To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  I’d never met a slob who was so interesting before, yet he was definitely intriguing. And not really a slob—that was my own bias. Clearly, I was having some sort of psychotic breakdown on this airplane.

  “Editor? Pretty impressive.”

  “Um, I’m not sure how to respond. Do I not look like I could be an editor?”

  My claws were out. It was a bad habit of mine after years of defending my lofty goals and aptitude, a defense mechanism I should have dropped long ago. You’d think that with my lofty goals, I would be happier by now.

  He ran a hand through his black hair. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just you look young enough to be a college student.”

  He had masculine hands, clean nails, and his hair was sort of that messy look, mussed without trying. It suited him and his whole I don’t care about my appearance attitude. I could use a little more of that ’tude.

  I shrugged. “I graduated early and took a job with another virtual rag where I did an internship. Bubble came for me shortly after that. I jumped at it, basically. I’d been working nonstop, round-the-clock, at the internship, and I finally felt like I was getting ahead. Now I like it; just not sure I will love it forever.”

  He nodded, his eyes squinting a little as he took me in, surveying not just my body—he was doing that too—but it felt more like he was trying to really see me. Get me. All of me.

  It was an odd thing to experience after living in New York for eight years where no one truly got anyone. Life was spent treading on the surface—cramps constantly making my proverbial legs ache, trying to remain afloat—where I desperately struggled to remain at the very top, not willing to be the one to dive in. That’s where the bottom-feeders were.

  “So, yeah,” I said. “I’m an editor.”

  Here I was explaining myself to a stranger, talking more about my inner self than I did to my closest friends, and I didn’t even know his name. Janie would flip if she saw what I was up to, especially with this freak.

  That hateful thought reminded me of my earlier text, and shame coated every cell in my body. This guy was nothing but a gentleman, and handsome if I studied him long enough. Not a freak or the Biggest Loser.

  I tried to look away, busy my mind with something else, but his deep voice interrupted my thoughts. It was a tad scratchy, and I had to admit, that was sexy. I wanted to close my eyes and listen to him ask me questions.

  And give him my answers, unfiltered and real—since he meant nothing to me.

  “Sweet. Still, an editor. You should be proud. Wow . . . I’ve been doing my own gig for close to a decade. Before that I was nothing more than a glorified coffee-runner . . . that’s code for intern out west. For a long time, actually, I did that. But I paid my dues and now I work for myself, doing my own thing. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m sorry to say, but not really. Even with this gig.” I used air quotes, which was not like me. I was unsettled, a bit off-kilter around this guy. “I’m still putting my time in and all that. But it’s kind of cool to know there’s an end of the rainbow somewhere. At least, to meet one person who’s done it. I’ve been on the grind for so long, pushing to do everything faster and better than the next person. Was it worth it?”

  I smoothed my hand over Lucy, the universal signal that I had work to do, but I didn’t know if I really wanted him to leave me alone.

  More emotional waves crashed around me. This guy wasn’t all that bad—his voice and eyes and hands and compliments were something new to me. He was compelling me to speak the truth, to utter out loud the things that kept me awake at night. A small part of me wanted to get lost in him and whatever he was all about.

  When a bout of turbulence rocked the cabin, knocking me into the dude, I was certain it was God’s way of punishing me for my bitchiness.

  “You okay?” He beat me to the punch before I had a chance to apologize for elbowing him in the ribs.

  I nodded and took him in, surveying him longer than I should have. He wasn’t so slobby. In fact, this guy looked quite organized to me. Simply put—he was overweight. Fat. Big.

  And kind and endearing.

  “I’m doing the music for the film. The sound track,” he offered without being asked, his green headphones now completely off his ears and hanging around his neck, tinny sounds screaming from them.

  I nodded again, unable to figure out why he kept talking to me. Couldn’t he see how obnoxious I was? I was sure he could see through my snobbery.

  “Like Jack Black in The Holiday,” he explained. “Not just the jingles that go along with some of the scenes but all the music, song selection and sound effects, chats with music producers.” He stopped short and gave me a wry grin. “I don’t know why I’m talking like I’m at an interview. I do a lot, and I love what I do. It’s kind of my dream.”

  “Nice,” I finally answered. He wasn’t goofy-looking like Jack. Actually, his face was a bit more defined and handsome, and his eyes were the kindest I’d ever seen. I could get lost inside them for a lifetime . . . Well, if the rest of the whole package was right for me.

  “So, you’re going home? New York?” he asked, peppering me with questions once again. We’d been chatting so long, my laptop winked out, going to sleep.

  “Home for me. Now, anyway. Originally, I’m from here . . . or Chicago where we took off from.”

  “Got it. Family stuff?”

  “Funeral. My grandmother.” Why am I even answering this dude?

  “Sorry to hear. I actually live in LA, but I couldn’t get a direct flight to New York.”

  I was tempted to say, “I didn’t ask,” like I normally would to cut someone off. But for some reason, this guy was winning me over.

  “It’s spring break. I had a hard time getting a decent flight too,” I said instead.

  “I’m Layton, by the way.”

  Layton? Was this guy for real? Was he a soap opera star who got cut and ended up nearly eating himself to death?

  There I went again with the bitchiness.

  I looked up at his eyes and all my mean thoughts slipped away. I wanted to be rude, but there was something about this guy.

  “Charli,” I said. “It’s Charleston, really, but who names their daughter after a city in South Carolina?”

  Layton continued to focus his award-winning smile on me, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contained laughter. “Really?”

  I nodded and ran my hand over the top of my laptop, finally closing the screen. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any work done on the flight.

  “Yep. My dad was in a band and their last gig was in Charleston, where he met my mom. She was there for some spring break thing with her roommate—they were professional groupies, made a life out of traveling and spring breaking, chasing down indie bands. They’d gone to some bar and the rest is history. It was a last hurrah for my dad, anyway. He was heading out to Chicago to shackle himself to a job in the hospitality industry.”

  “Wow.” Layton turned a bit more in his seat, as much as his width would allow him to do. “Did he ever play music again?” He tilted his head and put all his focus on me.

  “He used to tinker around with it when I was little, but not really play-play after that night. He’d gone to Cornell Hotel School . . . it’s a pretty big deal. He was a pretty big deal, I guess. Dad was a force of his own, and he was determined to skip working in the boonies at some motel. He went straight to the five-star places, the four-diamond establishments, and landed a job. I guess he straddled me with his need to be the best, and then he died. My mom stayed the course after he was gone, pushing me to do what he would have wanted.”

  Here I was again, spilling everything to the guy seated next to me on an airplane. A man named Layton who looked nothing like the alpha suits I met in the city, but was growing on me.

  “Want another?” Layton pointed at the empty champagne flute in my hand, the one I hadn’t noticed I was still holding.

  “Sure.”

  He pressed the button f
or Ms. Perky, and she appeared with a notepad in hand.

  “Two more.” Layton pointed at my barren glass and added, “Whatever she was having and a merrrry . . . me—” A sudden jolt shook us in our seats, and then he finished, “Mary for me, of course.”

  The turbulence jolted me back to reality, or maybe it was the last part of what he said. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but it was a dose of reality either way.

  “Merry me?” Confused, I repeated what I’d heard, emphasizing the rolling r’s.

  “Mary, as in Bloody Mary,” he said, correcting me.

  “Oh, ugh. I’m so tired. I heard merry me and I thought you meant . . . I don’t know . . . me or something. Never mind.” I let out a nervous giggle.

  What was happening to me? It was as if cheerleaders had taken over my mind and body like the aliens did in that one movie.

  “Merry as in this is the best plane ride I’ve had in a long time? Absolutely, it is. And I may have been insinuating my being very lucky to have a cocktail with you, but no marriage necessary.”

  He set his hand lightly on my arm, capturing my attention and sending spirals of friction through my sleeve, and my eyes widened.

  “Oh,” he said quickly. “This was a merry moment until a second ago. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  A blush swept up my neck, thankfully hidden by my turtleneck. This was all getting to be too much . . . the want, need, and disgust all rolled up in one big wad of no thank you. I didn’t do emotions like this. I was practical, matter-of-fact, lived my life in absolutes. Black and white was always more comfortable for me.

  At the end of the day, that was why I was an editor. I lived by the rules—in life, work, friendships, and relationships. There were certain dictates to live by and I followed them. Never mind that I didn’t know who the hell came up with those rules; I still followed them like they were a doctrine.

  “Don’t answer,” he said kindly, letting me off the hook. “I am lucky. Anybody would be lucky sitting next to you. So what if we’re stuck sitting next to each other on a plane? I’m still lucky.”

  My cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s cool, Charli, New York’s a big place. When we get off this flying piece of metal, you never have to see me again.”

  I didn’t respond. The words got all tangled up in my vocal cords, and shame covered me like snow falling on the skating rink at Rockefeller Center.

  “Here you go.” The attendant set our drinks down in front of us.

  Not knowing what else to say, I went back to Lucy, and Layton returned his gaze to Katie What’s-her-name and her big happy-go-lucky smile.

  Two Days Later

  I handed the woman at the gate my ticket and headed down the Jetway to the airplane that would take me back to LA. Seven o’clock in the morning felt like the middle of the night to me since I hadn’t adjusted to East Coast time. I cursed myself for not grabbing a decent cup of coffee and for not waiting to take a later flight. Maybe I would have been able to get a first-class seat on it.

  Finally, I stepped onto the plane and shuffled to my row. To make matters worse, I was in a middle seat. Locating 14B, I shoved my bag in the overhead bin and said, “Excuse me,” to the slim grandmotherly woman already seated in the aisle seat.

  “Of course,” she said, and smiled as she stood to let me through.

  Unfortunately, the dude in 14A didn’t look as nice or as happy.

  I couldn’t help but think of Charli and her initial reaction to sitting next to me. Quickly shoving thoughts of the mysterious attractive woman to the back of my mind, I wedged myself into the middle seat.

  Of course, the fucking cowhand in the window seat piped up, wearing a smug look along with his tight jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy hat, and boots.

  “We thought we were gonna get some skinny New Yorker here,” he drawled. “No such luck.”

  I refused to hang my head in shame. I was a good person, as good as anyone. I’d always been stocky, and my mom’s cooking didn’t help. At that thought, I made a mental note to visit my parents in the nursing home.

  Their being older than my friends’ parents didn’t help either. Mom and Dad didn’t do all the active stuff other parents did with their kids. Instead, we enjoyed family movie night with popcorn and candy. It’s probably why I went into the movie business like I did.

  “You got it, my man. No such luck,” I said to the cowboy, keeping my tone light.

  I was used to pricks like him. Been dealing with them since puberty, when some kids lost their baby fat and others didn’t. I did have a few years in college where I’d slimmed down due to playing a lot of ultimate Frisbee on the lawn with my roommates and hitting the weight room. But after graduation I moved out on my own, and frankly, I ate when I was bored or lonely.

  And even when I wasn’t. The fact was, I enjoyed food. It reminded me of home.

  I buckled up and pulled out my phone to check my messages. Look at that . . . I don’t even need the seat-belt expander. So take that, asshole.

  “What’d you do? Eat the island of Manhattan?” my seatmate said with a mean-spirited chuckle.

  This asshole wasn’t going to let it go.

  Neither was I.

  “Excuse me, I have to grab something from my bag,” I said to the grandmother next to me, who unbuckled her seat belt and stood in the aisle with an embarrassed smile on her face as I grabbed my headphones and laptop.

  What with the close quarters, I hadn’t planned on working, but this guy warranted my headphones. I squeezed back in my seat, Grandma sat back down, and Cowboy muttered another grumble. I opened my laptop on my lap, plugged in, and set about ignoring my flying partner.

  For a second, I thought about making some changes to myself. I could go to Weight Watchers or some shit, but why? At home I had friends, women, and coworkers who didn’t dismiss me.

  Only two people had done that recently. The second one, I couldn’t give two shits about. But the first one mattered. I’d gone and hurt her, although unintentionally, so maybe I deserved the tiny bit of shame Charli had made me feel when she first stepped on the plane.

  It was exhilarating to watch her come alive in front of me, let go of her preconceived notions for a moment and talk to me like a real person, even sharing her inner thoughts with me. I’d wanted to reach out and brush back the small wisps of hair that had worked their way free from her bun and tell her to follow her dreams.

  But I didn’t. Instead I’d gone and made a mess of it.

  I felt a jab in my shoulder and looked toward the culprit, reluctantly pushing back one of my earphones so I could hear his nonsense.

  “If you’re gonna sit there and watch that gay-love shit,” he growled out, “I’m getting off the plane.”

  Confused for a second, I looked back to my screen. On it was a scene from an old movie I’d worked on . . . two men having a tense romantic stare-down in a club. Mushroom jazz blared in the background as their eyes warred with each other. It had recently been nominated for an MTV award, so I was re-watching it.

  “Shut the fuck up, dude,” was all I responded and went back to the screen.

  I’d had enough of him.

  Sadly, I didn’t get enough of Charli.

  One Week Later

  I pushed through the revolving door, rain dripping off my jacket as I made my way into the Royal Hotel. Shaking my hair out, I took in the obnoxious grand lobby, all marble and brass, but this was where Janie worked. Despite its staid atmosphere, the Royal seemed to be the place to meet people lately, although I never met anyone worth meeting.

  “Hey there, Char.” Craig the bartender greeted me as I grabbed a stool at the bar. “The usual?”

  “Hey there, and yes, please.”

  He poured a generous amount of red wine and set the glass in front of me. I heard Janie before I saw her—her loud heels clicking the floor.

  “Hiya, girl!” Janie bent down from her gargantuan five-foot-eleven frame, her j
et-black hair cascading over her shoulder, and kissed my cheek.

  “Hey, J-babe.” I pinched her cheek and she swatted my hand away.

  “Don’t touch! My makeup is perfect; had it done today in the gift shop.”

  “It does look good, love the eyeliner. Is it glittery?”

  “You know it!” Janie batted her long eyelashes at me, her glossy red lips forming a perfect smile.

  Craig set a vodka gimlet in front of Janie, and she tossed him an air kiss and an exaggerated wink.

  That was Janie, all kisses and hugs and PDA, no matter who it was. Her last boyfriend couldn’t deal with all the attention bestowed upon him, let alone everyone else she knew. Now she was single and doing a bang-up job of feeling up every man she met . . . up and down. I was surprised she didn’t hurl her Bond-girl body over the bar and into Craig’s arms.

  “Fab haircut, Charleston.”

  I rolled my eyes at the mention of my formal name.

  “Love it. It’s so chic and in, whatever.” She ran her fingers through the ends of my dark blond hair.

  “It’s just a few long layers, but yeah, it does feel better. Lighter. Who knows if I’ll be able to style it by myself.” I took a sip of my wine, the burgundy liquid warming my belly. “And I got stuck in the rain, trying to get a cab, so it probably resembles a rat right now.”

  “It’s got this whole ratty-yet-seductive Selena Gomez thing going on,” Janie said. “But not dark, of course. It’s good. The color is perfect, blond honey and chestnut. Blech, I hate that it’s natural, you bitch.” She whispered the last part, still twisting her fingers in my hair. “You know what? You should hook up tonight!”

  Unfortunately, that part she didn’t whisper. She always went straight to the hook-up thing.

  Always.

  But it had to be hooking up with the right guy. The Wall Street one or the surgeon from the Upper East Side or the guy we knew in college who invented a million widgets. I didn’t know who or what the hell I wanted, yet I continued to buy into Janie’s mindset.

  Did I even deserve anyone like that? How could I be worthy of someone? Would someone feel worthy of supporting me in what I really wanted to do?