“Thank God,” he says as he smiles at me.
It’s him. After all this time, I’m meeting Gareth Miller.
And he’s smiling at me.
The plane has stopped in Dallas, and it would figure that my fashion idol would get on and plop down next to me. I’m filled with dread. Or panic. The kind of panic that makes me consider heading for the emergency exit and taking the evacuation slide onto the runway.
He takes the aisle seat. “There’s some whale of a woman raising all kinds of hell in the airport because they want her to buy more than one ticket.”
And he’s a douchelord.
Never mind. I’ll push him down the evacuation slide.
Gareth Miller leans in toward me, like we’re now in a conspiracy together and says, “I hate to be rude.” It’s a hushed whisper. “But she needs two. At least two. Back before I had my own plane when I had to fly commercial, I always got stuck next to them. Them and the crying babies. Or sometimes fat gals with crying babies.”
I scoot back and glare at him. “Sounds like you’d be a lot happier on Air Force Asshat,” I blurt out. I sort of wish I hadn’t said it. I’m on my way to New York to interview the guy and it’s probably not the best idea to pick a fight with him. I turn to the window and try to seem busy stuffing my iPad in the pocket on the seat in front of me.
“Oh, now, shoot, I’ve gone and offended you.” He pushes his hand in my line of sight. “Gareth Miller. And no, I don’t think I’d be happier. Asshat One is having mechanical issues.”
Forcing myself to stay calm, I shake his hand lightly and say, “I’m Cookie.”
I’ve been thinking about this meeting for two years. Fantasizing about it since I caught a glimpse of his profile through a slit in his maple-paneled studio door. In my imaginary version of our first meeting, he flips through my sketchbook, loudly announcing that my designs are the best he’s ever seen. Then he insists on making sure I get a scholarship to Parsons and an investment to start my own line. But I guess we’ll be sitting next to each other in beige airline seats instead.
“Cookie,” he repeats with a laugh. “That a really sweet name.”
It takes all my self-control not to give him an epic eye roll. People always think they’re so original. Like this is the very first time someone’s ever thought of making a joke like that.
“My mom ate chocolate chip cookies in the hospital after I was born,” I tell him, trying not to stare at his chiseled features. “I guess I should be happy the nurse didn’t give her a candy bar. Or I’d now be known as KitKat or something.”
“Gimme a break,” he says with an appealing grin.
It’s kind of funny but I force myself not to laugh. Gareth Miller might be skating through life, saying whatever he wants and relying on his appeal to make it all okay. But that whale of a woman used to be me. Still feels like me. I put my hands into the empty inch of space at the edge of my seat. This is what two years of NutriNation has gotten me.
I really hope he doesn’t notice I’m wearing a Gareth Miller sweater.
The flight attendant is making long, smooth waving motions with her arms and gesturing toward the exit rows. I pull out the airline safety card and read along, looking up for the oxygen mask.
“I think this may be a first for me. Someone is actually checking the crash instructions,” he says in his drawling accent. He’s from Montana and has a sort of cowboy couture charm.
“I like to be prepared in the event of an emergency.”
“I hate to break it to you, but if the plane crashes, we’ll all be dead,” he says with another smile. He’s able to make this line sound like the best news I’ve had all day.
“Not true.” My stomach flip-flops but I give him a fake smile of my own. “Most crashes occur on takeoff or landing, and the rate of survival is about 56 percent. We’re at a disadvantage here in first class since the safest seats are in the back of the plane. But since you don’t mind dying, I’ll just crawl over you if there’s an emergency. And you can be part of the 44 percent who don’t make it.”
“Well, I’d die a happy man,” he says, his eyes drifting over me. “And do me a favor, Cookie, at my funeral, you give the eulogy. Make sure everyone knows I made that sweater and gave my life so you could keep looking so fine while wearing it.” He points at the smooth cashmere top. It’s covered in whimsical, eight bit cherry clusters. A combination of quality and caprice. Gareth Miller’s signature style.
Of course he noticed the sweater. Sigh.
“I said I designed that sweater. That doesn’t impress you?”
I nod and hope he finds something else to do with his time besides stare at me. He’s either staring because:
a) I look like my mom and he’s trying to figure out why I seem familiar,
b) I have mascara smeared on my face or maybe a leaf stuck in my hair or
c) some other kind of reason that’s giving me hot flashes.
Two out of the three of those things are nothing to get excited about. I remind myself that I don’t want to want someone like Gareth Miller to like me. And anyway, I’ve spent hours writing hard-hitting interview questions. I don’t need my momentum spoiled by four hours of good-natured chitchat. I try to get my headphones in before he can say anything else.
“You know, you look awfully familiar,” he says. He cocks his head and adds, “I mean, I know that sounds like a line. A truly bad one. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
The first-class attendant approaches us. “Something to drink before takeoff?” she asks. Her glance dances from Gareth to me and a grin spreads across her face. “I get a lot of good-looking people sitting in my section, but you two are just fabulous.”
I’m not used to this. To compliments and attention. My stomach’s producing acid in overdrive. I’m pretty sure I’ll have an ulcer by thirty.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Gareth says.
“I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” I tell the woman.
Across the aisle, I make eye contact with a man in a Men’s Wearhouse navy suit. He smiles at me.
All I can think is that a man shouldn’t wear a striped tie with a striped shirt.
I turn back to my window, watching a crew load luggage into another plane a couple of gates away. The last time I was on a plane, that guy wouldn’t have even made eye contact. He’d have been praying that he didn’t have to sit next to me.
The plane’s air conditioner kicks on and I catch a whiff of Gareth Miller’s cologne. It’s not fair that he should look and smell so good.
Trapped next to his appeal and his “charm,” which oozes out like an unwanted infection, I scrunch myself into my seat and pray I make it to New York without killing him.