CHAPTER 30
Bailey
The hum of the airplane engine vibrates through my body, no match for the snores of the man next to me. His suit is disheveled and wrinkled, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. I would’ve guessed he spent the night on an airport bench, but the hickies on his neck indicate otherwise.
That, and the fact he had, for some unknown reason, felt the need to tell me about the chick he’d hooked up with the night before, right after telling me all about how he “would’ve joined the Army, but would’ve punched the drill sergeant in the face so decided it was better not to end up in jail because of basic training.
” He then monologued about how he definitely would’ve been special forces or something like that.
It wasn’t until he was thirty minutes into his spiel and wracking my brain about why the fuck this tool knew anything about me being a service member that I realized the chain from my dog tags was peeking out from beneath my collar.
Fuck.
I had just nodded along, grunting at what appeared to be appropriate times, until the only sounds coming from his seat were the snores I hear now.
The guy definitely has sleep apnea, which I had considered telling him, but after seeing his phone screen light up on the tray, I’m contemplating whether I should kill him myself to expedite the process.
His background is him smiling with his arms wrapped around a pretty blonde and their three kids, one girl, two boys, in their coordinating white and beige outfits.
The woman—his wife, I assume—has a rock on her hand that certainly wasn’t cheap, and she looks at him like he hangs the moon. They’re a picture-perfect family.
Then why the fuck would this piece of shit brag about the chick he spent last night with?
Why would anyone choose a one-night stand over a woman who looks at you like she looks at him?
Why would he choose a few hours of sex (let’s be real; it was probably five minutes) over getting to look into the eyes of the woman you love for the rest of your life?
I can’t fathom choosing a couple minutes of fun over falling asleep on the phone, gazing at a pair of gray eyes that crinkle at the corners when she laughs, and the freckles that disappear when she scrunches up her nose.
I rub my hands over my face, pressing the heels against my closed eyes until the pressure feels like they might burst, and release a heavy sigh.
I’m in love with Palmer.
Not “like.” Not “falling for.” No “maybe, kind of, sort of.”
Absolutely, completely, totally, without a shadow of a doubt in love with her.
No matter how much I’ve told myself not to be and that I can’t be. Despite the fact I’m just a phase and I will never—can never—be anything more.
I’m in love with her.
The feeling doesn’t make sense. I’ve cared about girls before, even thought they could be “the one,” but I’ve never been in love with them.
Not like I am with her. Palmer makes the surge of adrenaline I get from parachuting out of an aircraft pale in comparison when I think about the amount of time I could spend freefalling into the icy gray depths of her eyes.
I think I realized it recently and am only just now willing to admit it to myself, but if someone pressed me on the issue, I would tell them I actually knew beyond a shadow of a doubt when she put that asshole’s stuff under my truck tire and told me to gun it, her blond hair messy and her eyes wild.
Getting to spend more time with her and seeing the way she cares about her students and athletes just sealed the deal.
My seatmate’s snoring brings me back to reality.
Back to the reality that he’s a piece of shit, and Clay was a piece of shit, and Palmer doesn’t want me or a relationship.
It brings me back to the reality that love only gets you hurt, just like this asshole is willingly hurting his wife and family and doesn’t seem to care about it, only that he was able to get his dick wet for a minute.
Love hurts, and it’s hurt Palmer over and over and over again.
She’s tired of being hurt, and she doesn’t want to let someone hurt her again.
I understand all of that, even though I would never hurt her or let anything or anyone hurt her ever again.
Even with that, I know this will only end one way: with Palmer and I going separate ways whenever she’s ready to end her ho phase or whenever she gets tired of waiting around on me.
Her ending up with the nice, uncomplicated guy, having a few kids, and growing old with him without ever having to wonder where he is and what he’s doing.
And they won’t hurt each other, because that’s what nice, uncomplicated, normal relationships are like.
And while she’s living out her nice, uncomplicated, normal life, I’ll be living out my dreams, one adrenaline-fueled adventure to the next, not worrying about the future or who I’m coming home to, because that’s not my life now.
It’s not nice or uncomplicated or normal, but it is what it is, and I’ve always been okay with that, because it’s mine.
But this time? This time in my fantasies, instead of daydreaming about the future, I know I’ll be daydreaming about the past, asking myself “what if” about the beautiful woman that I let get away all those years ago, because everything—all of this—is for her.
Because the difference is that I want to let her hurt me.
That I would gladly take a knife to the heart before I ever allowed myself to be the reason behind the tears in her eyes. And I know that me loving her is selfish, because I can’t give her what she wants and deserves in the long run, but dammit, I can’t help it.
I love her.
Even if she never finds out, even if I never tell her, I love her.
With every fiber of my being and everything I’ve ever dreamt of being.
I find myself wanting to be with her constantly, and when I’m not talking to her, I’m impatiently waiting for a response to a text, just so I can read the words she meant just for me.
The past couple of weeks have been torture because even though we’ve been able to talk on the phone, not feeling the soft, warm glow of her presence near me has me feeling like a man lost in the desert, searching for water.
The video calls, even the short ones, have been the only things keeping me sane, just to see her beautiful face or hear her voice.
I’m in way over my head, and this time I’m certain I don’t ever want to come back up for air, because if breathing means losing Palmer, then I will gladly die knowing that the last thing on my mind was her.
Leaning my head on the seat behind me, I close my eyes, and my heart aches. Because I know our time together is too short, regardless of how long it is, and no matter how hard I try, I will always love her.
Long after she has forgotten me. Long after she’s found someone else who can give her the life she deserves. Because even though I’m just a phase for her, Palmer is the rest of my life.
And I have to come to terms with that, because in my story, the guy doesn’t get the girl.
The guy gets the adventures and the adrenaline and the sex.
He gets to see the world and chase his dreams and meet all kinds of amazing people and maybe one day, retire to his own little slice of heaven… but he doesn’t get the girl.
No matter how badly he wants her.
* * *
I pull my backpack from the overhead bin, jostling against my seatmate as he continues talking my ear off as if he never stopped. People begin disembarking from the plane when he suddenly decides he wants to know about me.
“So, what branch are you in?”
Turning toward him, I level him with my gaze. “Dude, I’m going to be honest with you for a second.” I jerk my head at the phone in his hand. “You need to stop giving so much of a fuck about yourself that you aren’t giving one about your family.”
His mouth gapes as he fumbles for a response, so I continue.
“I would give anything to have what you have. To have the woman who looks at you as if no one else in the world exists. To have kids with that woman and let them get to see how a man should truly love his wife and family. Instead, you’re too worried about being—” I gesture at him vaguely.
“Whatever the fuck this is, and you’re going to lose them. ”
It’s our turn to walk, but the man stays rooted in his seat, shame reddening his features.
I get up, towering over him, and drop my voice to a low murmur. “Now, if you will so kindly get the fuck out of my way, I have to go see the girl I don’t get to have for the limited amount I do get to have her. So, move.”
He scuttles out of his seat, dropping his open bag and spilling the contents into the aisle, much to the chagrin of those behind me. I step over his mess and stalk off the plane into the gate. My heart pounds with every step I take toward the baggage claim and her.
As I round the corner, I see Palmer standing there, a wicked grin on her face and a big posterboard in hand, with bold, black sharpie letters that say, Welcome home from prison, Inmate #52735! I guess good behavior does payoff!
My head tilts back in a deep laugh, stopping me in my tracks, and Palmer’s smile widens, her laughter matching my own. I close the space between us quickly, sweep her into my arms, and bury my face in her hair as her arms wind around my neck, her laughter still bouncing around us.
Pressing my lips to hers, I keep one hand around her waist and bring the other to her cheek.
She opens her lips to allow my tongue to intertwine with hers.
God, I forgot how good she tastes and the way her body fits perfectly against mine.
Palmer moans softly against my mouth, and I have to pull away, just enough to allow some air between our lips.
Otherwise, there is a high likelihood we are both about to be arrested for what I will do to her right here.
“Hey, baby.” I brush my lips against hers innocently and growl, “I missed you.”
Palmer shifts against me before responding, “I can tell.”
My cock strains against my zipper, and I pull her in closer before planting a kiss on her cheek.
“I missed you, too,” she says, a shy grin splitting her face. “Do you like my sign?”
I laugh again. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever been greeted with a sign.”
A mischievous look crosses Palmer’s features. “Well, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Just wait until next time.”
My heart skips a beat, but I tell myself not to read too much into it. I kiss her softly, then say, “Can’t wait.”
We turn to walk out the door, and I see my seatmate shuffle by us, wheeling his suitcase behind him. We make eye contact, and he drops his head.
Good. I hope he feels like shit. Because if I had the woman of my dreams—if I had Palmer—I would make sure everything I did was just to see her smile.
I turn to glance at Palmer then grab the sign from her and hold it in my right hand. I weave the fingers on my left hand through those on her right and squeeze. She rewards me with a wide smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges.
Tugging her with me toward the door, I say, “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”