At what point is it creepy to be staring at someone? After five seconds? Ten? Twenty? What about thirty minutes? Because no matter how many times I flick my eyes to the clock on the television, to the attendant behind the desk, to the people walking past, to the ugly carpet, or down to my hands, they keep returning to the fucking gorgeous girl sitting in the seat across from me.
She’s around my age, I think. Her brown hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her tits are pushed together by her arms because she’s holding a book. That’s all I’ve gathered from watching her. She keeps her head down, tilting from side to side depending on which page she’s reading, and every minute or so she crosses her legs, uncrosses them, crosses them at the ankles, or plants them both firmly on the ground. It’s like her mind isn’t on the book and she’s anxious. That energy seems to be showing itself through the movement of her legs.
She probably has brown eyes, but I’m most curious about her lips. What do they look like? When I clear my throat, the girl briefly glances up at me. If I thought she was gorgeous before, fuck. I was right; she has brown eyes. Her lips are a light red. A little plump. Totally fucking kissable.
But we’re in an airport and I don’t know her. I’m probably reaching creeper status for sure. I glance away, hoping something else will catch my attention. We still have an hour before we board. My eyes find the girl again. She’s alone. There are empty seats on either side of her and no one has sat next to her the entire time I’ve been watching, which has been since she sat down.
The girl sniffles and I wonder what her name is. She reaches up to wipe a tear. Shit. She’s crying? Maybe there’s a sad part in the book. Girls cry over that shit all the time. It’s like with movies, right? But then, she closes the book, carefully places it in the seat next to her, pulls her knees up to her chest, and folds her arms over them, her face disappearing into the little hole she created for herself.
Her shoulders shake and there are more sniffles, but I don’t hear any other sounds of crying. Do people cry like that over stuff in books? I glance at the bookmark. She’s only in the middle. Does tear-inducing crap happen at that point? I look around, hoping that she isn’t actually alone because I think whatever might’ve been on her mind abruptly upset her.
No one else is paying attention to her. Only me. A creepy seventeen-year-old who apparently likes to watch girls his age read books in the airport.
When her cries get a little louder, a little unhinged, turning into sobs, people notice. No one does anything. They send her odd looks and glance at one another, but they don’t do shit. Some look at me like I might’ve done something, but that’s it.
One second I’m in my seat, and the next, I pick up her book to take its place next to her. I gently touch her arm. She startles, looks up, and quickly wipes her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hands. God, even with red eyes and flushed cheeks, she’s still gorgeous. What kind of black magic is happening here?
“What?” Her eyes are bulging a little and there’s a touch of snippiness and wariness in her tone.
Might be helpful if I spoke instead of staring at her like the weirdo I am. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She snatches her book out of my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Do I look okay to you? Can’t you just leave me alone like everyone else?”
Oookay. I don’t do the crazy, rude, on-the-verge-of-hysteria type of chicks. Without a word, I move back to my seat. She’s hot and her voice is as gorgeous as she is with a sexy Southern accent, but nothing is worth the attitude. I pull out my phone to text one of my buddies about hanging out tomorrow.
“My grandma died. I’m on my way to her funeral.”
I lift my eyes at the sound of her soft voice. “Shit. Sorry.”
“Sorry for being a bitch.”
With a shrug, I say, “You have a good reason.” Feeling like I might be on her good side now, I move back to the seat next to her. “How come you’re traveling alone?”
“She’s my dad’s mom. The divorce was ugly and Mom doesn’t like his new wife, so I told her I would be okay going by myself, but now, I’m hating that I’m going to be there alone because I just know my dad is going to be stuck either up his own ass or up my stepmom’s.” She shakes her head, finally takes a breath, and I find myself enamored by her long sentence. How the words all rushed together and her book turned in her hand, this way and that, as she spoke. Clearly wanting to discuss something else, she asks, “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m Ian. What’s yours?” Ridiculously, I hold my breath. As if her name could hold such power or that it’ll be so beautiful it’s worth holding my breath over. What in the hell is this girl doing to me already?
“Sydney,” she replies.
I exhale. Sydney. That fits perfectly. I don’t know why or how, but it does.
“Why are you traveling alone?”
“I went to visit my mom and I’m on my way back home.”
“So, your parents are divorced, too?”
I nod. “Not ugly, though. Mom reconnected with an old boyfriend from high school, so she moved to be with him.”
“And you decided to stay with your dad? How come?”
The answers are a bit more complex than what I’m about to say, so I add a shrug in with my words. “Just didn’t want to move away from what I’d known all my life. There aren’t any problems with Dad and me, so it seemed right. I visit my mom every so often. Everyone’s happy.” Ready for a change of subject, I lean toward her and damn, she even smells good. She smells like something out of one of those bottles you’d buy in those stores that sell crap in like a hundred different fragrances. Normally, I hate to even walk past the store and get a whiff of whatever scent comes out, but smelling whatever that fragrance is on Sydney? I want to bury my nose in her hair or in the crook of her neck and—what the fuck is happening to me? Clearing my throat, I ask, “What were you reading? A steamy romance?” My eyebrows dance and I nearly fall out of my chair when a small smile graces her face.
“Historical fiction this time.” Her smile grows with my surprise. “I like a lot of different genres.”
“That’s cool.”
“Are you a reader?” Her interest is piqued and I can hear the hope in her voice.
“Only when the teachers make me. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Hell yeah! Only one year younger than me, and I let her know that. Then, I ask, “Where are you from?”
“North Carolina. Don’t even say I have an accent,” she warns. “I had to hear about that from the flight attendant on the first leg of this trip.”
“Well, you do have one. It’s cute.”
Her cheeks redden and she glances away from me. I smile, liking it probably too much that I have an effect on her. That’s great news because she’s having an insane effect on me. But then those eyes shift back to me and run over my body like she’s getting a good look at me for the first time. I almost wish I dressed a little better, but I decided to go with plain gym shorts and the last clean T-shirt I had left.
Does she like what she sees? Does she have a favorite part, like how mine right now is her lips? My brown hair is rather short because that’s the way I like it, especially in the summer. My eyes are green. There’s a shadow of scruff on my jawline because I was lazy this morning, and I’ve been debating about growing a beard.
“I’m okay now,” she says. “You don’t have to keep talking to me.”
Oh, but I want to. “How about I keep you company anyway? That okay?”
She nods, her eyes getting watery again. “So, what do you like to do?”
No Grandma talk, then. Good to know. I’d rather avoid it, too. I lean back and slouch in my seat to get comfortable. “I like to play hockey, hang with my friends, and watch TV. You?”
She holds up her book.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. I mean, I hang out with my friends some, too, but reading is superior to other activities. I don’t even know what’s on TV these days.”
“How many books do you read in a year?”
“I can read as many as five a week, so up to about two hundred sixty books.”
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “Damn. I barely read the ones the teachers make us read.”
“If you don’t like it, that means you’re reading the wrong books.” When I frown in confusion, she adds, “You read all the time. You had to read your boarding pass, street signs, textbooks—” She laughs when I give her a look to show her that I don’t like reading any of those things. “Anyway, all we need to do is find you a book that you would like. There’s a book out there for everyone, you know.”
“You’re one of those crazy book lovers, aren’t you?” She nods unashamed, even as I continue, “The girl who always has a book and reads more than she talks to her friends. I bet your room is full of them.”
“Pretty much, but I am social. I’m talking to you right now when I could be reading my book, which is very good by the way.”
A grin breaks free before I can control myself. “I feel pretty damn special, then.” I love hearing her talk. I haven’t been around many people who are from the South. I decide to start asking Sydney a bunch of questions about her favorites to keep her mind off her grandmother and to keep her talking.
I learn that she loves Laffy Taffys and the corny jokes on the wrappers, but she also loves a good chocolate bar. She loves chicken. Green beans and potatoes are her favorite sides. Aside from reading, she likes going to the football and baseball games for her school, but she admits that’s to socialize because she doesn’t like sports. The list goes on and on. Soon, she rambles on her own and she starts talking about her grandmother. She used to live in North Carolina, but old age and her dad moving out of state meant her grandmother moved away, too, because her father wanted her close by.
Her relationship with her father is strained, which is why she’s worried she’s going to be dealing with this on her own and that she’ll be alone while surrounded by those attending the funeral. She gives more details that I don’t necessarily need to know, like where it’s being held, but I listen for the most part because damn. I love her voice and her accent. I want to kiss her, but that would be inappropriate. Not to mention, Sydney doesn’t seem like the type to kiss a random guy in the airport who decided to be nice to her.
Man, I’ve never been more thankful for a layover in my entire life.
They call some groups to board and I frown. We’re having to depart already.
“Thanks for talking to me, even though I did most of the talking.” She laughs, and fuck, what is wrong with me? Or, what is wrong with this girl? How is she so perfect? Or seemingly perfect. Something has to be wrong with her. Something has to be wrong with me because I want to stick around as long as it takes to figure out her imperfections.
“You’re welcome.”
That’s all I got. I feel like I should say more before we’re separated. I’m not done yet. I don’t want her to stop talking and I don’t think I’ve ever thought that about a girl. Usually they don’t ever shut the fuck up and it annoys the hell out of me.
I pull my boarding pass out of my pocket to see which group I’m in. Three. I always seem to get into that group. My eyes travel back to Sydney. Her boarding pass is folded in half in her hand, so I can’t see any details. Would it be weird if we exchanged info? We could text or email or I could call her and ask her more stupid questions, so I could hear her talk.
But do I want to run the risk of rejection?
Group three is called and we both stand. “What seat are you?” I ask. Maybe we’ll be close and I can talk to her some more. Get more of a feel for whether she’d be up for us talking after we land. We could be like pen pals or something. I don’t even care that I’m desperate to keep in touch with her anymore.
“12A.”
Today is the best day ever! “12B,” I say with a grin.
“Oh, good.” The relief in her voice nearly knocks me over. “I don’t particularly care for flying; you can keep me company.” She bumps her elbow against mine with a smile. We move into line with everyone else and Sydney pulls her phone out of her back pocket.
“Texting a boyfriend?” How badly I want to know this is absurdly stupid. It doesn’t really matter.
She laughs. “My parents.” Her tone takes an abrupt shift. “Although, my dad hasn’t responded to me all day, so I don’t know why I’m bothering.”
The line moves, so I take her carry-on, put it on top of mine, and place a hand on her lower back to move us the few feet forward to let her finish her texts. Besides, I’m a gentleman when I want to be and for some reason, I feel like I should score some points with this girl.
“Oh, thanks. You don’t have to.” Her eyes fall to her bag and then to my arm. My hand is still on her back. It’s a warm back, even through the thin material of her pink shirt.
I shrug off her comment. Man, I wish I knew her better and that we weren’t in an airport. My fingers twitch with wanting to explore her body. A little higher and I’d touch her bra. Finally, it’s our turn and I reluctantly drop my hand. Sydney goes first and she waits for me. Probably because I have her things. We board the plane in silence and once we’re seated, Sydney’s legs start doing their nervous dance again. She checks her phone one more time while I text my dad and then we switch them to airplane mode.
“No response?”
“No.” She sighs. “Last time I came, I had to wait an hour before he picked me up because he was apparently busy with something else. I hope that doesn’t happen again, but I have a feeling it will since he hasn’t talked to me today. Maybe the chairs will still be comfy?”
Unlikely they were ever that comfy in the first place. But surely her dad won’t stand her up when she’s here for her grandmother’s funeral? “Maybe he’s just busy and getting ready.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t seem to believe that and for some reason, neither do I. “I hate takeoffs,” she mutters once we pull away from the gate.
“Why? They’re exciting. Think of it like first kisses.” She turns her head to look at me with confusion. “There’s the build of anticipation as we slowly make our way to the tarmac, which is like the build-up before the kiss. Then there’s the moment where they stop. That’s when you just know there’s going to be a kiss. Your heart’s beating a million miles an hour and you’re nervous and worried about how things will go, but you’re ready for it. When they start moving, you brace yourself. You might not like the adrenaline of taking off, but it’s like finally having someone kiss you. And then, you’re soaring. So, pretend someone’s about to kiss you.”
Her eyes drop to my lips, but quickly glance away. She nods, leans her head against the headrest, and closes her eyes. Her hand grips the armrest, but then flips over. Palm up. I glance up, but her eyes are still closed. Just as her hand is about to turn over, I take it in mine. She squeezes it while taking a deep breath.
She’s so going to imagine kissing me. Maybe I can kiss her before this is all over with. We have nearly two hours on this plane; plus, I’ve decided to wait with her if her dad is late.
I’m going to make the most of my time with her.