Chapter 3
Rory
He recognizes me.
Not that he doesn’t try to hide it with quickly averted eyes, but I see the way they pop out of his head before he forces them downward. I also see him swallow. Hear his labored intake of breath. Notice the way his mouth curls up on a hint of a grin.
This all happens in two seconds. It takes even less time for me to deduct that his reaction means one of two things. Either he remembers me from television, or he subscribes to the magazine whose cover I recently graced. I’ll go with the second one. There isn’t a straight man in America who would admit to actually watching America’s Favorite Model. Still, figures it’s the first option.
Men. They pretend to subscribe to that magazine out of a love for football, but that issue outsells all the other issues combined every single year.
I scoot over a fraction of an inch, aware that I’m judging a guy I don’t know for looking at pictures that I willingly took. But there’s a big difference in being someone who poses in a string bikini—emphasis on the strings—and being someone who ogles the pictures. Besides, that shoot was for a respectable, nationally known publication and I did it to advance my career. He bought the magazine for…
I scoot away a little more.
I don’t make it far before a harsh, breathy laugh escapes his throat.
“Okay, let’s get something straight before you move over so far you fall out of that window you’re practically clinging to.” He deliberately props a foot on my bag and leans back just to tick me off. “I know who you are—we’ve actually met before—but you’re safe. As of an hour ago, I’ve sworn off women.” His eyes close. He couldn’t look more bored if I started reciting algorithms out loud. “Even beautiful supermodel-types who’ve already shown me their goods on multiple occasions.”
My mouth falls open with that outrageous statement. “I have not shown you my—”
“Yes you have.” A slow smile creeps into his voice even as his head rolls to the side in a search to find a comfortable position. Once successful, he sighs long and slow. “Believe me, you have. More times, in more places, and in more positions…than you know.”
“That’s disgusting!”
“Let me be the first to say it wasn’t. God did a good job with you. If I were you, I’d get on my knees right now and thank Him.”
“For having nice goods?” Is this guy insane?
He grins. “Yep. Among other things.”
I roll my eyes. He’s ridiculous. “I’ll be sure to do that in the morning.”
I lean my head against the wall, indignation buzzing across my skin like a million mosquitos that I can’t swat away. Then I remember something he said.
“What do you mean we’ve met before? I’ve met a lot of annoying people over the last year, but none quite as crass as you. If we had met, I think I would remember it.”
A cocky grin spreads across his face. With his eyes closed he almost looks pensive, like he’s…remembering. It’s enough to make me feel exposed underneath this cheap, ineffective ball cap otherwise known as my crappy impromptu disguise. I bought it right before I left Seattle. Clearly it wasn’t worth the money.
I don’t like being the outsider on an inside joke.
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember, but I do. Every last second of it.”
I especially don’t like it when the joke is on me.
“Was it at a party? A photo shoot?”
“Apparently it doesn’t matter. And since I made no impression on you at all back then, let’s leave it that way.”
I can’t.
Because my entire life, I’ve hated secrets. And surprise parties. And Christmas presents displayed in pretty wrapped packages days before I could open them.
There’s no way I can live without knowing this.
“Come on, tell me how we met. The story can’t be that great anyway.” He doesn’t even open his eyes, just turns his head away from me and sighs like not answering won’t affect my ability to sleep the next forty-eight hours. He has to answer. He has no choice. I glance at his left bicep and refrain from wrapping my hands around it and giving a violent squeeze. He probably wouldn’t see me as much of a threat anyway. So I try a different tactic and shake my head. “I think you’re lying. We’ve never met.”
“Oh we’ve met. It’s a great story actually. But if you don’t remember it…” He yawns like he’s actually planning to sleep. “Let’s leave it that way.”
“But—”
“Tell you what.” He rolls his head and drags one eye open. “If you don’t remember it before we leave here, I’ll tell you right before we go our separate ways. Deal?”
Of course it’s not a deal, I want to say. You’re going to tell me now or I’m going to kill you, I want to protest. Yet I don’t. I won’t be that girl, the girl who grovels. The girl who begs. The girl who threatens murder when she doesn’t entirely mean it. I’ve never killed anyone before. It might be hard. Messy, at the very least.
Give me an hour or so and I might not care.
For now, I swallow my irritation and hear myself say…
“Deal.”
Annoying how easily I relent.
I glance out the window at the streams of water sliding against the panes and wish to escape into it. Across from me, a man I remember seeing in line earlier bends over, whispering something in a harsh tone to one of his boys. His hair looks even more unkempt now, his eyes are bloodshot, and his agitated demeanor screams of someone who has missed out on a couple night’s sleep. Unfortunate since this layover with no end in sight just started. Who knows when any of us will really sleep again?
With GQ guy staring at me the way he is, it isn’t likely anytime soon.
For now, I have more pressing things to think about.
“My turn for the bathroom. Can you save my spot?”
Beside me, he shrugs without opening an eye. “Well, see now, I’m not sure. It’s getting pretty crowded here and it might be nice to have a little more room to stretch out. Your absence would give me another…” His eyes crack open and he gives me a slow once-over. Jerk. “…ten inches to myself. What size are you anyway, a zero?”
I stand up with a sigh and glare down at him. “I’m a four, and this spot that I found better be here when I get back.” Reaching for my backpack, I pull at the strap, trying to force his foot off. I have to tug twice before it finally comes free.
“You can leave that bag here, you know. I probably won’t look inside.”
“I’ll take it with me.” I glare at him in an effort to disguise that the mere thought of leaving it behind makes me physically weak. Wobbly from the inside out. With some effort, I force confidence into my voice and brush at the faint shoeprint mark he left behind again. “Keep your nasty foot off my bag. Besides, I might need some things in here. You know, things like…um…” I can’t think well under pressure, especially considering it’s all a lie. “Things like…like…”
“Make up? Perfume? Tampons?” he says.
I’m not amused. “Definitely not those.” My stupid face blooms red anyway. Thank God it’s still mostly dark in here. “I’ll be right back, and remember what I said—save my spot, or else.”
I get a shrug as a response and trudge my way across the walkway, yanking my bag over my shoulders as I go. It bugs me that he’s right. Despite its size, this thing is heavy and I should have left it behind. But I can’t part with it. Of all the things I own in life, which is quite a bit by most people’s standards, it would unravel me most to lose the contents of this bag. It’s funny how nearly everything inside was disposable until six years ago—a few childhood mementos, a scarf, a ribbon I used to hate. But when daily occurrences become a mere memory, things take on meaning. Once meaning latches on, it grows in intensity. That’s how the human brain works, if only to help make sense of things we can’t comprehend.
I manage to make quick work of things and am halfway through washing my hands before I get a good look at my reflection. As far as appearances go, I’ve fared worse. My hair isn’t too stringy yet, and my make-up is still in place except for two faint black smudges under my eyes that might pass for a smoky look if not for an inky line above my cheek.
I slide a wet fingertip over my skin to remove the spot. The resulting effect doesn’t look great, but pulling my ball cap low across my eyes helps a little. I’m not even a Mariners fan, but the hat was on sale at the Seattle airport when I left town and I grabbed it in a last-minute desire for anonymity. Most people are courteous, but occasionally I’ll get the nasty guy sending creepy looks my way, and in those instances it doesn’t hurt to pull my hair inside a cap and pretend I’m a guy. It never works as well as I think it will, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying. For a moment, I consider trying now but ultimately decide against it. Too much trouble, and it has nothing to do with the nameless guy who’d better be holding my spot on that nasty blue carpet.
I dry my wet hands on my jeans and latch onto my bag, feeling the relief that always comes from contact with the straps. Some might think it weird, some might call me obsessive, some might think this bag is like a security blanket that I can’t fall asleep without at night. They would all be right, but then again none of them have lived my life. If all your valuables fit inside the confines of an airplane carry-on bag, you might clutch it a little tighter as well.
It only takes me three steps outside the bathroom door to see that someone is sitting in my place. The guy I left in charge of guarding the area leans against the wall sound asleep, while a girl sits next to him with her legs curled up. She’s focused on an iPad, the soft glow from the screen’s light illuminating her face against the beginnings of a new day. She’s pretty. Strikingly so. I start to roll my eyes at the predictability of it all when I glance at the guy again. He hasn’t moved; looks like he has been out since I left. And he wanted me to leave my bag with him. So irresponsible. With a fair amount of resentment, I realize I can’t hold her good looks against him. I also realize something else.
She needs to move.
I’m actually kind of thankful for this opportunity. Once when I was younger, an uncle told me I was passive, weak, unable to stand up for myself. That as a result, I would likely spend my life being knocked around and dragged around and being pushed into proverbial corners where sweet little girls go to congregate and commiserate about what life might be like in the limelight—away from the confines of our own private insecurities.
But what he didn’t know was that inside, I was a fighter. Inside, I wanted the spotlight. Down deep, I was never okay with the corner. But it took losing everything six years ago to force me out of the shadows.
Now, the shadows are light years behind me.
I plant myself in front of the pretty girl who sits next to GQ guy whose name I still don’t know. Both are sprawled out next to each other. Leg to leg and foot to foot, practically thigh to thigh. And right now it doesn’t matter that only one of them is awake to know it, because it’s my spot. So without stopping to consider the effect of my actions or consequences of my suddenly quick temper, I glare down at her, taking time to accidently on purpose kick the toe of my shoe against the heel of the sleeping guy next to her. Now he can deal with my footprint on him for a change.
“Get out of my spot before I pick you up and force you out. Got it?”