortable dress in a pretty floral pattern of pinks and browns and my cozy fur-lined boots. “I can see that.”

See, this is my problem. I always give people the benefit of the doubt. I was actually softening toward him, thinking he was genuinely interested and appreciative of my work. But at his sardonic mutter, I stiffen. Give him my best glare. “It’s rude to criticize someone’s clothes right to her face.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. But I’m getting a sense of your sister’s personality, and I can see why she wouldn’t go for your style. It’s not...”

“It’s not what?”

“Trendy. And I bet your sister loves all the trends.”

Of course she does. Raven has followed whatever is in style all her life, never developing her own sense of taste or fashion.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be in style,” I say primly, feeling defensive of my sister even though the man’s opinions on this one subject match my own.

“Did I say there was?”

“Not directly, no. But you do a lot of silent speaking with your smug expressions and your condescending tone. That can’t be a surprise to you.”

His mouth twitches just slightly before he turns back to his laptop.

It makes me want to smile.

I don’t. He would surely see that as a victory, and there’s no sense in giving him one of those.

“So you have one sister?” he asks after a while, still typing something into a document while he speaks. “Do you have any others?”

“No. It’s just the two of us.”

“She’s younger?”

“How did you know that?”

He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “Deduction.”

I roll my eyes at that and give an exaggerated groan.

He does another one of those huff-laughs. “She’s what? Twenty-eight?”

“Yes. How on earth—” I break off my own question at his expression. “Don’t you dare say deduction because there’s no way you could have deduced that specifically.”

“It was a guess,” he admits, almost smiling down at his screen. “But an educated one.”

“But an educated one,” I repeat, trying to mimic his arrogant tone.

It looks like he might want to laugh, but he doesn’t. “She’s what? or three years younger than you?”

“Three. I’m thirty-one.”

He nods.

I wait, and when he doesn’t immediately follow up with another question, I say, “So you’re an only child?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a guess. An educated one.”

He makes a weird burst of sound that I take for an abrupt, stifled laugh. “Yes. I’m an only child.”

“I figured. You’re clearly used to getting all the attention and having your parents fawn over all your brilliant insights.”

“You might be surprised. They didn’t do much fawning.”

I frown. “Are they not good parents?”

“They’re good parents. They’re just not the fawning kind. My dad works hard, and he’s all about responsibility. My mom is softer, but she’s always had a sarcastic sense of humor that keeps me on my toes.”

“Oh. Interesting.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“I don’t know. It just is. Did your mom work outside the home?”

“No. They have a fairly traditional marriage. At least outwardly. My mom cooks and cleans and helps out in the community and makes sure my dad never strays too far out of the lines.”

“Is your dad inclined to do that?”

“No. Like I said, he’s all about responsibility. He’d never cheat or gamble or do anything to upend his family and household. But I don’t actually know how much of that is in his nature and how much of it she shaped him into. They got married when they were twenty. Of the two, my mom is definitely the powerhouse.”

“Well, I think that’s probably not very unusual. My mom definitely rules the roost in my family.”

“I bet your dad’s a workaholic. Isn’t he?”

“Pretty much. He’s a corporate executive. He’s king of the boardroom but definitely not king of the house. I think he’s learned to let her do what she wants for the most part so he can maintain a peaceful existence.”

“That’s why you’re always trying to fade into the background.”

“What?” My tone is sharp for the first time in several minutes.

“Because you spent your life stepping aside so you don’t take any of your mom’s spotlight. And probably your sister’s too. You developed your own gifts and talents and unique personality, but you never let yourself shine too bright with them.”

“That’s a ludicrously arrogant assumption. You don’t know me nearly well enough to claim that.” I sound defensive because I am.

He’s far more right than I want him to be.

“If you say so,” he murmurs. This whole time, he’s kept his focus on his laptop, but he’s been into our conversation. I know he has. But now his attention shifts back to his work.

With a sigh, I readjust in my seat so I can start working on my sketches again.

He really is an aggravating man.

One moment he’ll be engaging me in the most fascinating, insightful conversations I can remember. And the next it’s like he forgets I exist.

I’m not used to those kinds of swings. I’ve always lived my life on a pleasant, even keel. Nothing has been as exciting as sitting next to this man for a very long time.

If ever.

We’re silent for the remainder of the flight. As we’re taxiing to the gate, he turns his head to look at me for the first time in more than an hour. “What’s your name?”

“What? Why?”

He gives that faint, sardonic half shrug that’s evidently his trademark. “If we’re going to be seatmates for the next two months, I should have something to call you other than ‘that annoying woman.’”

I’m so surprised I burst out in giggles before I can restrain them. “And I should have something to call you other than ‘the obnoxious man.’”

“My name is Isaac. Isaac Becker.”

“Oh. I’m River Kennedy.”

His eyebrows go way up. “River Kennedy?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. In fact, it fits perfectly. The contrast. It’s striking. Jarring.” He pauses, fitting his case between his feet as the plane pulls up to the gate. “Is your sister named Lake?”

“No!” I do my best to maintain a sober innocence on my face as I add, “Her name is Raven.”