by Gia Riley
Adorable.
What’s wrong with me?
I literally just ended it with Shannon a couple of hours ago. I should be mourning the fact that my girlfriend tanked my career, not mentally commenting on this chick’s looks. But let’s face it; my heart wasn’t ripped out of my chest when it was time to say good-bye to Shannon. I felt next to nothing, maybe a little relief. That’s how I know I had no business being in a relationship with her in the first place.
Blondie’s words finally find their way to my brain, and when I stand up to let her into her seat, she sucks in a deep breath. I easily tower over her by a foot.
“You wanted to sit down, right?” I question as she chews on her lip and blinks her long lashes.
At least her lashes aren’t fake, like Shannon’s were. I always hated when she ripped them off before she climbed into bed. It was like she was leaving two fuzzy caterpillars on the nightstand.
“Right,” she says. “Sitting down is good.”
Once she’s in her seat, I take mine. As I’m fastening my seat belt, I glance out of the corner of my eye, wondering why she’s fastened and refastened her belt three times. Each time it clicks into place, she wiggles around and then starts over, brushing her knuckles against the side of my thigh.
When she starts over again, I can’t take it anymore and ask, “Is something wrong with your belt?”
She looks up at me from beneath her lashes and blows a stray piece of hair out of her eye. Damn, she has gorgeous blue eyes.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she says in a rush.
But she’s not fine. She might have stopped messing with the seat belt, but she’s moved on to the window shade, opening and closing it three times. I’m noticing a pattern here, but I let her do her thing.
Next, she presses her nose up against the glass, fogging it up with her breath. Once the glass is covered in a white haze, she wipes a circle with her fist, seemingly satisfied after it disappears.
Her next movement is so unexpected that I jump when she reaches to the floor for her purse and pulls out a pack of tissues. No, wait. They’re not tissues. I think they’re Wet Ones.
Turning her head away from me, she rubs it against her nose and then her lips. Though she’s trying to hide it, I still see everything she’s doing because it’s dark outside. I can see her reflection in the window.
She tucks the used Wet One inside her purse and then pulls out a fresh one. This time, she wipes her hands and the seat belt she’s already touched a million times.
“Do you want me to get you some water or something?”
She pauses like a deer in headlights. “Why would I need water?”
“Because you just disinfected your face, and whatever chemicals are on those things have to taste like shit.”
Only now does she realize I saw her, and her cheeks turn a cute shade of pink. “I have some water in my bag. Thank you though.”
“Of course you do,” I mumble.
She might be a little odd, but for some reason, I find her strangely interesting.
Her next fixation is with the emergency instructions tucked into the back of the seat pouch. I’ve never seen anyone pick them up and study them the way she does.
Once she’s absorbed all the information, she places each laminated brochure side by side. They aren’t overlapping, not even a corner, and I have a feeling there’s a reason for that, too.
“You planning on crashing tonight?” I question.
With the widest eyes I’ve ever seen, she grabs the pendant hanging from her necklace and freezes. Her chest rises and falls at an alarming rate as she struggles to swallow.
Shit. I wasn’t trying to scare her.
“Are you okay?”
“I-I have rituals when I fly,” she says. “It’s my least favorite thing to do, so before we take off, I have to get everything just right. And you just cursed everything I’d been trying to prevent from the moment I walked into this airport.”
Rituals?
I love people who think they can play God. If this plane is going down, not even the pilot knows. Regardless of her system, it’s out of her hands.
“Is that why you were sucking face with the window?” I question.
She looks away and continues to play with her necklace. The insanely soft-looking skin beneath it turns pink, like her cheeks. I don’t know why, but the fact that she’s so worked up makes her even cuter.
“I wasn’t making out with the glass,” she tells me.
“Then, what were you doing?”
With a completely straight face, she says, “Checking for cracks.”
It takes all I have not to laugh, but I manage a pretty sincere, “Why?”
Something tells me that, if I don’t ask gently enough, I’ll lose any chance of further conversation. And she has me too intrigued, and I want to talk to her some more.
“Because, if there’s a crack, the pressure will get messed up inside the cabin. Then, it’ll shatter, and I’ll get sucked out of the plane.”
She watches too many movies.
“Is that why you’re cutting your circulation off with the seat belt?”
“Yes. I actually have to pee because it’s pressing on my bladder, but if it’s not tight enough, I could still slip out.” She takes a deep breath and then covers her face with her hands. Though muffled by her fingers, I still hear the groan before she says, “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”
I don’t even try to hold back the laughter this time. It comes out full force, and while it earns me a death stare, she’s smirking the tiniest bit.
“I’d pull you back in, you know.”
“Thank you,” she says. “But I can’t leave my fate to a stranger.”
“What if I were sitting in the emergency exit row? Would you trust me then?”
She shrugs her shoulder and thinks about it for a second. “I’d have to. You’d have taken an oath to help me and everyone else aboard this airplane.”
Maybe she’s not as crazy as I thought because I actually agree with that.
I hold out my hand, hoping a proper introduction will help this girl relax. If not, maybe I can get her drunk. Anything to make her foot stop bouncing the entire flight.
“I’m Wirth, your friendly neighbor who promises to stay awake the entire flight. You know, just in case your window shatters, and I have to grab your ankles before you plummet to your death.”
“God, that’s the worst introduction ever,” she says half-horrified but mostly amused.
I wait for her hand, and when she finally places it in mine, it’s trembling.
“And you are?” I question.
“I’m Chandler. Nervous flyer, generally anxious human, who is scared shitless because you’ve blown my process. We’d better make it to New York.”
“We’ll make it. I’ve been through way too much shit tonight for it to end now.”
My phone vibrates in my lap, and one quick glance shows me five missed calls. Voice mails are piling up, so word must be spreading. By the time we land, my inbox might be full.
“Bad day?” Chandler questions.
“You could say that.”
The flight attendant begins her preflight checklist and gives us a polite smile as she passes by.
“She thinks I’m crazy, doesn’t she?” Chandler whispers as she rests her head against the window. She can’t move very far or get too comfortable, thanks to her super-tight seat belt.
“No. She’s just jealous,” I tell her.
Chandler rolls her eyes and says, “Why would she be jealous of me? I’m afraid to fly, and she clearly loves it. She chose it as a profession.”
“Could be,” I tell her. “Or maybe she’s just jealous you’re so pretty.”
Chandler looks appalled. “Are you hitting on me?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “The whole damsel-in-distress thing is oddly attractive. It’s not my fault.”
“You just said I was pretty,” she reiterates.
> I know what I said. I meant it, too.
“Do you need me to compliment you again, Chandler? Will that make you feel better?”
“You have some nerve,” she says. “Sitting there with your perfect smile like you own the plane.”
“You like my smile?” I tease.
“Oh-my-God,” she says with a strangled groan. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m just messing with you. Relax.”
I’m not sure that word is in her vocabulary, but maybe, by the time we land, she’ll have at least learned the meaning.
“You can move seats you know. I won’t be offended if you don’t want to sit next to the crazy girl.”
“Not a chance. I plan on spending what’s left of my New Year’s Eve with you, Chandler.”
Chandler quickly turns her head to look out the window. At nothing. But she’s smiling as big as I am.
Chandler
I’m used to making an ass out of myself. I’m just not used to doing it in front of a crazy-hot guy. A hot guy who can sing.
I don’t think he has any idea that I know who he is, but I saw Wirth play at one of my favorite bars the night before last. A friend of a friend owns Salty Boots Saloon, so I hung out there a lot, sitting in the shadows in the back where nobody could see me.
Jansen, the owner and sometimes bartender, let me drink all the beer I wanted for free as long as I didn’t drive myself home. It was an easy deal to make because I loved sampling the bar menu choices almost as much as I enjoyed sampling the new talent.
I don’t know what it is about the talent Jansen selects, but when they perform in his saloon, it’s like watching an intimate conversation with their soul.
Wirth had something particularly special, and I’m still envious of the way he transformed onstage. I dream of that kind of metamorphosis while I’m dancing.
For a split second, Wirth looks at me a little funny. I can’t really describe it other than he’s looking past my face and into my eyes. I think he might recognize me from the show, but there’s no way that could be. I have to be imagining it. Our paths never crossed that night, and while I might know his voice intimately, Wirth couldn’t have seen me sitting in the back of the saloon in the darkness.
That’s how I wanted it. I liked being invisible while I drank and listened. There’d been so much pressure to land one of the jobs I’d auditioned for in New York that I felt like I’d been living under a microscope.
I knew I’d danced my ass off, and whether it was good enough to land a job or not, I had given those choreographers everything I had. If they didn’t want me, then I’d be content with what I had in Nashville. Life would go on.
But the production company wants me. During Wirth’s second-to-last song, I got the call I’d been waiting for. And that call is what got me on this airplane on New Year’s Eve—a late-night, last-minute flight that I wasn’t prepared for.
Broadway.
Chandler freaking Holmes is headed to Broadway.
I’ve pinched myself about a hundred times, stunned that I haven’t woken up from a dream. This is real life, and while I’m petrified about moving to a new city, I have to take this leap.
Sure, there were a million reasons to stay in Nashville where I was comfortable, but I was tired of playing it safe. I’ve worked my entire life for a position in a production, and finally, someone is ready to take a chance on me.
I’ve barely slept since that call, and believe it or not, it was actually Wirth’s voice that calmed me down enough to get a little bit of sleep. That raspy voice of his is like a warm blanket on a cold night.
Now, here I am, sharing a flight with him. Talk about a crazy forty-eight hours.
“You ready?” Wirth asks as the jet engines hit full throttle, and I’m pushed to the back of my seat.
Holding on to both armrests, I complete my last two silent rituals as the wheels rise from the runway, and the nose of the plane cuts through the clouds. A quick glance out the window tells me little. It’s too dark to see just how high we’ve climbed, but the twinkling lights below get smaller and smaller.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for the plane to bank a right turn and then climb to a comfortable cruising altitude. With each rise, fall, and shimmy of the cabin, I dig my nails a little further into the leather.
At some point, Wirth’s hand travels across the invisible line on the armrest, and his thumb brushes over the back of my hand.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. “We’re almost all the way up.”
My body’s stiff and still, but my head turns toward his voice. That voice that somehow manages to calm me. When I finally open my eyes, he’s in the same position, staring back at me.
“I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, but thank you,” I tell him.
His long lashes blink slowly, revealing slightly tired, glassy eyes. Maybe he’s had a few drinks tonight, or maybe he’s just had a shit day like he said, but there’s a story hiding in there. I felt it when he sang, and now that I’m close enough to see all his features, it’s impossible to ignore. Music is only a tiny piece of his puzzle.
“Do you want a drink or something?” he asks.
“Sure. Anything. Preferably alcohol.” I made it through takeoff, but I still have over two hours in the air.
The first flight attendant Wirth sees, he signals for her. A couple of minutes later, two bottles of Jack and two cans of Coke are on his tray table. He says something to her that I can’t decipher, and then she smiles and walks away.
Wirth pours the drinks and then hands me one.
I take a small sip, shivering as the ice nips my lips. “Strong. Just the way I like it.”
He laughs when I quickly take a second sip and then a third.
“I’m guessing you don’t fly often.”
I hold up two fingers. “Second time. The first was actually worse.”
“Really?” he questions.
“Yeah. Pathetic, huh?”
“No. You’re doing fine,” he says as he licks his lips.
I get hung up on that bottom lip of his and the stubble of his beard. He was clean-shaven the last time I saw him, but the whole five-o’clock-shadow thing really works for him.
“You don’t seem fazed,” I tell him. “I guess you travel a lot?”
He shakes his head. “I’m more of a subway and cab guy. I’ve been living in Manhattan for six years, except for the past few months when I was working in Nashville. I haven’t been out of the city much. I like flying though. Up here, there’re no expectations. You’re forced to sit in a seat and not move for a couple of hours. If you don’t get Wi-Fi, you’re completely disconnected and unplugged.”
He lives in the city. My new home.
That little fact makes my stomach flutter. I don’t know why; it’s not like I’ll ever see him. There’re over a million people in Manhattan. I’ll be lucky to pass the same person on the street twice. But I never thought I’d be sitting next to Wirth on a plane either, and that’s happening.
“Why are you smirking?” he questions.
“Nothing. Just some random thought,” I tell him. “But you’re right. The world can’t survive without their phones these days.”
“Watch when we touch down. People can’t pull their phones out of their pockets fast enough. It’s kind of sad. But who am I to judge? We have much busier lives compared to fifty years ago.”
With the mention of his busy life, I suddenly feel like the biggest fraud. “Wirth, I have a confession.”
“Lay it on me,” he says as he downs half his drink.
“I know who you are. I’ve seen you play, and you’re amazing.”
He pauses with his plastic cup still pressed against his lips. After he sets it on his tray table, he takes a deep breath. I wait for annoyance, but instead, he asks, “Are you a groupie, Chandler?”
“No,” I tell him with a laugh. “But I’m sure you have plenty of those.”
He shifts in his seat, and I can’t te
ll if there’s any truth to that statement or not.
He doesn’t give me anything one way or the other, but he shocks me when he says, “I remember you now. You threw a hot-pink bra onstage. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that.”
I snort the most unladylike snort possible. “That wasn’t me! I definitely kept all of my clothes on when I saw you perform.”
“I know,” he teases. “You’re not the type to ask me to sign your chest.”
Good to know.
“Have you done that?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m not that big of a deal.”
“What you do onstage is incredible, Wirth.”
He stares into his empty cup like he’d rather watch the ice melt than listen to me praise him. He must know how good he is.
“Well, I’m glad you caught my set before I hung it up.”
Hung it up?
“You’re joking, right?”
“No,” he whispers. “About three hours ago, I left it all behind and got on this flight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’re the best Jansen’s ever booked. My insides were on fire when I was listening to you. Usually, only dancing does that to me, but I could have listened to you sing all night.”
“I wish everyone had that opinion of me.”
“I bet they do. You just don’t know it.”
Wirth gives me a sad smile, like he knows that’s not the case but wishes it were.
I kind of hate that he’s leaving his dream while I’m heading toward mine. What if I’m him in six months? Heading back to Nashville because I couldn’t make it in the city that never sleeps.
God, that’s depressing.
We sit in silence for a little while, both downing another drink as the minutes tick by. He ends up dozing off, and I keep the drinks flowing to get through the flight.
About an hour later, the pilot announces it’s nearly midnight and that we’ll be landing soon.
The flight attendant comes by with little bottles of champagne for the two of us, like we’re in first class or something. This must be what he asked for earlier.
Not wanting him to miss ringing in the New Year, I gently nudge Wirth’s arm.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes and notices the foil-wrapped bottle in front of him. “How long was I asleep?”
