“Well, I couldn’t find an exact age ... I couldn’t find much of anything, really. Riley?” Jena’s voice softened on my name, and I felt her hand lighten, the woman probably peering over me like a hungry bird to a worm. I let out a deep sigh that closely resembled a snore and hoped this conversation would end soon.
“Ms. Crawford, we’re up next for takeoff, please buckle.” I peeked out of the bottom of my eyelids at the pilot who glared at Jena as if she would actually listen. Shockingly, I felt my seat snap back into place as she huffed into her seat, the click of her belt reassuring me of at least a brief interlude of peace.
Minutes later, the plane vibrating with the force of our departure, we were airborne, and everyone’s conversations moved to other gossip. I kept my eyes closed, my mouth slightly ajar, and faked sleep until the moment we landed.
I didn’t know what to think about the man, his number, or our night. But I did—as I sat in my car in the airport parking lot, the radio gently playing, the girls leaving one-by-one from either side of me—pull out my phone and send a text message to the number on the paper.
We made it safely. I’m home now.
I hesitated before pressing SEND, not sure what else to say. I felt as if I should thank him … but for what? We had sex. Slept some. Screwed some more. He gave me breakfast. I ran out. Maybe I should thank him for breakfast. I typed the words, then deleted them, my cursor making a hurried backtrack over the letters. I pressed SEND before I could think about it anymore, then tossed my phone into the passenger seat and drove home. Halfway there, at a four-way stop in the middle of cornfields, I picked it back up. Read his response.
Sleep well beautiful. My bed feels empty.
My bed feels empty? What a random ass thing to say. I stared at the text. Random ass and impossible to respond to. I rolled down the window and had the strong urge to chuck the phone as far into the dried stalks as it would go. The other half of me wanted to preserve the screen under glass forever. I was a complete head case. I thought having sex would clear out the cobwebs and help me think. Instead, I couldn’t function, my brain and thought process tied into knots that spelled out Brett.
I rolled up the window, turned off the damn phone, and swore I’d stop thinking of him for the rest of the night. It wouldn’t lead to anything, I knew it. Maybe one more trip, one more stab to my heart before he disappeared forever. Nothing to get excited or vulnerable about. I was me and he was him and he’d forget about me by Monday. It had been a fun weekend but I’d probably never hear from him again.
“You don’t get to tell me to stop. I am the only one with that power. The only thing I will grant you is the ability to ask for more. To beg.”
“I will never beg for you. Not in the way you are asking.”
“Oh ... Kitten. You have no idea.”
“Don’t call me that.”
In the cell, there were no books, no television. I had a stack of blank journals, nothing else. During my first few weeks I wrote in them. Once I realized that he read them, flipped through my pages, copied excerpts into his book, I stopped. I could hold onto my memories and thoughts without giving him a front-row seat to my truths. Instead, I used the pages to draw, to illustrate pieces of my past life that would make sense to only me. My sketches started out rudimentary, crude doodles of my friends, parents, a flower I grew once in a kitchen pot. But, with unlimited time devoted to my new hobby, I improved. Grew more detailed. More lifelike. Once, I earned a pack of colored pencils, so the sketches began to contain bits of greens and yellows, blues and pinks. I tried to ration them, too proud to ask for more.
Occasionally, if a sketch was particularly good, I destroyed it. Ripped off a piece at a time, letting the bits collect in a pile before I scooped them into my hand and let them flutter into the toilet. Flushed and watched the colorful fragments of evidence swirl away. It was a self-protective measure, verification that I was not placing too much happiness, too much identity in those pages. The more I cared, the sharper the edge of the item, the bigger the weapon I handed over for him to hurt me. In that room, in that environment, he was eager for shards, pieces of my heart to poke at and record the reaction.
It was why I flushed the paper.
It was why I never mentioned Brett to him.
I was at my desk, a collection of client files stretched out before me, when my cell buzzed.
Hey beautiful.
I picked it up. Stared at the words, then moved hesitant thumbs.
hey
I had a great time this weekend.
Agreed. Thanks for...
I bit my lip, my fingers hovering over the keypad. Thanks for what? The smoking hot sex? The resetting of my prude-o-meter? The reminder of everything my current life is missing? I deleted the words.
Agreed.
I pressed send and watched the curtest response ever sail off into cyberspace.
When can I see you again?
just stop
what?
It was fun, but we live a thousand miles apart. It won’t work.
my map search says it’s 410 miles
My lip bite became less about indecision and more about holding back my smile. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the desk before I made a stupid decision and sent a text that would get me further into trouble. That was him. Trouble. I rolled forward and picked up my office phone. Dialed a number and waited for Mitzi to answer. Ignored the text alert buzz of my cell and swore to myself that I wouldn’t touch it. Not for — I glanced at the clock — at least fifteen minutes.
“Hey,” Mitzi’s snap into the phone interrupted my reach for my cell.
“Hey. Talk me off this ledge.”
“I assume this ledge you speak of is Island Boy?” In the background there was the clatter of pots and the shrill scream of a child. “Shit. Just a second.” I heard her scream, threats were made, and then she was back, not even a little breathless.
“Yeah, that ledge.” I spun a pen on my desk.
“Jump, woman. Jump with both feet and arms outstretched and pretty-fucking-please take me with you when you fall.” The smile in her words didn’t belie the truth I heard in the request.
“It’s stupid.” I started the debate we’d already had three times since Monday night.
“Who cares?” That was the issue. My arguments had merit, and hers were that of a fourth-grade shouting match.
“We live too far away.”
“So?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Yet. But you can.”
“You suck at this.”
“I’m not gonna stand in the way of what could be true love.”
My next spin was a little too aggressive, and the Bic shot toward the edge of the desk. There was a rap on the glass of my wall and I looked up, raising my eyebrows when I saw what was there. “Mitzi, I’m getting flowers.”
“Bitch, God is smacking you on the damn forehead. Jump.”
I heard the click on her end and slowly hung up the receiver, gesturing in a kid, one who looked barely out of high school. I stood, watching warily as he carefully set the vase down, the entire arrangement tipping slightly before it found solid footing. “Thanks.”
“No problem, ma’am. They sure are big.”
I nodded, reaching out and snagging the card, the boy’s eyes following. I set it on my desk, my hand covering it. “Thanks.” I repeated the sentiment, and he finally turned, nodding to me with a smile and moving to the door. I tapped the card against the desk before letting out a sigh and flipping it over.
I can’t get you
out of my head.
I stared at the words until they blurred, and I tossed the card down, my butt settling deeper into my chair as I leaned back and looked at the flowers, a huge display of orchids and lilies, a colorful blend that brought me back to the island without even trying. He couldn’t get me out of his head? The feeling was mutual. Then, after a good ten minutes spent analyzing the decision, I picked my phone back up. Skimmed
over his last text.
take a chance.
I took a deep breath, then responded.
I’m free this weekend.
5 months, 3 weeks before
My first passport stamp ever had been for that bachelorette party. And, just a week later, I was getting a second. I flipped my passport closed and tossed the navy book into my bag, zipping closed my suitcase, the contents already over-analyzed at least a dozen times.
“You’ll be fine,” Jena drawled from the kitchen, as she waltzed into my bedroom with two glasses of sweet tea. “Here. Take these. We don’t want you vomiting on Island Boy’s plane.”
“I don’t get airsick,” I responded, my stomach flipping as the words came out. Maybe I could get airsick. I took the pills from her and sat on the edge of the bed. Tossed back the medicine and took a deep sip of tea. Winced. “Did you get this from the fridge?”
“Yeah.”
I grabbed her wrist and stopped her mid-sip. “Don’t drink that. It’s old.”
“Old, Monday? Or old, last month?”
I groaned, took the glass away. “It’s old. I’ll just grab us beers.”
She followed me into the kitchen, glancing at her watch. “Better make ‘em sodas. You’ve got to leave in twenty to make it to the airport on time.”
“Is it too late to cancel?” I dumped out the glasses, then opened the fridge and grabbed two Cokes, tossing one her way.
“I thought Mitzi talked to you about this. She’s the convincer, not me.”
“Which is why I wanted you here. Is this crazy?”
“You running off to a foreign country with a man you barely know? Yes.” Jena cracked open her Coke and held it to her forehead. “It’s hot in here. Did you already turn off the air?”
“Turn on the fan. I’m trying to lower the utility bill. So ... I shouldn’t go?”
She plopped down at my round table, picking through my mail until she found a postcard with enough strength to act as a fan. “It’s crazy, but I didn’t say you shouldn’t go. Go. Live. Hell, one person in this town should do something exciting. I’m saddled with two kids and a husband who hasn’t gone down on me since prom night. I’d kill for two nights in Aruba with a sexy stranger. Just be smart. What’s your dad think?”
I looked away. “Haven’t told him. But I’m sure word’ll reach him by the time I return. If he calls you, let him know you have my hotel info and Brett’s number in case of emergency.”
She groaned. “Great. Put me in the line of fire.”
“You’re the only one who’ll stand up to him. The other girls will hand over the information as soon as he starts yelling.”
She stood. “You know I love you, right?”
I smiled. “I know. Thanks for feeding Miller.”
“Gives me an excuse to escape the kids. Sleep in your bed. Watch your porn.”
I laughed. “You find any, please leave it out for me. Showtime’s the only excitement these walls have seen lately.”
She held out her arms. “Gimme a hug, then get out of here.”
I gripped her tightly. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it.”
***
I climbed onto the plane, a miniature version of Chelsea’s, with propellers instead of jets, with four seats behind the cockpit’s two. Brett crawled in behind me, a cell to his ear, the moment before takeoff stolen as he wrapped up a conversation. I was grateful, unsure what to say, feelings of awkwardness at an all-time high. I’d have to sleep with him, right? The man flew here, picked me up, and was taking me to Aruba? It’d be assumed, especially since our prior encounter had revolved around ripped panties and orgasms and ohmygodIthinkIsuckedhisdick. I looked around for a vomit bag and didn’t see one. Clenched my hands around the handle of my purse and felt the leather bend.
“You okay?” He was off the phone, his hand settling on my shoulder, and I jumped a little at the contact, my gaze tripping to him, his eyes concerned, brows furrowed. God, he was even more beautiful than I remembered. I was a great girl ... but ... I was small-town pretty. Didn’t even own a thong till the bachelorette party. I wore a retainer to bed. Snored. Had the coordination of a giraffe. Barely owned two pairs of socks that matched. Shopped for clothes at Walmart. I didn’t belong on a private plane with this man, whose five o’clock shadow could dominate a magazine cover.
“I’m sorry, Riley. I didn’t realize you were afraid of flying.” He fished under his seat, produced a paper bag. “It seems cliché, but breathe into this. It’ll help.”
Thank God. A flimsy vessel for my throw-up. I grabbed the bag and opened it with shaky hands. Held it over my mouth, breathed deeply, and checked my stomach for queasiness. Yep, still there.
“Do you want to wait? We don’t need to take off. I can run inside, see if there’s a bigger plane I can charter.”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine,” I managed to say, the words muffled a little by the bag. “It’s just nerves.”
When he reached across me, his hands gently searching for, and pulling out, the seatbelt, I inhaled. Got a whiff of his cologne that took me back to last weekend.
I feel the rough prickle of his cheek, wet suction as my right nipple makes its way into his mouth, his soft play of tongue against delicate skin, probing and teasing, a low moan coming out of me when he gently bites the tip of it.
Okay, I could do this. I was a big girl. The edge of his hands brushed against my bare thighs, my sundress pushed up by my seated position. He glanced my way, his breath pausing slightly, and when our gazes met it was all I could do to keep my legs still, to not open them, the final movement of his hands - clenching, then tightening my belt - done with his eyes on mine, our mouths just inches apart, the bag dropping from my hand as I stared at him.
“Thank you for coming this weekend.” He let go of my belt, one hand settling on my bare knee. I felt every finger of that touch, five hot points of contact that seared through my skin and lit a path directly upward.
I swallowed. “Thank you for inviting me.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t acknowledge, just moved his fingers in a slight caress. I inhaled and put my hand on top of his. “Unless you plan on doing something with that hand, please stop. I literally can’t think straight.”
He laughed and his breath smelled like peppermints. “I’m trying to distract you. From the takeoff.”
Oh. We were taking off. I curled my fingers around his hand and he tightened it a little on my knee.
“And.. we’re off.” He tilted his head to the window, and I glanced over, the rumble beneath us quieted. I felt his hand move underneath mine.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I wasn’t scared of flying. The nerves were more about us. This weekend.”
He frowned. “I didn’t mean to pressure you to come.”
I smiled. “It’s a weekend in Aruba. I’ll survive.”
“If it’s the sex that worries you, we don’t have to. You take the lead on that.”
“Okay.” I spoke quickly, before my pacifist side denied the request.
“Good.” He reached back out, squeezed my hand. “You still need the bag?” Reaching down, he plucked the crumpled brown paper off the carpeted floor.
“No, I think I’m good.”
I rolled my hand over, looped my fingers through his, and felt myself begin to relax.
In the hotel lobby, I stared down at my key, the marble floor below framing it in waves of tan, and tried to fit this piece into the puzzle that was Brett. This was my key. He held his, for a different room, and signed the bill, the front desk clerk all but climbing over the counter in her attempts to flirt with him.
When he stepped away, reaching for my hand, I held up the key. “We didn’t have to get separate rooms.”
He stopped, the two of us in the wide expanse of the lobby, the ocean glinting at me behind the glass. “It was presumptuous to assume anything else.”
Presumptuous. I’d be willing to bet I’d never heard a prospective
boyfriend use that word before. I shrugged. “I mean ... we’re adults. We can share a bed without having sex.” God, what an awkward and unnecessary conversation. Why was my mouth still moving? Why didn’t I shut up and stuff the key in my purse like a good girl?
He chuckled. “Let me be a gentleman. Please.”
I shrugged, sticking my key in my purse. Yes, Riley. Let the man be a gentleman. I followed him into the elevator.
Ding.
Ding.
The damn car just had to ding with every floor, a sound that only made the silence between us more obvious. Brett coughed. I played with the leather fringe of my key chain. I should have left my keys at home, or in the glove box of my car. My luck, I’d lose them in Aruba and be screwed. Screwed. I felt an adolescent giggle swell in my throat.
The doors opened. Third floor. I stepped out, he followed, and this awkward carnival moved down the hall. My key card worked, he opened the door, and I stepped inside.
Wow. I’d been expecting a traditional hotel room, but this one had two bathrooms, a sitting area off the bedroom, and a balcony that overlooked the oceanfront pool. I looked down, verified that it was, in fact, my key that had opened the door. If this was my room, I couldn’t imagine his.
“You like it?” Brett stood in the doorway, his own key flipping through his hands.
I nodded with a smile. “Yeah, I like it.”
“The bellman will bring up your bag. How much time do you need before dinner?”
I shrugged. “Five minutes?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Five minutes ... how low maintenance of you.”
“It’s less about that, more about my hunger.”
He laughed at that, tapping his card against his leg. “Okay. In that case, I’ll wait here. Let you change and then we can go.” He pulled out his cell, gestured to the balcony. “I just need to make some calls.”
“Go for it.” Behind him, a bellman appeared, and I waved him in. Watched him set out my bags as Brett stepped to the railing, the glass door closing behind him, his phone out. So identical to last weekend, yet so different. Before, with him outside, I’d had a hundred doubts, had felt out of place and only wanted to escape. Now, I felt similar unease, but it was more over his actions than mine. Why was I being weird about having my own room? He was being polite, a gentleman, giving me my own space, one without pressure or expectations. It was just … our prior meetings had been so passionate and quick, his hands—once we’d entered the room—grabbing me with such need that there’d been no doubt about his desire. This Brett, the one settled in a balcony chair, had such control, such patience. It calmed my nerves, but poked holes in any confidence I’d had in my sexual allure.