At
this particular moment, I’m not hot or
hawt.
I make this revelation as I vigorously scrub at my arms and face and
then use a wet paper towel under my pits.
And
what is it about peeing in an airport toilet ten times in a day that
makes you feel so completely scummy? I glance around at the crumpled
tissues strewn about on the scuffed floor and the dirty toilets
peeking from behind half-closed doors and cringe. That answer is
clearly ‘because of the germs’. Ack.
Trying
not to think about it, I clean up the best I can. After running a
brush through my hair, I stick a piece of gum in my mouth, apply a
thin layer of lip gloss and call it good. I glance into the mirror
and cringe. It isn’t good enough,
but it will have to do. Very soon, I’ll put this dreadful four
hour layover in Amsterdam behind me and before I even know it, I’ll
be in London.
And
it’s not because I don’t love him, because I do. My reluctance
doesn’t stem from lack of love. It comes from the deep-seeded fact
that Alexander Ellis doesn’t understand me. He never has and he
never will. It’s something that I’ve made my peace with and I’m
not angry about it.
I’m
his only child and he works his life away as some top-secret agent
for the NSA. His job is so secret that I don’t even know what he
does. In my head, I imagine him jumping from helicopters and saving
starving children in war torn areas. But in reality, I know he
probably sits behind a desk and analyzes information from a satellite
stream or a taped telephone conversation. I’m pretty sure that’s
what the NSA does, anyway. They aren’t the cool kind of spies.
Also,
he isn’t exactly sure what to do with a daughter. I was supposed
to have been a boy. Seventeen years ago, sonograms apparently weren’t
as absolute as they are today, because the technician told my parents
that she was 99.9% sure that I was a boy. They painted my nursery
blue and picked out my name and everything. I can only imagine the
shocked horror on my father’s face when I was born with lady parts.
Regardless,
I know he loves me. Even though he had willingly given my mother
full custody when they divorced years ago, I know he only did it
because he works overseas so much and he isn’t exactly sure how to
raise a girl. He does okay. But then again, I do have some reason
to believe that he still pretends that I’m a boy, just to make it
easier on himself. It’s fairly easy to do since I still have the
boy name that they originally picked out.
With
my head down, I trudge back out into the congested halls of Schiphol
airport. Weary travelers bustle around me and I shift my bags so
that I can pull the stubborn strap of my tank top back over my
shoulder where it belongs. As I do, I crash into someone with enough
force that my bags go flying out of my hands and scatter onto the
ground under people’s feet.
“Son
of a –“ I blurt before I even think.
“Buck?”
a male voice offers helpfully.
Looking
up, I stare into the most unique and beautiful shade of blue that a
pair of eyes has ever possessed. Of that I am certain. Blue just
shouldn’t be that multi-faceted and twinkling. There should be a
law or something.
Or
at least a warning label:
Caution,
these eyes may cause female knees to tremble.
Before
I can help it, I scan the rest of him. Sweet Mary. This guy had
lucked out in the gene department. Tall, slender, beautiful. Honey
colored hair that had natural highlights that could even catch the
crappy airport light, broad shoulders, slim hips, long legs. He is
tan and golden with a bright, white smile.
I
am surely staring at Apollo, the god of the sun. Probably with my
mouth hanging open, which makes me realize that I must look like an
idiot- the personification of what foreigners think Americans to be.
I snap my mouth closed.
“I’m
sorry,” I say quickly, trying to still my racing heart. “Did I
run into you?”
“Only
a bit,” Apollo says gentlemanly, with a shrug of his strong
shoulders. I can tell he is strong even through his shirt sleeves,
which are snug across his toned biceps. Sweet baby monkeys.
“How
can someone run into someone else only by a bit?” I ask with a
nervous smile as I kneel to retrieve my stuff.
Please
don’t let him smell me right now,
I silently pray to any god who cares to listen. I am sure that at
this point in my travels, I probably smell like soiled hamster
bedding.
He
bends next to me and picks up the contents of my spilled purse. He
smells like sunshine. And rain. And everything beautiful that I can
think of. I try not to cringe as his fingers grasp a tampon and
slide it back inside my bag. He doesn’t even flinch, he just
casually continues to pick up my things like he’s used to handling
feminine hygiene products.
“Oh,
it’s fairly easy, really,” he answers. He has an exotic sounding
accent that I can’t place. “At least, when you’re not looking
where you’re going.” My head snaps up and he laughs.
“I’m
kidding,” he assures me as he extends an arm to me. Even his hand
is graceful. I gulp as his fingers curl around mine. “You can
bump into me any time you’d like.”
“Thanks,”
I mumble. “I think.”
“I’m
Dante,” he tells me, his impossibly blue eyes still twinkling.
“I’m
Reece,” I answer with a sigh, already anticipating his reaction.
“Yes, I know it’s a boy’s name.”
“You’re
not a boy,” Dante observes. “Most definitely not a boy.”
Is
that a note of appreciation in his voice? Surely not. I look like a
bedraggled Shih Tzu.
“No,
I’m not,” I agree. “I just don’t know that my dad ever got
that memo.”
I
look past Dante and find that he is alone. He seems to be about my
age so that’s a little unusual in these circumstances. My parents
had flown me as an ‘unaccompanied minor’ across the ocean for
years, but other people’s parents are usually a little squeamish
about that.
“I’m
sure that fact hasn’t escaped him,” Dante tells me in amusement.
Why do his eyes have to sparkle so much? I usually go for
brown-eyed guys. But this boy is most certainly making me re-think
that stance.
“That’s
debatable,” I sigh. Realizing that we are impeding the busy
pedestrian traffic like a dam in a rushing river, I smile.
“Thank
you very much for helping me pick up my things. Safe travels!”
I
turn on my heel and pivot, walking quickly and what I hope is
confidently in the other direction. Hitching my heavy purse up on my
shoulder, I fight the urge to turn and look at him. Something about
him is practically mesmerizing.
But
I don’t look. I keep walking, one foot in front of the other.
When I reach the moving walkway, I hop on and focus ahead of me, eyes
straight forward.
Regardless
of my silent chanting, when I step from the walkway I discreetly
check behind me. Apollo is nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, I
continue on to the British Airways terminal. Only three short hours
left until take-off. Plugging my earbuds into my ears, I settle into
a seat and close my eyes.
Before
I even open my eyes, I know the sexy accent is coming from Apollo. I
can feel his epic hotness emanating through my eyelids. I only hope
that I haven’t been drooling in my sleep.
“Yes?”
I ask as nonchalantly as I can while my eyes pop open. I try to
discreetly smooth my hair down. In my head, I envision myself as
Chewbacca from Star Wars and wince.
Dante
hands me my phone, which must’ve fallen from my lap as I napped.
“Are
you on the flight to London?” he grins. “They’re boarding
priority travelers now. I just thought you should know.”
Yikes.
I had slept for three hours? In a noisy airport? I must have been
super tired.
“Thank
you,” I reply quickly, gathering my things in a rush. “I didn’t
mean to fall asleep. I’m not a priority traveler, but I probably
would have slept through general boarding. Thank you for waking me.”
I
glance at him as I stand up and can’t help but do a double take.
It isn’t easy to get used to his particular brand of sexy. He is
laid-back, handsome and casual, which is a formula for utter female
devastation. The impossible thing is that he doesn’t seem to
realize it. He’s effortlessly sophisticated and chic.
“Well,
you’re awake now and that’s the important thing. Have a nice
trip, Reece,” Dante grins once more before he joins a group of men
who are apparently waiting for him. I was wrong, I guess. He isn’t
alone after all. The men close around him in a tight circle and they
board the plane with the other passengers with first class tickets.
I
gulp and find a place in line with the other travelers flying coach.
As
the richer, better-dressed passengers file past us, I feel a little
like a bumpkin in rumpled clothing. Even though I travel to London
every summer to visit my dad, I live in rural America the rest of the
year. And all of a sudden, I feel like I am wearing a blinking neon
sign proclaiming that very fact. The clothing that had seemed
sophisticated to travel in this morning now seems like it was
hand-made in someone’s backwoods shed.
And
it so
makes
sense that Apollo is in first class. He smells like a beautiful
sunrise in a wooded meadow. Oh, my gosh. What is wrong with me?
Where did that come from? I am totally being as corny as an erectile
dysfunction commercial.
I
roll my eyes at my own absurdity and hand my ticket to the heavily
made-up flight attendant who is waiting to take it. She glances at
it and then at me before she stamps my passport and hands it back.
“Have
a nice flight, Miss Ellis,” she tells me before turning her
attention to the passenger behind me.
I
like flying almost as much as I like having dental work. Or having
my fingernails pulled out one by one. Or having paper cuts sliced
onto my legs and then lemon juice poured onto them. Just about that
much.
Filing
down the narrow aisle through first class, I can’t help but search
out Apollo. It doesn’t take long to find him. He is situated by
the window in a wide, leather first-class seat. He’s already
covered in a warm blanket and looks like he is settling in for the
hour long flight. As I move closer to him, his eyes pop open and
meet mine, the electric blue of his almost causing me to gasp aloud.
He
smiles slightly as I pass and his gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
I
find myself wishing that I could sit next to him. Not only because
of the lavish first class seats, although those would be nice too.
But
rather, there is something in the air between Dante and me. I can
feel it, an instant connection. I can practically reach out and
touch it. I’ve never experienced chemistry like this in my life.
It’s the kind that seems corny when you read about it in books, but
in real life, it is anything but. It is simply electrifying. Ripping
my eyes from his, I continue down the aisle and find my seat.
Taking
a deep breath, I stash my carry-on in the overhead bin and slump into
the window seat, trying not to hyperventilate as my fear of flying
suddenly overwhelms me while the cramped airplane closes in around
me.
I
watch the flight crew below me loading the bags into the belly of the
plane. What if they dislodge the landing gear while they are messing
around down there? What if they don’t check the systems well
enough and we die in a fiery crash? What if the metal holding the
plane together rips off in the air and peels away like tissue paper?
I
listen impatiently as the flight attendants give their safety spiel
and motion toward the exits like they are NFL referees with dumb tiny
scarves around their necks. I just need for them to get on with it.
Just let us taxi out and take-off and then I will be perfectly fine
once we are in the air. My hands get clammy and my ears start to
roar. Why am I such a freak?
You
freaking flight attendants.
I’m
just getting ready to shove my earbuds back in to distract myself
when Dante appears next to me like a savior or an angel or something
of equal beauty and importance.
“Is
this seat taken?” he smiles and I notice a dimple in his right
cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. How had I missed a dimple?
“Um,
not that I know of,” I answer weakly, trying not to die from heart
palpations. “But the seat belt sign is on. You’re not supposed
to be out of your seat.”
Fabulous.
Now I sound like a hall monitor with a heart problem.
Dante
shrugs without seeming worried.
“I
think it will be okay,” he answers. “We’re not even on the
runway yet.”
“Can
I sit here? I’m bored up front.”
I
nod, my palms instantly clammier. “I hope you brought your
blanket. You won’t get much back here except for a bag of
peanuts.”
And
now I sound like a cheap hall monitor with a heart problem. I’m
presenting myself better and better by the moment.
Dante
smiles yet again and sits next to me. He brings his charming accent
with him and the scent of his amazing cologne. I take a deep breath.
He smells far better than the stale airplane air. Far
better. I fight the urge to jump into his lap and inhale his neck, a
maneuver that just might make me appear slightly insane.
“You
look pretty pale,” he observes as he buckles up. “Are you afraid
to fly?”
“Is
it that obvious?” I ask quietly. “As much as I’ve flown in my
lifetime, I should be used to it. But I’m afraid that’s never
going to happen. Once I’m in the air for awhile, I’ll be fine,
but until then… well, I’m terrified. I admit it.”
“Don’t
worry,” Dante tells me quietly, his voice calm and reassuring.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re more likely to get
into a--”
“Car
crash rather than die in a plane crash,” I interrupt. “Yes, I
know. I’ve heard. Where are you from?” I ask curiously, half out
of genuine curiosity and half out of the need to distract myself.
“You have the most interesting accent.”
He
smiles, his teeth brilliantly white. I decide on the spot that I
could watch him smile all day long.
“Caberra,”
he answers, reminding me that I had asked a question. “It’s an
island near Greece. And you?”
“Like
you don’t know that I’m American,” I chuckle. “I know it’s
written all over me. I’m sure you’re a fan, right?”
“Of
Americans?” he raises a golden eyebrow. “Of course. I love them.
I have no reason not to. They bring a lot of tourist dollars to
Caberra.”
“Well,
we are a land of excess,” I admit. “But that’s usually what
foreigners seem to hate about us.”
Dante
stares at me for a moment and then smiles. “Well, I can’t speak
for all foreigners, but I don’t hate Americans. And you’re not
in America right now, are you?”
I
shake my head. “No, I am most certainly not.”
“Well,
then. You’re the foreigner now.” He grins and I can’t help
but smile back. He has a point.
The
pilot gets on the intercom and his nasally voice drones on and on,
but I am able to tune it out as I engage in conversation with a boy
who is surely a direct descendent of the gods. There is no other
plausible explanation for his good looks or charm. I barely even hear
the words that come out of Dante’s mouth, because I am so
mesmerized by the shape of his lips as he moves them. Pathetic, I
know, but true.
One
thing about me: I don’t lie to myself. I might stretch the truth
for my parents from time to time when necessary, but never to myself.
And I’m pathetically fascinated by this boy.
Finally,
the aircraft shudders a bit and noses forward and I startle, gripping
the arms of my seat. My fingers turn white and I am certain that I am
leaving permanent indentions in the cracked vinyl arm-rests.
“Don’t
worry,” Dante says quietly, unpeeling one of my hands and grasping
it within his own. “It will be fine.”
The
feel of his hand distracts me. Strong and warm, it cups my own
carefully, like he is holding something very fragile. I close my
eyes and enjoy the feeling. I only have a couple of minutes to soak
it in, however.
As
the plane moves down the runway in preparation for take-off,
something happens. Something isn’t right.
Our
plane rocks a little, then quivers, like it is being moved by a
strong gust of wind. I feel it a brief moment before Dante tightens
his grip on my hand, a split second before light explodes from
outside of my eyelids. I open them to discover fire tearing down the
runway past my window. Before I can react or even scream, all hell
breaks loose.
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