In Flight

Four

O N SUNDAY EVENING, I arrive at the airport just in time to get in the boarding line. No sign of Isaac yet, of course, but I’m not worried today that he changed his flight.

He’ll get on the plane at the last minute as always.

When I see a tiny elderly lady with perfectly coiffed hair checking her ticket and looking around, I smile and ask if I can help her find her gate.

Her flight is my flight, so I have her get into line in front of me while she chats about how big and impersonal airports are nowadays. They weren’t like this before when she was younger. She’s on her way to Savannah to visit her grandson and his family. She has three great-grandchildren and another on the way.

I’m telling her she must be very proud when someone steps behind me in line. Since my attention is on the lady, it takes me a minute to pick up the vibes.

I whirl around to see Isaac standing behind me. “What are you doing here?”

He arches his eyebrows in a look that’s now familiar. “I’m flying back to Savannah to work.”

“I know that. I meant getting in line right now. You always wait until the last minute.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, of course you do.” Annoyed at his purposeful cluelessness, I turn back to the nice lady and ask her how many times she’s been to Savannah.

I can feel Isaac grinning behind me as we progress up to the attendant, but I don’t turn back to check.

No sense in giving him the satisfaction.

It takes a while to get back to our seats because everyone in the rows in front of us is stowing their luggage, taking their jackets off, and generally getting settled. I’ve often wondered why they don’t make the obvious choice of boarding people seated in the back first.

But the world doesn’t function by the ideal of the first shall be last. Not even on planes.

The first always go first.

The old lady is seated across the aisle from me and Isaac. I show her the seat and help her off with her coat.

“Can your husband lift my suitcase up that high?” she asks me, gesturing toward the open overhead compartment.

“He can definitely handle it,” I tell her, flushing slightly for no good reason. “But he’s not my husband.”

Isaac is grinning again as he puts up her suitcase.

The lady is flustered but not because of her mistake. Traveling by plane is obviously stressful for her, and who could blame her? “He’s not?” she asks me, looking from me to Isaac and back again. “How odd.”

I don’t question how and why it’s odd. I just smile at her kindly. “Is there anything else I can help you with, ma’am?”

“I don’t think so, dear. You’ve been very kind. I’m going to sit here and read my Bible and pray.” She pats the well-worn leather volume she pulled out of her large purse earlier.

“I think that’s a very good idea. I’m River. Isaac and I are sitting right here if you need anything.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll pray for the two of you between prayers that we don’t fall out of the sky.”

When I’ve assured myself she’s settled, I take off my jacket. I’ve been feeling very cute all day in a soft tiered skirt and a pink sweater that makes the most of my not-insignificant breasts.

Just so it’s clear, I was in a cute mood when I chose this outfit earlier. I’m not trying to look my best for any specific reason.

Isaac hasn’t sat down yet, and he steps out of the way so I can slide into my seat.

I look at him fully for the first time since he got into line behind me. He’s particularly cute himself in a rust-colored crew neck and khakis.

He must have gotten his hair cut over the weekend because it’s not quite as rumpled as it was on Friday.

“How was the ballet?” I ask him, setting my mug of tea—prepared as always from a tea bag and hot water past security—on the armrest between us as I get my knitting and my phone and my sketchbook out of my bag.

“It was fine. Long. Very long. But fine.”

I can’t quite hold back a giggle at his tone. Leaning over to check the old lady—who is indeed reading her Bible and mouthing silent words—I say, “Well, you could have said no.”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“I know we have. I’m simply emphasizing one of my points from last time. Did Sophie enjoy it?”

“She did.” He runs a hand through his thick, wavy hair as if he’s not used to it being so short. “Of course, she was whispering with her friend half the time, so I’m not sure how much of it she was actually paying attention to.”

I peer at him, trying to read his face and figure out whether he’s amused or annoyed by that fact.

Maybe both.

“Well, since your intention in agreeing was to make her happy, you seem to have accomplished that much.”

“I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very certain.”

“I don’t know,” he admits with a shrug. He slants his eyes at me and then forward toward the back of the seat in front of him. “Occasionally I feel like she’s as frustrated as I sometimes am.”

“Frustrated with what?”

“With trying to make me who she wants me to be.”

I think about that. My pulse starts racing the way it does when it feels like something big is about to happen. “Isn’t that what you said your mom did with your dad?”

“No. She loves him for who he is. She just wants to make sure he’s as good a him as he’s capable of being.”

“Oh. I see.” My thoughts are a jumble, so I take a minute to sort them out before I respond. “Well, I guess the main question is if the person Sophie wants you to be is the person you want to be yourself. If it is, it might be kind of frustrating, but you’ll be together in working toward that goal. But if it’s not...”

I leave the rest of the sentence hanging. I’m uncomfortable saying it out loud, and he knows what I would have said anyway.

If she’s trying to turn him into someone he doesn’t want to be, his only choices are ending the relationship or submitting to being miserable for the rest of his life.

Surely he won’t choose that.

He’s silent, but it’s not because he’s trying to end the conversation. He’s thinking it through the way I am.

“Do you?” I ask at last.

“Do I what?”

“Want to be who she wants you to be?”

He licks his lips briefly. Takes a weird little breath. “I thought so.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t think I do.”

Something thrills inside me. Thrills . It’s the only word to describe it. And it’s not from some weird, irrational possessiveness that doesn’t want him with another woman. It’s different. Deeper.

It’s wanting the best for him. And striving for a superficially social position that’s not a good fit isn’t the best for him. I’m absolutely sure of that.

He darts me another quick glance, like he said more than he intended and he’s checking my reaction.

I smile and shrug. “Well, I don’t know what to say. You know what you should do.”

“What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About your stalwart boyfriend who drags you to sports events and family barbecues. Money or whatever his name is.”

I’m not always the sharpest tool in the shed. It takes a few seconds before I realize his joke. “His name is Cash!” I try very hard not to laugh.

“Exactly. What are you going to do about him?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, hesitating briefly but wanting to be honest since he was honest with me. “I’ve thought some about what we talked about, but I think I need to get back home and spend time with him before I get a sense of the best thing to do.”

“That’s how you make all your decisions, isn’t it? Getting a sense of it.”

I frown, slightly hurt because I thought we were on friendlier terms now. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s just different from me.”

“I’m sure it’s different. You probably make lists and charts and graphs.”

“Not graphs. Not about relationships anyway.”

Hiding a snicker, I continue. “You analyze and weigh evidence. I use my intuition and work with situations holistically. I don’t think either of us is wrong. There’s no reason to mock.”

“I wasn’t mocking. Seriously. I like that you feel your way through life, picking up vibes. Sometimes I wish I could do the same.”

“You don’t pick up vibes?”

Up go his eyebrows again. “I’ve never picked up a vibe in my life.”

I laugh again. I really can’t help it.

Since it feels like a natural conclusion to the conversation, I focus on my knitting while he opens his laptop and pulls up a spreadsheet.

After a few minutes of studying it, he turns his head toward me. “How was your cupcake party?”

“It was good. Kind of fussy, but that’s what Raven wanted. Everything went well.”

“And was the absence of the one cupcake noted?”

“Oh, it was definitely noted. I had to make up a story about it being accidentally crushed in transit or she would have thrown a fit.”

“It was crushed,” he says with a flash of a smile. “It was crushed in my mouth.”

There I go, giggling again.

***

T HE FLIGHT GOES QUICKLY . We chat occasionally. I ask him about his job, and he explains he’s in the finance department of a national corporation that’s headquartered in Boston. They send him out to different branches to do audits all the time, so he spends at least half the year traveling for work.

It sounds like a terrible job to me, and even he admits that no one wants to see him coming. He’s as low-key as he can be about the process, but everyone thinks he’s there to check up on them.

And that’s exactly why he’s there.

“Isn’t that kind of taxing?” I ask him. “For people to always dread the sight of you?”

“Yeah. I’m not a fan if you want to know the truth. I know I’m supposed to detach and let it go, but it’s draining for people to look away whenever you appear. For them to put on a fake-nice act as if you’re only there to get them in trouble. And all the travel gets old.”

“Haven’t you thought about getting a new job?”

“Sure. I think about it all the time. But I’ve got a clear upward trajectory here, and if I make a switch, it will likely take longer to move up. I’m only thirty-two. I could get to the executive level by my mid-forties if I can just tough it out a few more years in this position.”

“I guess that makes rational sense.” I shake my head. “But it doesn’t seem worth it to me. People are usually happier with some sort of balance between work and the rest of life, and your job doesn’t really allow that.”

“I do fine.”

He’s getting defensive, so I drop the subject before the mood between us shifts.

He asks about progress on the wedding plans and what design Raven chose for her guest book. Then he asks about my specialty in art school, and I tell him a few stories about my more eccentric classmates.

At one point he laughs out loud in a way I’ve never heard from him before. It feels like a victory.

I’m having a good time and not really checking myself. So when I notice a piece of fuzz stuck in his hair, I reach up without thinking to pull it out.

He meets my eyes as my fingers slide through his thick waves. I’m deeply conscious of the faintly pleasant scent of him, the warmth radiating off his body, the solidity of his frame.

I want to touch more than his hair. I want to feel the bristles on his jaw. I want to slide my hand down the length of his arm. I want to twine my fingers with his.

Neither one of us looks away, and there’s a heat in the shared gaze that hasn’t been present before. I’ve always known he’s an attractive man, but I’ve never felt it like this. Like the attraction is a magnetic force, dragging me toward him.

It’s not until I hear the old lady coughing across the aisle that the heated spell breaks. I drop my hand like his hair burned me. “Sorry. Sorry. We can’t do that.”

He withdraws too, composing his expression into his typical nonchalance. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“We had a moment, and we can’t have that. We’re both in relationships. Moments are entirely out of bounds.” I’m breathless and still kind of shaky.

And guilty.

Incredibly guilty.

I never imagined myself the kind of person to have even a stray moment with a man other than the one I’m dating.

“We didn’t have a moment. Don’t overdramatize things.”

“We did have a moment. You felt it too.”

“I felt you getting something out of my hair. I think whatever moment you’re imagining happened in your mind.”

His tone is bone-dry, and it’s like a bucket of cold water on the heat I was feeling before.

But even that doesn’t sway me from what I know to be true. “It is not in my mind. You felt it too. You know you did.”

When I hear the old lady coughing again, I lean over so I can see past Isaac’s body to check.

Isaac starts to reply, but I put a hand up to stop him and say, “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?”

She’s leaning over, her hands covering her face. Her shaking is visible from where I’m sitting.

Isaac turns to look too and immediately unbuckles his belt and stands up. “Can I get you anything?” he asks, squatting beside her seat.

I climb over his seat to stand up too.

“Oh dear,” the lady says with a dramatic quaver.

“Maybe go ask for a ginger ale,” I murmur to Isaac, who’s giving me a questioning look.

He does so immediately, and I take his place crouching beside her seat.

“Can I help you at all?” I ask gently.

“I’ll be okay.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re okay. Can you maybe tell me what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. I was feeling a little dizzy, but I don’t think I’m sick.”

There’s no one in the seat beside her, so I reach over to lift up the armrest to give her more room. I raise her empty tray table and secure it and then reach over to lower the one beside her.

Isaac has returned with a ginger ale, so I set it on the tray beside her. “When you’re ready, try a few sips of that.”

She reaches for the drink, her hand shaking so much I’m afraid she’ll spill it, but she doesn’t. She dutifully takes three sips and then sets it back down.

The flight attendant has come over and is having a murmured conversation with Isaac.

“I think she needs to know if you need help,” I explain when the lady squints up like she’s trying to hear what they’re saying. “If it’s an emergency, the crew will need to do something.”

“Oh no,” the lady says. “It’s not an emergency. I’m just kind of shaky. I thought I was doing okay, but then I got really scared. Then I got shaky. Then I thought if I didn’t get out of here soon I might pass out. Then you came over here and gave me a ginger ale.”

I smile at her and pat her arm, then stand up. “I think it’s just a panic attack. She says she doesn’t need any help.”

The flight attendant leans over toward the lady with a smile. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The lady leans back as if the friendly flight attendant is too close. “I’m okay. I’ll just talk to this nice pretty girl a few more minutes if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” I nod at the flight attendant, who backs off, much to the lady’s visible relief. My thighs are hurting from squatting, and I’m about to suggest I climb into the seat beside her when Isaac touches my arm.

He’s moved into my seat so I can sit in his.

That works much better. I can turn sideways and talk to the lady more comfortably.

Since some distraction might help, I ask her about the passages in the Bible she’s been reading. She’s still shaky as she explains the Psalm she’s been meditating over.

My family was never religious. At all. But as she’s talking, she starts quoting words that are familiar to me.

“Oh, that’s that song, isn’t it? ‘Amazing Grace’?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right, dear.” She reaches over to take my hand, and I let her. She holds my hand as she begins to sing the words in an uneven, wavery voice.

I sing with her—softly so I don’t disturb the people around us too much. But surely they’ll understand. This poor lady needs comfort and assurance, and this song and the faith it expresses to her can give her that.

I don’t know all the words of the additional verses, but she speaks them to me and helps me learn them so we can sing all the verses. Ridiculously, I get emotional and tear up slightly toward the end.

By the time we finish the final verse, the plane is descending. I keep holding her hand until we’re on the ground.

“Thank you, dear. You’re good to an old woman. I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.” She already sounds better. Stronger. More like herself.

“We can’t help when we fall apart, so you can fall apart on me. I fall apart sometimes too, and it’s nice for someone to be there.”

“Well, your young man will want to be that person for you,” she says, nodding past me toward Isaac, who has been working quietly on his laptop this whole time.

“Oh no, ma’am, he’s not my young man. I don’t even know him very well.”

“Of course you do.” She pats my hand with a smile. “Or you will.”

I glance back, but Isaac is fortunately not paying attention. I smile and let the topic drop, although it unsettles me for some reason.

When the rest of the passengers get off, I help the lady make it through the aisle and down the ramp. The crew already called ahead, and a buggy is waiting so she can get a ride instead of walking through the airport.

We say goodbye, and she blesses me. I wave as she rides away.

Isaac is still beside me. I meet his eyes, weirdly self-conscious.

“You were really good with her,” he says, his expression unusually sober.

I shrug off the compliment the way I always do. “She just needed someone to talk to.”

“No. You were really good with her.”

I try to hide my face with my loose hair. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he closes it again. “All right. Is Cash picking you up?”

“Yes.” The reminder of Cash’s existence is like another wave of cold water. I’ve really got to do something about that, and I need to do it soon.

“Have a good week then. I guess I’ll see you on Friday?” He lifts his voice slightly, making the statement a question.

“Yeah. I’ll be here.”

“So will I.”

With that, he strides away.