Page 2

The Oyster Problem

Song : If It Weren’t For The Wind - Ella Langley

“No Oysters today sug, they don’t have a shucker” - Great, just what I needed, an oyster bar with no fucking oysters.

I glanced to my right, my curiosity piqued.

The voice belonged to a man with pale skin, a rough goatee along his jaw, and a military cap adorned with navy pins pulled low over his forehead.

He was short in stature, with glasses on his chiseled nose, and leaning against the bar as if he had all the time in the world.

He caught me staring and grinned, an easy, lopsided kind of smile.

As he got up to use the restroom, I felt his eyes planted on my ass, I relished in it.

When he sat back down I decided to say something to him as the result to find out if he was single or not, the man just exuded big dick energy and what girl doesn’t need that in her life.

“That’s a pretty strong opinion for someone at an airport bar,” I said, raising a brow. He took a slow sip of his Bud Light, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Ain’t my first rodeo with no oysters, sweetheart. Name’s Jonathan, and if you’re sittin’ here alone, I reckon you’re stranded just like me.” I smirked.

“That obvious?” He tipped his bottle toward me.

“Only folks sittin’ here solo are either runnin’ from somethin’, hatin’ their job, or missin’ a flight.”

“Missed flight,” I admitted, as I tapped my perfect double shot old fashioned, the whiskey was warm in my throat but cold on the ice, just what a girl needed right now.

"Well then,” Jonathan said, settling onto the stool beside me, “guess that means we got some time to kill.” And just like that, the layover didn’t seem so bad anymore. Almost immediately, Jon looked at his phone and shot up from his seat.

“Shit! I think my plane is boarding!”

Without thinking, he pulled a few bills from his wallet, dropping them haphazardly onto the bar top, and took off in a blur toward the C Gates.

I sat there, frozen, the disappointment hitting me like a weight in my chest. Just like that, the handsome stranger—this unexpected moment—was gone, swallowed by the airport crowd.

With a sigh, I pulled out my card, sliding it across the bar without even glancing at the total.

I wasn’t in the mood to care. Gathering my bag, I stood, adjusting the strap over my shoulder before heading toward my gate.

Then it hit me. My phone hadn’t buzzed, not once, since I’d been sitting there.

A deep sense of unease crept in as I reached for it, digging through the abyss of my overstuffed purse.

When I finally fished it out, the screen lit up, and my stomach dropped.

6 notifications from American Airlines.

Your gate has changed .

Your gate has changed.

Your gate has changed—again.

Your flight is boarding.

Now boarding C Class.

Shit.

I’d had my phone on silent, as always. I hated people. The 'Do Not Disturb' setting was practically my default, in real life and on my phone. And now, because of that, I was late.

“Goddammit.”

Panic surged through me as I bolted through the terminal, weaving between slow-moving travelers, dodging suitcases, and nearly colliding with an elderly couple debating the overpriced souvenir stand.

My gate was now C42, which, of course, felt like it was in an entirely different zip code.

I was always doing this—running late, barely making it, forever playing catch-up.

Hell, I’d probably be late to my own damn funeral.

By the time I reached the gate, I was breathless, my chest heaving as I waved my boarding pass at the gate agent, who gave me the kind of look reserved for last-minute idiots like myself.

I muttered a half-hearted apology before rushing through the jet bridge, the familiar stale scent of airplane air hitting me as I stepped inside.

Everyone was already seated. Eyes flickered towards me as I made my way down the aisle, my bag smacking against the seats as I passed.

38F. A window seat. My usual choice—tucked away, out of sight, away from people.

And then, as I reached my row, I froze. Jonathan.

That same Southern drawl, that same impossibly wide grin, and those deep, gorgeous dimples.

He was in the aisle seat, looking up at me with amusement dancing in his eyes.

Between us, a beautiful Hispanic woman sat, earbuds in, scrolling through her phone, completely uninterested in the moment unfolding beside her. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt .

“Looks like fate has a sense of humor,” he murmured.

I sank into my seat, still catching my breath, my pulse racing for more reasons than one. Maybe this flight wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

As I settled into my seat, the man beside me wasted no time striking up a conversation.

His words tumbled out in a fast, nervous stream, and it didn’t take long for me to realize—he wasn’t just chatty.

He was anxious, maybe he was scared of flying, or heights.

Out of instinct and maybe a little kindness, I offered him a CBD gummy.

He didn’t even hesitate—just popped it into his mouth as if I’d handed him a piece of candy he’d been waiting for all day.

I smirked to myself. I see he never got taught the “Never take candy from strangers” lesson in life …

.. Gummies from strangers on airplanes—what could go wrong?

Somewhere between his rambling and mine, I mentioned it was my birthday.

I hadn’t expected much of a reaction, but his eyes lit up as ifhe’d just been handed a mission.

I wasn’t sure if he’d already had a few drinks—, no, I was sure.

I’d seen him at the bar before boarding.

So naturally, he flagged down the flight attendant and tried to order me a birthday drink, completely unaware that the plane hadn’t even left the gate yet.

I bit back a laugh as she politely reminded him we were still parked and couldn’t serve alcohol un til we were airborne.

Outside, the February chill painted frost on the window beside me, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.

And while I watched the ice glint in the low afternoon light, he started up again—rambling about the wind, the weather, the flight delay, possible conspiracies involving air traffic control.

I didn’t have the heart to stop him. Then, out of nowhere, he handed me his phone.

“Put your number in,” he said like it was the most natural thing in the world. And so, I did.

As the engines finally roared to life and the plane began to creep down the runway, something shifted.

The air felt heavier. Or maybe lighter. I couldn’t tell.

All I knew was that I felt it—the moment you meet someone and your gut whispers, Pay attention you stupid bitch, this isn’t the usual asshole you fall for…

I must’ve dozed off for a bit—maybe thirty minutes at most. But when I opened my eyes again, the sky outside was darker, and the man beside me?

Still talking. I smiled to myself. Of course he is, this man never shuts up - my worst nightmare in human form, well they say you attract what you fear, and I fear noise and chatty mc chatty’s.

When I woke back up, my neck slightly stiff from the awkward airplane nap position, the first thing I saw was Jonathan’s face—animated, expressive, mid-story.

“…and then the dog just ran off with the whole turkey leg. Just gone. Like poof—Thanksgiving dinner, ruined.”

I blinked a few times, adjusting to the light and the subtle turbulence bouncing us softly in the air.

“Wait—what?” I murmured, still half-asleep but already smiling. He grinned.

“You fell asleep during the best part, but don’t worry—I’ll recap the entire thing.” Of course, he would, you chatty, fucking man.

This man had an endless stream of stories, each one more ridiculous and oddly charming than the last. And the way he told them—he talked with his hands, with his eyes, with the kind of enthusiasm that made you forget you were strangers.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the kind that bubbled up unexpectedly and left me feeling warm, even in the chill of the airplane cabin.

Somewhere around our second drink, I found myself leaning in a little closer, our hands somewhat touching across the woman between us with every bump in the air.

It was the kind of electricity that doesn’t announce itself loudly—it just simmers.

Quiet and steady, like the hum of the plane beneath us.

And maybe it was the altitude or the Jack and Coke’s or the way he looked at me when I told him I loved cold weather, but I started to feel something I wasn’t expecting on a random flight out of North Carolina: Safe. Curious. Interested.

I glanced down at my phone where his number was now saved—Jonathan Idaho—because at that moment, I still didn’t fully believe Idaho Falls was a real place.

“You ever been out West?” he asked.

“Does Vegas count?”

He chuckled. “Sort of. But no. You need to see real stars. Mountains. Silence.”

“Silence sounds nice,” I said.

He looked at me for a second too long.

“Yeah. But not tonight. Tonight you get me instead.”

And just like that, 30,000 feet in the air, I realized this wasn ’ t just a meet-cute. This might be the beginning of something.