Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “It wouldn’t be a burden. It would actually be nice to have company and you’ve got to eat. You do eat, right?”

  “Yes, I most definitely eat. But, I’ll be working late,” she tells me.

  “A drink then. I’ll meet you in the hotel bar so it’s more convenient for you,” I decide as if she has no choice. Her expression becomes unreadable before the corners of her mouth slowly pull down in disapproval. Shit, I went too far. Why didn’t I wait until we landed so she had less time to think it through?

  She leans towards me and looks me over in a way that makes me instantly hard. Then, she whispers, “If anyone told you that you were smooth, they were lying.” Christ, she’s sexy when she’s calling me out.

  “Oh, I’m plenty smooth,” I counter and lean forward as well. “When I’m trying. I was simply extending you an invitation to dinner.”

  “Really? That’s all you were extending?” she asks incredulously.

  “It’s rather presumptuous of you to think I’d be extending anything else when we’ve only just met.”

  My tone is measured, making my words believable. To anyone looking at me I know I’d come across as indifferent. But on the inside I’m a mess. My attraction to her is unnerving and the sexual tension between us is mounting. I was hoping that I’ve convinced her I’m innocent but unfortunately she’s rolled her eyes at me for the hundredth time.

  “Is that a nervous twitch you have or is there something in your eyes? I’ve noticed it a few times and I’m starting to get concerned.” It’s like a natural reaction. She starts to do it again but catches herself and groans with annoyance. She’s right, though. I’m not smooth. With her I have no game. I can’t remember the last time I needed game. This may be a first.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your girlfriend or fiancé….or do you have both?” she asks.

  “What makes you think I have either?” I’m honestly curious for her answer.

  “Just a hunch,” she smirks.

  “I can’t wait to hear this. Let’s have it,” I demand.

  “Someone who makes a pass at a woman they just met, a woman who’s wearing a wedding ring, likely isn’t someone who spends many evenings alone,” she explains with a raised eyebrow, and I guess in a way it makes sense.

  “Well, you’re wrong. I don’t have either,” I say triumphantly, not even bothering to deny her accusations.

  She continues to probe so eventually I give her a high-level overview of how a bad breakup led me down a non-committal path. This is not my typical scenario and I find I’m having difficulty delivering my usual lines. I feel off and wonder if it’s because I’m sober. Regardless, I’m very aware of how ridiculous I appear.

  “That sounds like an excuse to get into women’s pants, you know. Not to mention rehearsed,” she says, mildly appalled. How convenient that she’s the first woman to have a reaction other than getting naked.

  “Maybe I’m the one being used.” It sounds egotistical but there is truth to this statement. The women I sleep with are on a mission to screw someone famous, which of course I know and go along with. In my opinion it’s no harm, no foul.

  “Oh, please! I’m sure the using is mutual. And if you truly believe that you’re a victim then I’ve given you more credit than you deserve,” she states.

  “Sounds like you have me all figured out.” Getting cocky wasn’t a wise choice and now I’m fairly certain I’ve blown whatever chance I had. I try to hide that fact that I’m a little wounded without coming across as manipulative. Apparently, I’ve failed.

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t judge. I’ve heard that tons of lasting relationships have been made with complete strangers while intoxicated and horny,” she facetiously agrees.

  I laugh half-heartedly, tilting my head to the side and gazing towards her wedding ring. “Yeah, I bet that’s how you met your husband. Besides, have you considered that I don’t want a relationship?”

  She shakes her head at me and mutters, “Clearly”.

  “How long have you been married?” I ask, wanting the attention off of me.

  “Almost ten years,” she says, fidgeting with her hands. She seems nervous. Perhaps she’s not as happily married as she’s implied.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, why?” she replies, surprised.

  “That’s a long time. You don’t look old enough to have been married that long.” This gets me a smile…and another eye roll.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t meet on a plane, so how did you meet?” I question, despite not really wanting to know these details. For some reason the thought of her with another man bothers me.

  Breanne looks away and for a long minute she’s completely quiet. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the headrest. I’m puzzled by her sudden mood change, not sure what to say, when finally she speaks.

  “We met at work. I had recently graduated from Northeastern and was working at the same venture capital firm as Mark was. For nearly three years we worked on the same team before he made his move,” she fondly recalls. “The firm had just secured a huge deal and our team went out to dinner in the North End to celebrate. Mark had been at the firm for years and was so intelligent it was intimidating. I’d always thought he was incredibly charismatic and successful and handsome. But he was also nine years my senior, so I never thought he’d be interested in me,” she confesses.

  I can’t be certain of her age, but I’m confident she’s older than me. And based on the gap in age with her husband it appears that age is not an issue for her. Maybe for a night she’d want someone younger to change it up a bit. This is good, I tell myself. All is not lost.

  She continues, “after dinner he walked me to my car and said he’d like to have dinner again, but with just the two of us. A few days later, when we did go on a date, he confessed that he’d been waiting years for that night. We became inseparable and got married less than a year later.”

  “It took him three years to ask you out?” I blurt out, and it’s not so much of a question as it is an unintentional implication on her husband’s manhood.

  “Some things shouldn’t be rushed,” she defends.

  “Are you serious? Think of how much time was wasted! I can confidently say that if I knew I wanted to be with someone, it wouldn’t take me three years to work up the courage to do something about it,” I avow.

  “That’s a pretty bold statement, Drew. How would you know anyway?” she snaps, and I’m immediately turned on. It’s the wrong reaction and I need to shut this down before I do or say something else stupid.

  I rise to a stand, slightly hunched due to the overhead compartment that doesn’t accommodate my 6’3” frame. I place my arms on either side of her headrest. She swallows hard and reflexively shrinks down slightly as I lean over her, reducing the space between us to inches. She’s looking up at me through her lashes and bites her lip. I lick mine and note that she’s now staring at my mouth, which is hungry to be on hers. I lean slightly closer and squeeze her headrest. God, I want her!

  “Trust me. I know,” I practically growl, emphasizing the present tense, before walking past her and continuing on towards the bathroom.

  I latch the lock on the door and turn to view myself in the mirror. What the fuck was that? I turn on the faucet and splash my face with cold water. As I dry off my face with a paper towel I stare at nothing in particular and contemplate the reaction I had, and the one that played out in my mind. All I can say about the latter is that I had to grab her headrest to stop myself from taking her face in my hands and crushing into those irresistible lips. If we were anywhere besides a plane I would have pinned her up against a wall with my body by now. What the hell is she doing to me? And did I just admit to her that I want her?

  The charge I get from being close to her is unnerving. It’s more than attraction, though based on the tent in my pants that’s obviously present too. I’m just not sure what else it is. It’s ridiculous, but hearing her talk about her husband actua
lly made me jealous. I do not get jealous. It’s crazy and makes no sense, but I can’t deny that’s how I felt, or rather, how I feel. While I am turned on by our banter, the thought of her acting this way with someone else makes me want to punch something or someone. It’s odd because I’m a laid back guy and she’s not even mine. Maybe if she were mine she wouldn’t feel the need to flirt with strangers. She doesn’t feel like a stranger though. Wait…mine? Did I really think that? Her husband must be an idiot or he’s not giving it to her right.

  I release a heavy sigh and link my hands on top of my head. Get a grip and think this through, I tell myself. She’s hot. She’s fun to talk to, which is new. She seems really smart. And she’s married with kids. Minor detail…right? Fuck, I want her, but what am I doing here? I wanted a change but this is…I don’t know what. I don’t want to be a home wrecker, yet I don’t think I can walk away. I don’t want to. It’s like I need her. Whatever it is I’m experiencing, I’m going to blow it if I don’t get my act together. We have a few more hours on the plane together, and I’ll convince her to have dinner. Then maybe I’ll get to see that hourglass up close and get this feeling out of my system.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. The majority of my brain tells me that this is a bad idea. She doesn’t seem like the unfaithful type which presents more of a challenge for me, and unfortunately for her, makes her more enticing. I’m not self-centered in thinking that I always get what I want. No woman has ever said no to me…literally. I try to convince myself that by sleeping with me she won’t be ruining her marriage or life…maybe an affair would even make both of those things better. A trace of guilt surfaces to the top of my conscious, followed by fear. What if she regretted it…regretted me? Shit, I don’t want that. I want her to physically and mentally remember every detail and think about it often. I’m definitely going to hell. Maybe I shouldn’t pursue this. Christ…who am I kidding? My mind is made up. I can’t help myself. I need to have her at least once.

  On the way back to my seat I’m still wondering why I’m having such inner turmoil over a woman I just met when a jolt of turbulence throws me off balance, causing me to brace myself between two chairs. I regain my footing and continue the few steps to my row when the pilot announces that we’ve hit a shifting weather pattern causing turbulence, which will get stronger and he’s not sure how long it will last. He instructs all passengers to return their seats to their upright, forward-facing position and secure seat belts.

  I slide past Breanne and quickly do as instructed before I steal a glance in her direction. I’m about to ask if she missed me but she looks concerned and is tightly grasping her armrest. The instability felt earlier was minor compared to the dramatic blows thrusting the plane now. Thank God I got back to my seat when I did. The force and duration of each jarring movement could have easily slammed me into the wall or ceiling and knocked me unconscious.

  I give Breanne a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, revealing I’m experiencing the same level of concern as she is. I’ve flown thousands of times and have dealt with turbulence on nearly all of them; it’s almost expected. But this is different. This is bad.

  With the pit of my stomach rising to my throat, I look at the map on Breanne’s screen. It just showed the plane hovering over a stretch of forest in Ohio. Quickly, the view changed to the aerial view, which portrays treetops, and in disbelief, I watch them disintegrate into blue sky. I suddenly feel like I’ve reached the peak on a roller coaster about to descend.

  Holy shit! We’re going down!

  “What the fuck!” I scream through gritted teeth.

  I look out the window and then at Breanne who is white-knuckled and biting her lip in sheer terror. I grab her hand in an attempt to comfort us both and become acutely aware of the shrieking screams echoing throughout the cabin. Passengers that could very well be strangers are holding on to each other for dear life. The bodies of an unlucky few that did not get their seatbelts on and lost their hold flew backwards as if being sucked by a vacuum, making thudding noise as they strike overhead compartments, chairs and other objects along their way.

  Painful pressure fills my ears and I swallow hard several times to alleviate it, knowing full well that is the least of my worries. I want to move but the velocity at which we are falling has me pinned to the back of my chair. Despite the fact that we are dropping at what feels like hundreds of miles per hour, I feel like I’m watching a movie in slow motion and I can relate to the expression of having an out of body experience. Seconds ago I wanted to get back to my plans for Breanne and now I’m praying for my life.

  The plane decelerates abruptly just as the nose jerks up, but it’s not enough. We are still going down. Threw the torturous cries of fellow travelers, I am aware of thousands of images fast-forwarding in my mind. Some thoughts are of memories and some of unfulfilled dreams. I can’t help feeling gypped by how fucked up this is. The crushing image of my poor parents receiving word of the plane crashing causes pain in my chest; they will be devastated. Just then I feel Breanne grip my hand tighter and I realize the loss felt by her kids will be so much worse. I watch her body convulse in abrupt movements and tears roll down her face as she cries soundlessly.

  Fuck. This is really happening. We’re going to die.

  The sound of metal unlocking gets my attention and without warning our chairs whip in a 180-degree angle to face us backwards. This breaks my grasp on Breanne’s hand and I see the oxygen masks deploy; or, at least they should.

  Above our seats the compartment that stores the oxygen masks is open and I realize ours are tangled together. I look around and see that everyone else is putting on their masks or helping a neighbor. Simultaneously, Breanne and I attempt to free ourselves from the harness style seatbelts to no avail.

  “They’re locked!” she shouts and I briefly recall part of the safety overview indicating this would happen and that they’d unlock once the plane stopped or regained control. I give her a nod, confirming mine is locked as well and wiggle to get free. The damn thing is so tight I can barely get an arm free, but I finally do.

  I reach for the lone tube hanging down that has entangled our oxygen masks. One-handed, I start pulling and maneuvering my fingers to untangle the mess, all the while wondering what good oxygen will do when we are seconds away from colliding with the earth.

  “Drew!” Breanne screams, caution laced in her voice.

  “What?” I ask while continuing to unravel the jumbled tubes.

  “Stop! Stop!” she exclaims just as I’ve finished.

  I slump back into my seat and pull the oxygen mask towards my face. Before I know it, her hand is covering my mouth, blocking me from putting on the mask. Panicked and angry, I snap my head in her direction.

  “What do you think you’re...doing?” I say, barely getting out the last word.

  While turning my gaze toward her I notice the passengers in the adjacent row slumped lifelessly in their seats. In my determination to get our oxygen masks untangled I hadn’t noticed the silence that replaced the screams. What the hell?!

  Still holding my mouth Breanne speaks. “Don’t put that on. Look around. It’s everyone, not just them.”

  I do as she says and push myself up just enough to see everyone in first class in the same motionless position. A sea of collapsed bodies. My mouth opens to speak but no words follow. I feel the blood drain from my face and turn to stare blankly into her eyes only to find her struggling to reach across the aisle.

  “What are you doing?” I ask grabbing her arm to pull her back.

  “I want to check his pulse,” she explains, while unsuccessfully reaching for her other neighbor.

  The drill-like squeal of the airplanes wheels being lowered causes her to sit up. Bewildered, I look out the window and see we are quickly approaching the ground and the plane has leveled off. I take her hand once again and give her a reassuring squeeze, unable to contemplate what is going on around us. The sensation of being in a speeding car attempting
to stop overcomes my body with the thunderous roar of deceleration, causing us to jerk backwards stiffly.