Chapter 3
The thing is, Beckett didn’t learn my name during our walk on the beach. That walk happened later. I mean, sure, it was the first time I felt a real connection with him, but my point is, his retelling was inaccurate.
Not that it matters, though. It’s fiction, after all. And his way obviously worked out just fine, given that he’s become a household name. He’s the male version of Rebecca Yarros (minus the dragons). Pretty soon, people will be lining up at midnight to buy his books.
Our chance encounter actually began courtesy of JetBlue. I was at the gate, trying to switch my mother out of an aisle seat and into a window seat.
“I don’t think you understand,” I explained to the woman at the counter. “It’s extremely important to me that my mother be happy on this trip. She won’t want to sit in a seat on the aisle. She likes to look out the window. She says it’s the best part of flying.”
“I do understand, ma’am,” the woman replied. “And I’m saying that you are more than welcome to switch seats with her.” Her tone was half-annoyed, half-disinterested.
I sighed and shook my head. “But my seat is in the middle.”
The woman shrugged. “It’s closer, though. She can still look outside.”
“She’s not going to want to sit in the middle.” I lowered my voice and narrowed my eyes to read her name tag. “Please, Jacinda. My mother is sick. I want her to be comfortable. This trip is really important to her.”
At this, her expression softened, despite her consideration of the line forming behind me. “I’m sorry to hear that, miss. I am. We have a full flight, though. So, you understand, there’s really nothing I can do except try and move you to another flight.”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. Forget it.” I collected our boarding passes and our passports from the counter, hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder, and hastily moved off the line.
Three steps back toward the seating area, I heard, “Hey, um, excuse me?”
I turned back to see a guy about my age.
Tall. Not thin but not too broad. Skin that looked sun-kissed, despite it being December.
Navy-blue hoodie sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal a pair of finely toned forearms. He had a Nike gym bag slung over his shoulder and wore a tentative smile that curved his upper lip enough to make it seem like it could be a smirk. “Me?” I asked.
“You dropped this,” he said, holding up the hacky sack I was borrowing from my mom. The way his large fingers wrapped around it made the little red-and-yellow-striped beanbag look smaller than usual.
Embarrassment washed over me. Grown women don’t carry around hacky sacks, I admonished myself silently.
High school skateboarders circa 1998 did that, at least, according to the movies I’ve seen.
“Oh. Thanks.” I reached out to retrieve it and his thumb grazed mine.
I stared down to avoid making eye contact.
His thumbnail was rounded at the top. Neatly trimmed. No evidence of biting or gnawing.
My mom was a chronic nail-biter, especially at that point, having recently quit smoking. I learned that you could tell a lot about a person by looking at their thumbnails.
He let go of the hacky sack and stuffed his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie.
“I’m sorry, but I overheard you talking to that lady, and, well,” he replied.
“I’ve got seat 34A. It’s all the way in the back of the plane.
I could switch with your mom, if you think she’d be okay sitting alone back there.
” I looked up at him and noticed his eyebrows.
They were light brown, almost amber. They looked friendly. Sincere. “It’s a window seat.”
I shoved the hacky sack into the pocket of my fleece and shrugged. “I guess I could ask her.”
He nodded. A woman standing beside Jacinda at the counter made a gate announcement through her microphone.
“Good morning passengers traveling aboard JetBlue flight 842 with nonstop service to Oranjestad; we have a full flight here this morning and space in the overhead compartment is limited. Anyone wishing to check their carry-on item may do so free of charge. Please come to the desk if you would like to check your carry-on item free of charge,” she repeated.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.” He nodded at the line of people, waiting to take their turns to complain at the desk.
“My mom’s just over there,” I said, and gestured to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a massive airplane wing. I raised a hand to give her a little wave, and she smiled back at me. Even from a distance, she looked like the past few weeks had aged her something awful. “I’ll be right back.”
He smiled. Perhaps if we’d been two other people in a different place at a different time, that smile would have arrested me. But in John F. Kennedy Airport at 5:45 in the morning, I was only able to notice that his teeth were really straight.
I went over to my mom. “Handsome,” she said.
I sat beside her. “I guess,” I replied.
“So, how’d it go? Did you switch our seats?”
“I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, the plane is full and Jacinda over there is not in the mood to be of much help to me.
But that guy who I was talking to must have overheard us because he offered to switch seats with you.
It would separate us, though. He’s got a window seat but it’s in the back. Probably by the bathrooms.”
Mom turned to face me. “Let me get this straight,” she said, her lips pursing together in the same wicked grin I’d known my whole life. “That piece of hot sex wants to switch seats with me?”
“Jeez, Mom!” I seethed. “Will you please keep your voice down?”
She laughed, and it made me ache just a little knowing that the day would come soon when I might begin to forget the sound of her laughter. “What? I call it like I see it.”
I shook my head. “You’re not old enough to be excused for this kind of behavior,” I joked.
“Like hell I’m not. I’ve got the AARP card to prove it. Anyway, you tell him, yes, I will gladly change seats with him.”
“To sit in the back without me? Next to some rando and the john? Really?”
“Yes, really. He’s cute. And if I move, you get to sit with him.”
“He could be a serial killer.”
She pointed in his direction. “Does a serial killer check his carry-on bag to help make space on the plane for other people’s crap?”
I looked over. Yep, it appeared he was doing something I would never in a million years be gracious enough to do.
“Could be a bag full of body parts,” I said.
“Only one way to find out, Pretty Girl. You tell him yes and thank you.” She took my hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about me. I have a book to keep me company. Plus, it’s not a bad thing putting an old broad close to the bathroom.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Do it, before I make a scene.”
“A scene?”
“I just… I feel a song coming on.” She grinned, and cleared her throat.
“Okay, okay! I’m going,” I said.
And, with nervous, red splotches growing on my neck, I walked back over to the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, lighter now without his gym bag. His eyes lit up as if I was a long-lost friend instead of a complete stranger.
“What’d she say?” he asked.
“She said to tell you yes and thank you.”
His lips were impossible to ignore. The tip of his tongue ran over the lower one with no innuendo meant—simply just moisturizing it in the absence of Chapstick was my guess. Still, I was transfixed. “Happy to help,” he said. “Guess we’re seatmates now.”
I leaned in a smidge. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”
He grinned. “No. Just a regular guy.” He held out his hand. “I’m Beckett.”
I took it in mine, this time allowing myself to notice more than just the thumbnail.
His skin was mostly smooth, with mild callouses on the top part of his open hand where the fingers meet the palm.
Dry, I noticed. Not sweaty. Nice grip. Not too firm and not too weak.
I imagined they might be good hands for hugging someone. “I’m Melody,” I replied.
“Pretty name,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Unusual. Is it a family name?”
“Not exactly. My mom named me after a song. You ever hear of “Love Is a Melody”? It’s pretty old.”
“Country song, right?” he asked. “Isn’t that by Luke Combs?”
“Not originally, but he did a really sweet remake of it a few years back.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar,” Beckett said, looking like he was trying to hear the tune in his head. “It’s a good song.”
I smiled and said, “My mom wrote it.”
“No way. For real?”
“Yep. Long time ago.”
His eyes lit up again. This time, I noticed that they weren’t brown but they weren’t blue either. They were some mixture of the two. Not exactly hazel. A mystery color that was uniquely him. I knew immediately that I would never see eyes that same color again. “Very, very cool,” he said.
I didn’t tell him about my dad until later that week, when we walked together on the beach like he described in the book. But he learned my name in the airport, at the gate, following my unpleasant interaction with Jacinda.
I guess he didn’t make much of it, but those few minutes were where I thought our story began.