Chapter 5
“So,” he said, wiggling his (admittedly delicious, not that I was looking) backside into the middle seat. “What do I need to know about you in order to get through this flight? Do you snore?”
I looked back at Mom, who gave me a little wave and a covert thumbs up from her seat seventeen rows behind me.
We were able to pre-board due to her condition, and Beckett came with us because he was the hero who gave her the window seat in the back.
I untwisted myself to face forward, knowing she was okay for the moment.
“I don’t snore, no,” I confirmed, as people filed down the center aisle, filling in the seats around us.
“Think you’ll sleep the whole way there?”
“Depends on how chatty you plan on being,” I teased him. He feigned a shocked, affronted expression. “I’m only kidding. No, I doubt I’ll sleep. I’m used to getting up at this time.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re an early bird?”
“I’m a teacher. The hours demand it. I get to school every day at seven.”
“What do you teach?”
“High school English.”
“Ah,” he replied. “A fun combination of Macbeth, 1984, and The Scarlet Letter.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, actually. Some newer stuff too, but you’re not far off.
So that means one of three things.” I count off on my fingers.
“One, you have an excellent memory and loved taking English in high school. Two, you’re the absurdly young father of a child in high school.
” This made him laugh. “Or three, are you a high school English teacher too?”
“Wow,” he said. “Quite the imagination you have. I guess it’s the first one. I have a pretty decent memory of high school, but I’m also fairly well-read.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I don’t know many guys who like to read.”
“Well,” Beckett said with a shrug, “guess I’m not like most guys.”
“That sounds like a line from a romance novel.” I grinned.
“Does it?” he asked. “I can’t say that I’ve encountered many of those.”
“Bummer,” I replied. “That’s what I write.”
“Wait.” He shimmied sideways to face me. “You’re a writer? Really?”
I nodded. “Indeed I am.”
“Like, published and everything?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m far from famous, but I have two books out in the world and another on the way.”
He looked at me as if I told him I was a billionaire. A combination of awe, admiration, and maybe the slightest hint of jealousy nestled in his features. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Another romance novel line,” I commented. “But sure, go ahead.”
“I’m a writer too. Not, like, a real author. Not yet, anyway. But I like to write. And I’m working on a novel.” His cheeks began to redden.
“That’s cool,” I said, meaning it. “What’s it about?”
“It’s sort of a family drama. Parents with secrets they hide from their kids and how it impacts the kids years later as adults.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Thanks. I’m at sort of a stuck point with it.”
“How many words in are you?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“What’s your target?”
“Somewhere between eighty and ninety, I think.”
I nodded. “The murky middle.”
“Yeah. I’m wading my way through it, trying to figure out how to get the story to where I need it to go.”
“So, you’re a pantser, not a plotter.”
“A hundred percent.”
“Me, too,” I said. I smiled and leaned back into my small chair as the pilot began to talk over the intercom.
Flight attendants were checking our seats to make sure we were buckled up, and the discussion about the possibility of us falling out of the sky began to emanate through the speakers, along with a demonstration about oxygen masks, life vests, and other fun travel accessories.
I shoved my left hand into my jacket pocket to locate my hacky sack.
With my fingers wrapped around it, I breathed deeply and closed my eyes.
I could feel Beckett’s face inch the slightest shade closer to mine before he whispered in my ear. “Nervous?” he asked.
“A little, I guess.” He smelled like cedar and Wint-O-Green Life Savers.
“Your eyes are squeezed shut,” he noted.
“Fine,” I sighed. I opened them and looked at him. My pulse skipped just enough for me to become acutely aware of what my facial expression might look like. I tried a smile. “I’m deathly afraid of heights,” I admitted.
“Two things we have in common,” he said.
“You too?”
“Yup.”
“So, I guess we won’t be much help to each other during takeoff.”
“Depends,” he said. “Are you a puker? I could hold your hair back.”
“God, no,” I replied. “Wait—why? Are you a puker?”
He shook his head.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I could hold your hand,” he suggested.
“During takeoff, you mean?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at his lap, then raised his eyes up at me. From that angle, looking at him felt almost like looking at a Calvin Klein model. He was like part puppy dog, part sex king, and my loins were not prepared at all for it.
“Um. Sure.”
From that same position, he furrowed those perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You sure? No pressure. Just trying to help.”
I smiled but said nothing.
“You’re not married, right?” he asked.
“No,” I said, holding in a snort. “Far from it.”
“Boyfriend?”
I inhaled. “Actually, my most recent romantic encounter involved being catfished on the internet and stood up at a movie theater. So, no. No boyfriend.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Jeez. His loss. How long ago was that?”
“About a year ago.”
“Hm.” He shook his head. “Dumb guy.”
I shrugged. “What about you? No wife and kids waiting for you at home?” I wondered.
“Definitely not.”
“No long-distance supermodel girlfriend flying in to meet you in Aruba?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid not.”
“How come you’re traveling alone?” I asked. “Is that something you do often?”
“I’m searching for inspiration,” he said, looking down. Crimson bloomed across his face, and I wondered if I’d embarrassed him.
“Wait. Is this a writing trip?”
Beckett tilted his head. “Is that, like, the dumbest thing you ever heard?”
“No! It’s actually very, very cool. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
“Oh. Well, yeah.” He smiled, and I watched his cheeks get fuller. They were laden with caramel-tinted stubble. I vaguely wanted to put my lips against his laugh lines. “Just feels weird to say it out loud, but it’s a writing retreat. It was my Christmas gift to myself.”
“First, you switch seats with my mom. Now this?” I ask. “I think you might actually be my hero.”
“Not possible. In fact, I think you’ve got it backward. I’m the one who’s completely starstruck by you. It’s taking everything I’ve got not to google you right this second and learn about all of your books.”
“Only writers are starstruck by other writers.”
“Well… I think you’re a rock star.”
The plane began to taxi down the jetway then, and I turned back to check on my mom, who gave me a wink when she saw me craning my neck to look at her.
Then, as I settled back into my seat, I placed my right forearm, palm side up, on the armrest between us.
Beckett Nash interlocked his strong fingers with mine.
The plane lurched forward and picked up speed, pushing my body weight into my chairback.
I gripped my fingers tightly around his hand and closed my eyes, catching my breath as my heart took off into the sky.