“You left it on the belt,” the woman says, jerking her head toward the X-ray machine.
“It … uh … have you heard of levitation?”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Come over here.”
I follow her, and she stops me in front of a large metal table, slinging my overstuffed bag on there like it’s a slab of meat.
And then, she proceeds to do the unthinkable.
She snaps on latex gloves, unzips my bag, and starts pulling things out.
For all the world to see.
She begins, of course, with the underwear. There really is no other option for her. She pulls out handful after handful of my cotton panties, setting them down on the table next to my hot pink suitcase. The mountain she creates is so big, I want to absolutely die. An endless stream of people walk by, and we get more than a few double takes at the undie Everest growing on this table.
And next, oh joy, is my supply of tampons. Box after box, she pulls them out, creating a small barricade around Mount Fruit of the Loom.
After what feels like hours of her digging through my possessions—she inexplicably is able to leave all my T-shirts and sundresses in the suitcase while my underwear creates a massive beacon of attention—she lets me go with a stern warning not to leave my suitcase unattended again. After that experience, I’m tempted to travel without luggage for the rest of my life.
I barrel to my gate like a bat out of hell. This is not the classy-ass airport experience I envisioned. I wasn’t able to stop at an overpriced restaurant and buy spinach-and-artichoke dip like a mature adult. I don’t have an iced coffee in hand as I stroll up to my gate looking cool and sophisticated. I didn’t peruse the airport stores and buy glossy fashion magazines to breezily flip through on the plane. I haven’t thrown my head back and laughed intriguingly at something a gorgeous stranger said once.
Instead, as I bound up to the ticketing counter at my gate, I’m sweaty and frazzled and at risk of missing my flight because I sprinted in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes before realizing and circling back.
“Take a deep breath, dear,” the ticketing agent says, giving me a terrified smile. “We had a little delay, so you’re right on time.”
I breathlessly thank her, chest still heaving from my run, as I scramble through the door and onto the jet bridge.
When I step onto the plane, a beautiful flight attendant with dark red lipstick and a glorious British accent greets me. I can’t help feeling a swell of excitement at knowing my destination will have me surrounded by pretty voices.
I make my way toward the back, jamming my suitcase into the overhead bin with my last reserves of strength after running a marathon through the airport. I collapse down into the window seat of row twenty-seven.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down my buzzing system.
Then I grin.
This is it. The moment of all moments. The one that will change my life forever.
I press my forehead against the window, heart thumping in excitement. I can’t wait to take off. I can’t wait to leave the ground and my old life and my problems behind. I can’t wait to—
“You’re in my seat.”
My excited loop-de-loop thoughts are cut off by a crisp, British voice. I whip my head to the aisle and find myself eye level with a long pair of legs in tailored black pants.
I frown, instinctually not trusting anyone who wears non-elastic pants on a plane. Monsters, every single one of them. But, as my eyes trail up an equally tailored black button-down to a face so gorgeous I think I might die, I decide this lovely stranger is an exception. Someone this pretty must be an angel.
If angels wore all black and had sharp noses and chiseled jaws that could cut glass and stern, disapproving frowns. Fallen angel, then.
“What?” I manage to choke out, eyes wandering round and around his handsome face. I’ll be honest, my silly heart and head have always conjured up heated tension with literally anyone remotely close to my age in an airport, but this boy … well, cute doesn’t even cut it.
Hot Guy—wait, would it be Hot Guy? Or would the British call him Hot … Chap? Bloke? Lad? I’m trying to be more cultured, after all.
Hot Lad has dark auburn hair falling in waves across his forehead. His light brown eyes, the color of honey, are framed by a sweep of dark lashes. His long fingers tap against his leg in a steady beat as he stares in the vicinity of my left shoulder.
“My seat,” he repeats. “You’re in it.”
“Oh.” I chew on my bottom lip, hoping to look charming and endearing. I would have sworn I had a window seat. And by sworn, I mean I didn’t check but assumed because what’s the point of flying if you can’t look out at the clouds and completely lose yourself in daydreams?
“Would you be interested in switching?” I ask. “I’m really into window seats.”
Hot Lad’s eyes flick to mine for a split second, then land back on my shoulder. “No.” Pause. “Thank you.”
I blink at him, mouth falling open. Well … that’s the end of that, I guess. Cool. Cool cool cool. Gorgeous moody boy in all black does not play when it comes to seating assignments and is really not fun about it at all and is actually killing my total freaking travel vibe and now I have to sit next to him for ten hours. Love it.
I scramble up from the seat and scooch to the one next to it, dragging my backpack up from the floor and snagging it on every corner humanly possible in the awkward process. I try to squeeze myself against my aisle seat to give Hot Lad room, but he waits, fingers still tapping.
After what feels like an eternity of awkward standing, we both make a little hand wave for the other to move through, me toward his seat, him ushering me into the aisle. I think we’re both caught off guard by the gestures, because we then make jerky movements toward and away from each other like pecking chickens.
His eyes go wide like he’s being confronted by a feral cat, and I scowl, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I charge forward into the aisle to give him more room, but, at the same moment, Hot Lad takes a definitive step into the row of seats.
And my forehead smacks against his ridiculously chiseled jaw.
“Agghrrrhhjh,” he groans, head jerking back.
My knees give out and I slump into the aisle seat, head cradled in my hands.
Cut glass? That jaw could bust open my damn skull holy crap that hurt so bad.
It feels like the plane has gone silent, everything frozen as I hold my throbbing head and Hot Lad towers over me with what I can only imagine is a look of unmitigated horror.
He finally squeezes past me, folding his long limbs into the window seat and putting his black backpack on the ground at his feet. He turns slightly away from me, both of us still mildly panting from the chaos.
“That really hurt,” Hot Lad says at last, frowning as he looks out the window, rubbing his chin.
I stare at him in gaping disbelief. He says it like it’s my fault.
“Oh, really? Because my head feels great,” I snap. “Thanks for asking.”
He turns to me, blinking like he forgot I’m here. I do get a small rush of satisfaction when his cheeks redden and his look turns sheepish.
“It looks like you have a bump forming,” he says, eyebrows furrowing as he leans in to look at my forehead. “You should probably ice that,” he adds matter-of-factly, sitting up straight again. He gives a small, definitive nod like he’s just solved all my problems and turns back to the window.