Page 4 of The Love Bus

SANDWICHED AND SIMMERING

Had I waited until this morning to pack? Had I had second thoughts? Was I half-hoping I’d “accidentally” miss my flight?

Yes. Yes, to all of that, but here I was anyway.

Ashley had sent me the itinerary the second I—very reluctantly—agreed to go. Just as I’d suspected, it was twelve days of tightly scheduled group travel. Every meal, every hotel, every bathroom break practically timestamped.

We’d be looping from Denver to Las Vegas, stopping at every tourist trap the Southwest had to offer—sometimes two or three in a single day.

Think kitschy Western eateries, cowboy cosplay for retirees, overpriced souvenirs, long bathroom lines, and scenic stops so crowded you'd be lucky to snap a pic without getting photobombed.

This literally was, in fact, the beaten path . Stomped flat and paved over.

Yee-haw and kill me now.

So it made perfect sense for me to ignore the actual details. Was I in a state of denial? Maybe. But it didn’t matter.

My plants were already dead, so I didn’t have to ask anyone to water them. No groceries to give away, because the fridge was empty anyway.

And, of course, without a job, I didn’t need to ask for time off.

Now here I was, running late, knowing Ashley would hate me if I did, in fact, miss my flight.

“Last call for American Airlines Flight 1775 to Denver,” the voice over the intercom said. It was probably just my imagination, but I thought she sounded a little annoyed this time.

The seating area at my gate had mostly cleared out by the time I staggered up to the agent, but I wasn’t the only straggler.

Waiting behind three others, I fumbled for my phone and swiped through emails and messages to find my electronic ticket.

I was still scrolling, looking for it, by the time I reached the front of the short line.

“It’s here somewhere… Come on… Oh, here it is.” I handed it over, and the agent scanned the code with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“Enjoy your flight,” she said, already turning away.

Her casual dismissal caught me off guard.

The only time I’d ventured out of the townhouse since The Incident , to go to the grocery store, three people had stopped me to offer their opinions of the breakup.

One older lady had even chastised me for my behavior that day, as if she had all the right in the world to lecture a perfect stranger just because she’d seen my face on TV. I’d been mortified.

In the anonymity of Logan Airport, there were no double takes, no hesitant smiles, no conspiratorial whispers. Just nice, impersonal interactions with people I’d never see again.

Shoving my phone into the big pocket I’d sewn into my skirt, my shoulders relaxed as I stepped onto the jet bridge, ready to leap, so to speak.

Maybe there was at least one silver lining to going on Mom’s trip.

* * *

For as long as I can remember, summer vacations were always the same. That’s just the way my mom was—routine, predictable, no deviations.

So the week after school let out, without fail, Mom and Dad would load me and Ashley into the car and drive us down to Matunuck Beach—a little coastal community in Rhode Island that, while charming in its own way, always felt like Newport’s scruffier, less-polished cousin.

It had the same salty breeze and sun-bleached clapboards, just with more peeling shutters and weathered storefronts.

But best of all, it was where Gran lived—right on the beach, in a modest little cottage that smelled like sea air, sunscreen, and something baking.

It wasn’t big—two bedrooms, one bath, and a living room with an entire wall of windows facing the ocean. The floors creaked. The sliding glass door stuck.

Ashley and I shared a room, twin beds side by side, and the tile in the bathroom was some faded shade of seafoam.

It wasn’t fancy. But it felt safe—like the world couldn’t quite reach you there.

For the first half of the summer, it was just me, Ashley, and Gran.

The rules were loose—borderline nonexistent—and I loved it.

I spent my days digging in Gran’s garden, dirt under my nails, and learning to cook in her warm, cluttered kitchen.

Ashley, ever the joiner, spent hers at the beach, swimming and making friends with whatever pack of kids happened to be in town.

Then, right around the Fourth of July, Mom and Dad would show up for my dad’s annual vacation, splitting our summer cleanly in two.

Their arrival meant tighter schedules and “enriching” outings planned by Mom that always felt a little too educational to be fun.

Still, it was a routine, and it had its own kind of comfort.

We went every year. Without fail.

Until the year I turned sixteen, when Gran died two days before Christmas.

And after that, all our summer vacations were just spent at home—with a mom who built our lives around the comfort of routine, the safety of sameness.

Which is why this whole Southwest Bucket List bus tour felt so…wildly out of character.

Colorado, the Grand Canyon? Las Vegas? Really?

Not once had she ever expressed interest in going to any of these places—to me, anyway.

Aside from a few day trips to Boston or the beach, my parents were homebodies. Dad, especially, had spent his time either at work, at the house, or on his way from one to the other.

The little pinching in my heart was familiar now.

Dad’s death two years ago had been sudden—a heart attack one morning while sorting mail. Sometimes I still opened messages he’d left me, just to hear his voice.

And although it had to have hit Mom even harder, she’d slipped back into her routines like nothing had changed. I’d taken that as a sign she was fine.

But maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe this trip had been her own quiet way of shaking things up.

I thought about all of this as I edged down the aisle toward the back of the plane, noticing that the overhead bins were already filling up. A full flight. Just my luck.

I glanced at my ticket again, finding my row—bargain economy, of course. But also… the middle seat.

An older woman was already tucked in by the window, peering out at the tarmac as though it held the secrets of the universe. In the aisle seat, reading a book with elegant but capable-looking hands… Oh.

I blinked.

Mr. Aisle Seat was…surprisingly attractive. Not in a flashy, magazine-cover way—but in a quiet, accidentally hot kind of way that caught me off guard.

His light brown hair curled a little at the ends, just long enough to suggest he hadn’t bothered with a haircut lately. But it looked soft and clean. Touchable. And his jaw looked touchable in a different sort of way—more “no time to shave” than “trying to be edgy.”

Even sitting down, I could tell he was tall. Broad shoulders. Fit in a way that seemed unintentional. Like maybe he chopped wood on weekends or ran without tracking it.

There was this whole lumberjack-meets-business-casual thing going on—and annoyingly, even in my current state, it tugged at me.

Until he glanced up.

Gray-blue eyes, the color of a summer storm, met mine.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just looked at me.

And maybe it was the silence, or the way his expression didn’t shift at all, but it felt like judgment.

Hot, yes. But not the friendly type.

Which was perfectly fine. I’m fresh off a breakup and not a big fan of men right now anyway. Not at all.

They were the scourge of the earth. The burnt bits stuck to the bottom of a pan after a sauce has curdled. The over-salted stew that can’t be fixed. The soufflé that rises perfectly in the oven, only to collapse the second you take it out.

Yeah, all of that.

Deliberately ignoring him, I hoisted my bag toward the overhead bin, into this perfect little spot right next to somebody’s overstuffed backpack. Only…it wouldn’t go in. Something was blocking it, and although I was half an inch taller than the average female, I couldn’t see what.

Still, standing on my tiptoes, reaching over Mr. Aisle Seat, I shoved harder.

Of course, that didn’t work.

My irritation flared—because, of course, even this was turning into a struggle. Just one more problem I never saw coming.

“Go. In ,” I muttered through gritted teeth, fingers clawing at the fabric as I gave it one more angry shove. I growled through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the fabric like rigid claws.

Talking to it didn’t help either, though. Unfortunately.

Instead of letting me squash it into submission, it slipped from my grasp…right toward Mr. Aisle Seat’s handsome head.

It would have hit him, too, if he hadn’t reacted so fast, catching it with one hand. Effortlessly.

Then, as if being attacked by falling baggage happened every day, he stood, nudged the backpack aside with a flick of his wrist, and slid my less-streamlined carry-on into place like it had been greased with butter.

Not a grunt. Not even a blink.

And then he looked at me, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth quirking like I was the most incapable person on the plane.

More than a little condescending.

But still…irritatingly hot.

I normally would have apologized. Because, despite the attitude, any normal, polite person would’ve been embarrassed to have nearly clobbered him and grateful for his assistance—but his smirk lit a spark inside me.

Yes, he’d saved my bag, and himself from a possible concussion, and helped me out by putting it away—but he didn’t have to act like I was incompetent.

It wasn’t as though I had any control over the fact that these bins were designed for people a foot taller than me.

Out of nowhere, I was suddenly filled with that same anger—that same… rage —I had felt on the day of The Incident .

And it bubbled over before I could stop myself.

“Thank you so much,” I said, voice syrupy sweet as I turned to him with a hard smile. “If I hadn’t had to reach over your giant head, though, I could have reached the bin myself.”

A tiny voice in the back of my head screamed in mortified confusion. Luna, what the actual ? —?

Apparently, though, this version of me wasn’t finished. “And for future reference, instead of just manhandling another person’s belongings, try asking the person if she actually wants your help.”

Both of his eyebrows lifted this time, the only indication that my words had surprised him. For a second, I thought he might actually apologize. But no. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and said, “Do you want it back?”

The question was calm, measured—and it made my blood boil.

“No,” I snapped, pressing my lips together to keep myself from tacking on a grudging thank you.

Jeez, what the hell was wrong with me? I was never this rude, especially not to total strangers.

But instead of offering up a real apology, I merely nodded, tucking my skirt around me and scooching over to my seat, but as I was falling backward into it, Hot and Annoying’s eyes widened. “Just let me?—!”

But it was too late for me to stop. When I dropped on to the cushion, I landed instead on something flat and rigid with sharp corners. My bottom was now squashing his…

I popped up immediately and turned around to move his book, quickly and sheepishly smoothing down the now-dogeared corner of the front cover. I recognized the title immediately— The Rosie Project, by Graeme Simsion .

Huh. That was one of the books Ashley had been reading for her book club. From what she’d told me, it was a…a romcom?

So, that meant that Hot Guy in the Aisle Seat was reading a book with a love story?

My eyebrow quirked up. No way. Maybe he grabbed the wrong book at the airport. Maybe it was a gift.

I seriously doubted Aisle Seat Guy had a secret soft side.

I was absolutely not intrigued by that possibility.

“Do you mind?” He grimaced, flicking a glance at the paperback that might as well have my ass print on it now.

I shook my head, blinking, and handed it over before taking my seat again.

Feeling a little overheated, I awkwardly dug my seatbelt out from under my bum—because who could actually do that gracefully? —and locked it into place.

And, oh my God, how was it possible these seats felt even smaller than the last time I’d flown? So much for ignoring him.

It was...I mean, we weren’t in each other’s laps, but—there was contact.

“Sorry,” I grumbled, but he didn’t answer. Nor did he look at me again.

Instead, he tucked his book into the pocket in front of him and, crossing his arms, stared straight ahead like the very existence of me, in the middle seat, was an affront to his personal space.

If I could have looked out the window, that might have helped, but the window seat lady was leaning forward, blocking it completely.

Had she heard that whole interaction? What was I saying? Of course, she had. I was happy not to be forced into casual conversation for the entirety of this flight, but I wasn’t so happy about people thinking I was a jerk.

Off to a stellar start.

Gripping the armrests, I replayed the scene in my mind. Why hadn’t I just apologized and said thank you? That was who I was—pleasant, always full of sunshine, even when I didn’t feel like it.

But something about him—about his unflappable demeanor and the way he’d looked at me—had set me off.

It had been one more thing on top of everything else, and that was all it took for me to lose my temper.

I never lost my temper.

Except, I guess, lately I kinda had. I’d lost it…like seriously lost it. And we hadn’t been taping—we’d been broadcasting live. And sure, I thought my actions were justified, but I was also aware that everyone at the station now thought I was a total lunatic.

I didn’t want to be an angry person; I really didn’t think I was built for it, to be honest. And now? I felt like an idiot.

I heard the doors slam up front, and while I ruminated over my reaction to what most would consider an act of kindness, the plane rolled backward toward the concourse.

I let out a slow breath. You’re overthinking it, Luna. Let it go. I’m sure Aisle Seat Guy already has.

The massive engines hummed beneath us, a steady whine that I knew would only get louder once we really got moving, and the flight attendants began their announcements.

He didn’t say another word.

For some reason, that irritated me all over again.

The four hours it would take to fly from Boston to Denver loomed like a lifetime. I stared at the seat in front of me, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Wishing, in fact, that I was anyone but me.