Handful by C.R. Grissom
CHAPTER NINE
Kirsty
Flying coast to coast when you’re moving to a new place necessitates a deeper commitment not to lose your shit on random people who frustrate and annoy you. My flight from Boston to Dallas-Forth Worth wasn’t bad, but the final three hours of the journey tests me.
The drunk dude seated in the window seat behind mine keeps reaching into the space between the seat and the window to tap my shoulder and continue the conversation he started with me while waiting to board back in Dallas. Apparently I look like his ex-girlfriend who just dumped him.
I jumped in my seat the first time he tapped my shoulder, disturbing the person seated in the middle of our row with a terminal case of man spread. His elbows commandeered both armrests the second he sat down. His knees are spread wide enough to shove a speculum in where the sun doesn’t shine.
I can’t lean any farther away from the guy in the middle, and I’m vulnerable to the guy behind me. We haven’t reached cruising altitude since the captain hasn’t turned off the seat belt sign.
I’m petite but being short and somewhat slender doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own. I’m fiercer than a pissed-off honey badger when it comes to the people I love. My parents, Collin, and Faith. My circle of friends expands each day. There’s Beau, Faith’s left coast bestie, and Phoebe, along with an entire squad of Gladiators who have become my friends.
There’s a certain mountain, too.
When the guy behind kicks my seat hard to get my attention I twist around, make eye contact, and give him my death stare. “Knock it off.”
He’s been whispering, “Psst, hey…” ever since I clipped my seat belt and made sure my tray table was locked and in its upright position.
“You gotta listen to me,” he pleads.
“No. I don’t,” I hiss.
I’m probably going to have to involve the flight attendant. Won’t that be fun? Ignoring the dude behind me certainly isn’t working.
Hmm.I’ve handled Everest and his texts much the same way. His texts are flirty, funny, and a virtual dual-edged sword for me these past months. It cuts both ways since I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. It’s the reason I haven’t engaged in banter with him. I didn’t ghost him, or not much. I couldn’t bring myself to take that step.
That damn kiss.
It’s haunted me ever since we broke apart to hug the rest of the group.
God.I must have imagined my reaction. I’d overindulged the evening before. Besides, traveling weakens your immune system. It’s a proven fact. Our to-do list was miles long that week and I’m sure exhaustion played a role. My mind simply played tricks on me.
Bullshit.I have to be honest and admit it was the best kiss I’ve ever had.
Dexter Smallwood, my first, lacked skills in just about every way. Will, from senior year of high school, sort of kissed like an oyster—wet, sloppy, and about as appealing as making out with a freshly harvested mollusk. Daniel, the dickface—better than both predecessors—turned out to be a huge mistake. Thank goodness he stopped all efforts at contact.
The problem: Everest is in a class all by himself.
My shoulder gets poked from behind. “Such pretty hair. I know you can hear me, Maggie,” the drunk says softly.
Fabulous.
Reaching under the seat, I unzip my backpack and pull out my hoodie. I quickly put it on, tucking my hair inside the hood to save myself from another whiskey-induced jab from the guy behind me.
My brain says calm down, it’s been six hours since you left Boston Airport, but my body says no way, that was like a week ago.
The captain turns off the fasten seat belt sign and the guy in the middle nearly climbs over the woman with the aisle seat in our row, who snaps, “Give me a minute.”
She unclips her seat belt with a huff and steps into the aisle to allow him to pass. I decide to go to the bathroom, too. Getting away from the dude behind me is a vital move. Maybe he’ll pass out while I’m gone and leave me alone. I wouldn’t want to disturb the lady taking up the end seat in our row again. She looks like a biter.
To be fair, my impression might be a direct result of supervising one too many playdates for Collin. I should withhold judgment until she actually clamps her teeth into one of us, thereby proving my theory.
I scoot by her, uttering a quick, “Thanks.”
I’m behind the man-spreader in line for the lavatory. He’s leaning against the wall separating the cabin from the lavs and galley. He’s clueless about it, and a mere two inches protects the person in the aisle seat from getting butt-cracked to the face.
I feel for the lady avoiding an intimate encounter with his denim-clad glutes. Like me, she’s clearly unhappy. Not sure which is worse: having a drunk dude mistake me for his ex or being forced to hover awkwardly into the farthest reaches of my seat.
Not that long ago I was the drunk girl clinging to Matiu, firing off suggestive KickBack posts, and drunk-dialing Daniel. I get it. This is my karma-induced payback. Matiu put up with me. I should probably put up with this guy.
Matiu and I still text each other. I feel a guilty pinch to my conscience. I’m texting him and not Everest. Matiu’s a nice guy. Plus, he doesn’t pose a threat to my libido or peace of mind. We’ve become friends. I don’t think he wants to get in my pants, and I plan to leave his hose alone.
I’ve left my family behind for my new adventure. No baby brother to supervise. My heart twinges. I love that kid, but I get to be selfish for once, now that he’ll start kindergarten. Okay, if I’m being totally honest with myself, I wish I could be the one who walks him to school on his first day, but I’ll be at Fortis, studying my ass off. My eyes fill.
Mom promised to send me the vid and that’ll have to be enough.
This is my chance to focus on my needs. Everest.
No.I admonish myself. Don’t link your needs with the mountain. Bad idea. Granny Kay will roll over in her grave. I won’t torpedo my plans.
One of the lav doors opens and the man-spreader hurries inside. Another minute passes before the second door opens, and I hop in the tiny cabin restroom. I glance in the mirror and realize I look like a kid with my green Celtics hoodie pulled up over my hair. My small, triangular face, pokes out from the hood and makes me look like Tinker Bell going incognito.
Ugh. I pull the hoodie down and try to finger-comb my hair. What a mess.
Whatever. It’s cool. I scowl at my reflection. My honey badger expression properly conveys my current attitude. Stay away. I bare my teeth. Maybe I should consider biting people, too. I’ll start with the man-spreader in the middle seat then climb over my seat to clamp my teeth on the drunk guy.
Okay, maybe not. I’d have someone’s flesh in my mouth. An image of Everest the last time I saw him forms in my mind. A black tux covering his fine body. I imagine unzipping his pants and scraping my teeth down his perfectly formed and naked ass. I have excellent skills filling in the blanks. My stomach dips.
Fantasizing about the man is not helping. I play the ‘what if’ game. What if you ask Everest if he’s interested in sex, fun, and friendship? Super low-key, and when the sexual part of the relationship is over, the friendship lasts. No harm, no foul.
The idea makes my core clench like a fist.
I do my business—a challenge with a fisted core—and wash my hands.
Walking back to my seat, I make eye contact with the guy in the row behind me. He’s scrunched into his seat. He’s lanky—all arms and legs—and way too tall for the restricted legroom of the main cabin. No wonder he’s knocking into my seat. He shoots me a finger wave, and I nod in return. His lips form the name Maggie.
Shit.
Shaking my head, “Not Maggie,” I correct.
He blows me a boozy kiss.
The lady in our row’s aisle seat clears her throat to get my attention. I take her hint and have to climb over the man-spreader because he won’t exit the row to allow me to reach my seat.
The second I lean back in my seat, the dude pokes me, and I pitch forward to get as far away as I can from him.
“Maggie, listen,” he implores.
“I’m not Maggie,” I groan. “If you touch me again, you’re going to regret it.”
This flight seems endless, and I can’t wait to land. Still tilted forward to remain out of the dude’s grasp, I quickly braid my hair so the tail rests over my left shoulder. I pull my hoodie up and over my head again.
I grab my earbuds, launch the music app on my phone, and tune out the guy behind me. I block the opening between the seats with my backpack. The flight attendants wheel the beverage cart down the aisle, but I decline since my drunken pest keeps kicking my seat every few minutes and I don’t want soda stains down my front. Besides, I don’t want to make another trip to the lavs either. The drunk guy orders a screwdriver.
Terrific.
“Maggie, please.” The dude grabs the top of my seat, rocking it forward, launching me toward the reclined seat of the passenger in front of me.
I catch myself on the seat back before my head makes contact. The person in that seat complains, “Watch it.”
I grind my teeth.
The man-spreader asks, “Do you need to sit with your boyfriend? I’ll switch seats with him.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I hiss.
“Harsh,” he murmurs.
For fuck’s sake.
The fasten seat belt sign flashes on and the captain announces we’re about to hit turbulence. I shove my backpack under the seat in front of me. Each mile brings me closer to my destiny and Everest. I consider my proposition. No, I couldn’t ask Everest to be what amounts to a fuck buddy.
My entire body flushes at the thought.
The dude taps my shoulder. I sigh. Soon we’ll land, and eventually the drunk will be a distant and unpleasant moment from my past.
Unlike Everest, who I’m hurtling closer to with each passing minute. Keep my mouth shut. Stay friends. No benefits.
Scrolling through his texts makes me smile. Especially since he answered his own riddles. His last one sent a week ago nearly made me cave and text back. He wrote:
What needs an answer but doesn’t ask a question?
A few hours later he added: A phone.
I tapped back his text with the laugh reaction.
What the hell am I going to say to him when we meet in person? Hey, about those texts… They kept me thinking about him throughout the entire spring semester. I mean, he’s unforgettable without the aid of technology.
I should tell him the truth. You turn me on so much you scare me. I try to imagine telling him how I feel while staring into his navy-blue eyes and all the moisture evaporates from my mouth.
Sheesh.
An hour later, the man-spreader fell asleep. He tried to use me as a pillow, but I leaned out of the way. Now I have a crick in my neck. My back is killing me from my awkward position and the drunk hasn’t let up. Aren’t his knees aching yet?
When the dude starts singing “Maggie May” by Rod Stewart—a song Granny Kay loved—my whole body freezes. One part of my brain registers the fact that he has a surprisingly nice voice. When some of the passengers join him in verse, my body goes in the other direction and heats to a flashpoint.
Everyone claps when he finishes. Except me. I’m mortified.
I feel his presence hovering above me. He must have gotten out of his seat to lean over mine.
One of the flight attendants admonishes, “Sir, take your seat.”
I tilt my head upward because like a train wreck it’s impossible not to look.
He has his cocktail in hand. “I don’t wanna break up.” He gestures wildly. Dumping the contents of his nearly full cup of orange juice and vodka over my head.
Fuuuuuuuck!
The man-spreader leans into the woman on the aisle, pushing himself as far away from me as possible to avoid getting wet. She’s pinwheeling her arms, but is rooted in place by her seat belt.
I look down at myself. The tail of my braid is covered and dripping orange muck. No. No. No. I stare at my dripping hair.
The drunk tries to blot my hair with an airline cocktail napkin, which immediately falls apart leaving wet gobs of tissue clinging to my braid.
I could count to one hundred and it wouldn’t fix my anger level.
I’ve been screwdrivered.