Carter
I’M STANDING IN the middle of an airplane aisle, inching my way to row 12, when I spot her. I don’t know her name, nationality, age, or occupation, but I know this: Someday I’m going to marry the woman sitting in 12D.
Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration—for all I know she could be someone else’s wife, or a serial killer—but hey, I’m an optimistic guy. Plus, she’s in my row, so I know fate is in play.
Don’t roll your eyes. It’s not polite.
I lift the baseball cap from my head and whip my hands through my hair, trying to bury the cowlick that’s been the bane of my existence ever since Seventeen Magazine dubbed it my “adorable nod to imperfection.” That was eight years ago, and among my friends and family, the embarrassing mention might as well have happened yesterday. Knowing from experience the errant lock of hair won’t budge, I concentrate on her instead.
She’s gorgeous. What I can see of her, at least.
It begins with her bottomless dark eyes, which are set in an intense gaze as she watches the parade of travelers making their way through the cabin. Although she’s probably just anxious to know who her seatmates will be, I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have all that attention focused on me. Her hair is a riot of dark brown curls that I could easily wrap around my fingers. From this vantage point, I can’t see her lips, but that might be a good thing, since what I can see is enough to fry my brain.
Look, before you decide I’m a shallow jerk for choosing my life partner based on appearance alone, consider this: Sexual compatibility is a strong indicator of long-term wedded bliss. I’m not saying that I’d marry this woman if she were as engaging as my dad’s proctologist—yes, I’ve heard stories—and I’d never be able to marry someone who didn’t at least feel comfortable around children or puppies—but this instant lust is promising. The truth is, I’m excited, and I haven’t been eager about anything other than acting in years.
An older couple two rows ahead of me parks their luggage in the center aisle, and my future wife pulls her headphones out of her ears and jumps up to assist them. She edges out of our row with a warm smile. I peek around the jerk in front of me, the guy who buried his face in his phone when the couple asked for help, and that’s when I see it: the finest ass I’ve ever seen. For a few seconds, I don’t know what to focus on: face, ass, face, ass. Who am I kidding? My gaze falls to her backside. Yes, Mom, you’ve taught me better, but you are not standing where I’m standing as I look at the bounty that’s before me.
She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear, and the pants covering said backside leave little to the imagination. Granted, her oversized off-the-shoulder top probably was meant to cover all that finery, but she’s stretching to place the couple’s carry-on bag in the overhead compartment, and I’m the shameless beneficiary of her Samaritan act.
After a few more seconds of unabashed ogling, I return my gaze to her face. Her brown sun-kissed skin is smooth and seemingly unadorned. I imagine she’s got some kind of makeup on, though, because I’ve watched my younger sister, Ashley, spend an hour plastering her face for what she calls a “barely there” look. Whatever this woman is or isn’t wearing, it works.
The elderly woman squeezes my future wife’s hands, thanking her with a bright smile, and the bronzed goddess reciprocates. Her lips are shiny—with gloss perhaps—and made for wickedness. My heart does this weird thing: a thump and a catch, then a thump-thump and a catch, almost like the beats are off track and are working to right themselves. Fuck me, this is weird. And yet right—in a weird kind of way.
I make my living convincing audiences that love at first sight exists. Turns out I’m a shitty actor because there’s not much pretending involved. It happens. Because I’m pretty sure I’m experiencing it right now.
Hoping this muddled feeling will level out, I stretch my neck and shake out my hands. I can’t demonstrate my game if I’m sidelined by queasiness. Now that the elderly couple is tucked away in their row, I click the latch to open our overhead compartment. Wanting to make my best first impression on my seatmate, I puff out my chest and stand tall, eager for our eyes to meet. We’re seconds away from the moment to end all moments, the one I’ll tell our kids about a decade from now.
And then my dream lady ruins it.
She again jumps up. “Oh, hey.” Pointing to my bag, she says, “Looks like you’re going to need a little help there.”
Confused by her assumption that a strapping man like me can’t handle my own luggage, I tug on my overgrown beard—and wince. That’s when I remember my appearance is not my own. Instead, I’m embodying my latest character, an emaciated twenty-seven-year-old man suffering from drug addiction and possessing a troubling aversion to grooming. I’d like to think that she’d be able to see beyond my skinny frame and unkempt hair and recognize her soul mate, but folks, it ain’t happening.
I quickly recover from this twist in our love story and stop her with a wave. “It’s okay. I’ve got it. I’m stronger than my body suggests.”
A faint blush appears on her cheeks.
And there goes the thump and a catch again. Fuck. Do I have a heart defect I don’t know about?
She takes great interest in her footwear. “Of course. It’s the helper in me. I didn’t mean to—”
“No need to apologize,” I say as I hoist my travel bag above my shoulders and slide it into the compartment. With my arms pressed against the overhead bin, I wait until she’s looking at me again and give her a wink. “We’re fine.”
I typically don’t cut off people when they’re talking to me, but I’m worried that my future wife’s embarrassment might lead her to ignore me during the flight. That’s definitely not how I’ve scripted this in my head, so if she thinks it’s a little rude, she’ll have to forgive me. It’s for the greater good.
I smooth my jeans and confirm that I’ve got the middle seat, conveniently close to her but away from curious onlookers who might recognize me. Given that I look like the fourth and forgotten member of ZZ Top, that’s unlikely to happen anyway. Pointing to my boarding pass, I tell her, “Mind if I slip in here?”
“Sure,” she says with an easy smile.
She’s still standing, so she steps into the aisle, giving me a glimpse of her ass as she moves one row back to let me in.
As I crawl into the tiny space—it’s been a while since I’ve traveled coach class—I catch a whiff of her scent and close my eyes. Not sure if it’s perfume, body wash, or what, but it smells like vanilla and reminds me of the candles my mother used to buy at the local craft store. That right there is a sign. My mother would most heartily approve of this woman.
Now to find out her name.
I turn in my seat, prepping myself for a short conversation—too much too soon isn’t part of the playbook—but then I realize she’s not next to me. I raise myself off the cushion and pretend to stretch as I turn my head to scan the back of the plane. She’s a few rows back, standing and chatting with a guy who doesn’t appear to have anyone sitting next to him.
Oh, hell no.
Do I have to go to the restroom? You bet.
Before I stand, a bell rings and a flight attendant announces that there will be a short delay while the ground crew clears debris from the runway. Perfect.
I rise and make my way through the aisle, pushing down the bill of my baseball cap so no one notices me. But, of course, someone does. For all the wrong reasons.
A little girl with huge brown eyes and a mop of bright red hair tugs on her mother’s shirt and says, “Mommy, that man looks like a bear.”
The cutie’s pronouncement is loud enough that several nearby passengers chuckle. Even the object of my fascination turns and laughs. I grin at the kid, and she growls in her best imitation of a bear. So freaking adorable, that girl. Enjoying her fascination with my beard, I channel my inner Leonardo DiCaprio and growl right back.
Now I’ve done it.
The little girl’s eyes go round, and her eyes water. Then she lets out a shriek like the hounds of hell are chasing her. Unfortunately, I’m the hounds, and everyone on the plane, including my future wife, knows it.
The girl’s mother tries to quiet her, rocking her and telling her everything will be okay. Their seatmate, meanwhile, throws daggers at me with his eyes.
“He’s so scary looking,” the little girl chants over and over into her mother’s chest.
“Sir,” the flight attendant says behind me, “we’re getting ready to take off soon. Could you please return to your seat?”
Bewildered by the past ten minutes of my life, I nod and amble back to my row. How the hell did things go south that quickly? Fantasy woman returns, and my stomach drops when I catch the look of sympathy on her face. I slide down into my seat, give her a pathetic smile, and cover my face with my baseball cap as though I’m settling in for a nap. I need to regroup before I can speak to her. And I refuse to listen to the preflight safety demonstration unless the attendant can teach me how to save me from myself.
So now I know another thing: Whatever I tell my kids about how I met their mother, it’s going to be a lie. A big, fat fucking lie.