Chapter 11 #2
A baseball-sized lump forms in my throat. Why is she telling me this? It’s not helping. My face stings with heat, harsh words burning in my throat like bile. I want to yell: Of course I seemed sad. If you were forced to relive the hardest time of your life, you’d be sad too!
“You know what, I’m gonna be late,” I say instead, not wanting to lash out at her when I know she’s only trying to help. Deep breaths. Don’t crumble. Keep these feelings locked in the vault. “I have to go get ready.”
“Scarlett, wait. Let me—”
“I’ll check in with you later,” I tell her, and hang up.
The airstrip is just as I remember, and I have a double sense of déjà vu with last night’s dreams so fresh in my mind. It even smells the same, the fresh-cut grass lining the runway and the heat steaming off the concrete stirring something deep within the archives of my memory.
I head inside the familiar glass-walled lounge and immediately spot Ryder holding court at the check-in desk, a cadre of female admirers surrounding him.
Some things never change. An elderly woman with a shellacked gray bob is clutching his arm, while a perky, college-age blonde behind the desk is smiling up at him with flushed cheeks and love hearts in her eyes.
He’s always left a trail of starstruck women in his wake.
The older woman gasps when she sees me. “There she is!” She holds a hand over her heart, her diamond wedding ring sparkling in the sunlight. “Oh, she’s even more beautiful than she is on-screen.”
“What did I tell you?” Ryder says in a told-ya-so singsong. He flashes me a devastating grin, and I watch Suzy Sorority’s hopeful smile dim by degrees.
I hardly know what to react to first, but muscle memory kicks in and I plaster on the picture-perfect PR smile I’m used to wearing like a second skin. “Good morning everyone,” I say with a little wave as I approach the group.
Ryder beckons me forward with a hand to the small of my back, and it sears my skin like a brand. “Scarlett, meet Millie, our auction winner.”
The surprise must show on my face. “Expecting someone younger?” she says with a throaty laugh.
“I had no idea what to expect, actually,” I answer honestly, offering her a warm smile.
I’m terrible at guessing ages, but I’d place Millie’s somewhere in the ballpark of my grandmother, who’s in her mid-eighties.
Her face is webbed with wrinkles and untouched by a surgeon’s hand, her makeup artfully applied, the hallmarks of age most evident in her silver hair and rounded shoulders.
There’s a lightness about her, the well-worn laugh lines around her mouth a testament to years of happy memories and a life well-lived.
Her eyes, though, twinkle with youthful energy, shaving the decades away.
She’s an advertisement for aging gracefully.
Still, I suppose she’s right: A geriatric superfan was not on my bingo card.
“It’s nice to meet you, Millie,” I say, extending a hand in greeting. “What a delightful name.”
“Thank you! It’s short for Mildred,” she says, wrinkling her nose like she’s just swallowed sour milk. “Can you imagine naming your baby Mildred? It’s an old family name, but I have no idea what my mother was thinking.” She shudders in distaste.
“Well, we appreciate your generosity,” I tell her, and she waves a perfectly manicured hand, sending traces of her perfume wafting through the air.
“It was nothing,” she says airily. “A small price to pay for a romantic plane ride with my favorite actor!”
I raise an eyebrow. A million dollars was nothing?
I study her more closely, only just now noticing the telltale details that should have tipped me off: the finely tailored suit and classic Chanel flats, the Hermès scarf tied to the handle of her designer handbag, the tasteful but sizable diamonds winking at her earlobes.
She’s the type of woman who looks like she’d retain a personal valet, whose WASPish friends all call her “Bunny.”
She reads my mind. “My husband Mickey, God rest his soul, made a mint in oil and gas. We always had a simple philosophy for how we’d spend our money: Do good and have fun.” Her eyes sparkle with merriment. “So this one’s a twofer!”
She’s a hoot. “This guy’s your favorite actor, huh?” My dubious tone implies she could do better.
“Well, Harrison Ford wasn’t offering,” she says flippantly, and I sputter a laugh. Ryder clutches his chest like he’s deeply wounded.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for roping you into this, dear, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to get the stars of my favorite movie back together,” she says conspiratorially, exchanging Ryder’s arm for mine.
“Besides, who could resist an opportunity to be stuck in a plane with this dreamboat?” she coos, all but batting her eyelashes at him.
“Who indeed,” I deadpan.
Ryder leans into her ear, though his caramel eyes stay locked on mine. “Believe it or not, there was a time Scarlett loved being stuck with me.”
Millie squeals with glee, clapping her hands together. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear all these stories!”
I slice him a dead-eyed stare before abruptly pivoting toward the blonde hanging on our every word. “Hi, I’m Scarlett,” I say, and she blooms like a plant under grow lights.
“No need to introduce yourself! I’m a huge fan. Kissing for Keeps is one of my favorite movies, I’ve seen it about a thousand times,” she gushes.
“Oh, you’re so sweet to say so! Now I wish we’d brought Jase with us today.
That would’ve been fun, huh?” She looks unwell at the thought, her eyes popping wide as frisbees, and I can understand why—Ryder and Jase in the same room is more than most mortal women can handle.
“Will you be coming with us today, too?”
She laughs. “I wish! But y’all should have a wonderful time. It’s a beautiful day for an aerial tour.” She has an adorable Southern accent.
“Holly’s uncle runs this place, and she’s helping out for the summer,” Ryder explains, and Holly beams like he’s just declared her Employee of the Month.
“He made sure everything was ready to go for you, Mr. Perry,” she says eagerly, aiming another doting smile his way, and I feel for this sweet Southern belle. I know all too well what the potent power of his charisma can do to a girl without her guard up.
“Sounds good.” Ryder moves to the door leading out to the runway and holds it open for us. “Ladies, after you.”
I take Millie’s arm, and as we pass I murmur, “Thanks, Mr. Perry.” I catch his smirk in my periphery.
We’re immediately blasted by sun, and I slide on my sunglasses.
It’s got to be topping ninety today, my skin going dewy with sweat.
At least I’m dressed appropriately, in high-waisted shorts and a sleeveless blouse.
I chance a glance at Ryder and regret it instantly.
He’s dazzling. Sunlight glints off his blond hair, his high cheekbones, his bronzed forearms. His white polo only amplifies his tan, health and vitality seeping from his pores.
He’s gilded and golden, just the way I remember him but better: an enhanced, time-lapsed version of the boy I used to know.
He’s more handsome than he’s ever been, and I hate myself for noticing.
His gait is relaxed and carefree as we stroll down the runway, in sharp contrast with my apprehensive foot-dragging. Actually, he’s too light and carefree. Knowing how he feels about flying, his blithe nonchalance is a glaring red flag, and my gut fires off a warning flare.
The unsettled feeling intensifies with every step as Ryder leads us toward the plane parked at the end of the runway.
“I’m sorry to say we won’t be flying the same plane we used during filming, since I have no idea where they got it and I wouldn’t feel safe even trying to handle a plane that old,” he tells us, and my warning flare becomes a blaring fire alarm.
“Hopefully you ladies won’t mind something a bit more modern. ”
I stop dead in my tracks, bringing our little trio to a screeching halt. “I’m sorry, what?”
Ryder tilts his head in question. He’s the picture of innocence.
I squint at him. Am I still dreaming? “I must have misheard, because it sounded like you said you were going to fly this plane.”
His face carves into a wide jack-o’-lantern grin. “I am.”
I stare at him, blinking once. Twice. He’s been dying to drop this bombshell. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Woo-hoo-hoo!” Millie hoots, fanning herself with a hand. “Now this is the Holden and Melody energy I was hoping for!”
I grit my teeth before a snarky comment I’ll regret can spill out. Ryder takes advantage of my temporary speechlessness to grab my non-Millie-occupied arm and propel me forward, my feet practically leaving skid marks on the pavement. “I have my pilot’s license.”
“You do not have your pilot’s license,” I insist stubbornly. The very idea is preposterous. “You freak out in planes.”
“I used to freak out in planes,” he corrects me. “Now I fly them.”
Millie practically swoons. “A man of many talents!”
We stop at the wing of the plane, but when Ryder gestures for us to climb aboard, I halt him with a hand. “I will not get into this aircraft until you explain what’s going on here.”
“I will,” Millie says gaily.
He can’t suppress his smile. He’s loving having the upper hand. “You want to see my credentials up close?” he says with a suggestive little smirk, and I would smack him if not for the spunky senior with a front-row seat to this shit show.
“You know what I’m asking,” I say evenly, my impatience clear. In essence: What the hell is going on? How do you go from crying in a plane to flying one?
His easygoing smile fades, and an emotion I can’t identify flashes across his face. “You’ve missed a lot these past ten years.”
I ignore the sting of shame that pokes at my conscience. Don’t let him get in your head. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “When you’re sober, you learn to seek out natural highs.”
His vulnerable response chips away another layer of my antagonism.