Page 7

Tina

T he woman next to me pulls a tissue from her purse and hands it over when I sneeze for what feels like the millionth time. “You must be allergic to whatever they pump into these tin death traps.”

Sure. It can’t possibly be the English garden you’ve soaked yourself in.

“Thank you.” Even though the last thing I want is to put anything this woman owns near my nose, I accept her offer with a grateful smile, but as soon as Miss Rose Parade turns away, I shove the Kleenex into the pocket of the seat in front of me.

I continue flipping my phone over and over in my palm. Finally, I give in to the urge and text Gramps one more time, even knowing he’ll tell me he’s fine and to stop fussing. Again. The problem is fussing is what I do. I fuss over the unpaid bills. I fuss over his failing health. I fuss because fussing keeps me from remembering painful things.

ME: Are you sure you’ll be fine without me?

GRAMPS: For goodness’ sake, Fanny. I’m older than dirt and I’ve been feeding myself and wiping my own bottom for a long time now. I’m sure I can manage alone.

I say my goodbye and try not to stress about the bottom-wiping comment. We haven’t made it to that stage of his life yet and I’d much rather not imagine it, thank you very much.

Speaking of things best not thought of… Dustin swaggers up the aisle towards the front of the plane and, even with my stuffed-up nose, I catch his fresh beachy scent. The same one I got a whiff of when he stormed past me in the office at Lemmy. It was a hit of nostalgia that has me reeling to this day.

Like me, he opted for a more casual travel attire, but his joggers and T-shirt don’t seem as sloppy on him as my shin-length skirt and oversized sweater do on me. The longer I stare, the warmer I get. I pull my sweater away from my chest to let some air in. Surely it’s due to this allergy flare-up, or maybe I’m going through early menopause. Is that a thing at twenty-seven? I remove the band from my wrist and tie the mass of my hair in a bun. Reaching above my head, I turn the air on full blast, aiming it at my face, and close my eyes. If I picture Dustin’s firm butt behind my lids, that’s my business. It’s better than his angry face.

The lady next to me makes a tsking noise. “Now that’s unsanitary.”

I look up from my phone and follow her line of sight. I was so focused on Dustin before that I didn’t notice the flight attendant in front of him. I crane my neck to get a better view but so do a half a dozen other women, and I can’t see shit. Did the two go into the restroom together?

Is it considered the mile-high club if we haven’t left the ground? Not important.

What is important, however, is the stirring I feel between my legs at the idea of him pleasuring the woman. My pulse picks up and my stomach clenches. I thought the stirring at the fight was a fluke, but here it is again.

Instead of pushing the feelings away, I greet them with open arms, because honestly, I’d thought they were dead along with Connor.

Staring out the window across the aisle, I fight off memories. They’ve been popping up more frequently. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. I mean, Dustin and Connor were best friends after all.

Dustin is no longer the sweet boy from my past who would pick up the slack when Connor flaked out on me. What he is is a twenty-five-year-old man with a chip on his shoulder where I’m concerned. Unrecognizable inside and out. Harder. Colder. Meaner. And this version of him wants nothing to do with me. Too bad my body hasn’t gotten the memo.

I tried not to read too much into Dustin’s last-minute seat switch, but what other reason could he have for sitting somewhere else other than not wanting to be with me? I may have been oblivious as a teenager, but I can read disinterest loud and clear now.

“He’s coming back,” my neighbor whispers, proving she’s just as invested as everyone else.

Sure enough, Dustin makes his way back to his seat, strutting like a runway model. And damn if he isn’t just as pleasant to watch coming as he was going. In a perfect world, he’d trip and faceplant in front of everyone—make himself more relatable. More human. No such luck. His walk is athletic and oozes confidence.

My eyes are glued to his hand as he runs it down his T-shirt, outlining each square of his abs, before putting it in the pocket of his sweats. Suddenly, the song “I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt” begins to play from somewhere in the plane. Giggles ripple through the space and Dustin eats up the attention, winking at the crowd. The woman in front of me sighs and I’m shocked at how much I want to kick her chair.