Page 6 of The Trouble with Wanting

I hate that my roommate told me the entire flight is just everyone farting the entire time and breathing in each other’s gas, so now I’m consumed with worry about breathing through my nose because the idea of inhaling particles from someone else’s butt is making me want to gag.

But mostly? I hate how much I hate this.

I don’t usually hate anything.

I’m the girl who claps for the performers on the T, even though they’re in everyone’s way. The girl who dances to the music in my headphones as I walk home from work. The person who looks people in the eye as I walk down the street and always has a smile.

I’m a massage therapist, for goodness sake. My whole job is to create a relaxing and peaceful environment for people and then work their bodies over so they let go of the mental worries that are causing them physical stress.

Even though I’m maintaining my composure and calm at the forefront of my mind, I can feel this tiny vein of toxic, sludgy pessimism and negativity slowly churning through my body.

I don’t want to be on this stupid plane, going on a trip that was a stupid idea in the first place, to spend time with a stupid person I don’t even want to see.

I let out a slightly shaky breath and tuck my hands under my thighs.

Okay, so none of that is actually true. I’m just nervous.

I’ve never flown before. I’m the only person I know who has never been on a plane, and that includes my neighbor Fiona’s kids, who are 2 and 5 years old and have apparently flown “a skillion times” if you ask them.

It makes me feel like a bit of a crazy person, willingly buckling myself into a big metal machine that’s supposed to defy gravity, but I figure millions of people do it every year and the number of times you hear about people dying in a plane crash isn’t often enough to warrant hysteria.

Right?

Right.

Still, that doesn’t help the fact that my stomach has decided to turn itself inside out.

I let out another breath, trying to steady my emotions and focus my mind on something soothing. I need to find a happy place, need to channel the calm I seek in my weekly yoga class and the peace of my daily meditations.

Taking in another deep breath, I remind myself that I have a reason for this trip, and I’m not going to back down from it just because I’m afraid of falling from the sky.

Fuck do I hate this.

I glance over at my seat buddy.

Boyd.

Such a strong, masculine name. It sounds like something out of a movie.

Even the way he said it, with that rich baritone striking a chord somewhere deep in my body, made him sound like he belongs on the silver screen. He could be a voiceover artist or someone who reads audiobooks. It wouldn’t surprise me if I found out he was someone famous, or at least social media famous.

I mean…he’s gorgeous.

It’s not the kind of boyish charm I normally find attractive. It’s much more serious, like he’s got real-life responsibilities. The kind of guy who has an accountant and a barber and a favorite grocery store. A guy who drinks whiskey neat and smokes cigars and can fix his own dishwasher when it stops working.

A man kind of man.

As he stares at the phone in his hand and the flight attendants wander around finishing up their last checks, I allow myself a moment to study his profile.

Clean-shaven strong jaw, thick brows that slash across his face, and a prominent nose. Warm, chestnut eyes help to soften his otherwise harsh features, though even just based on the brief moment we spoke, he seems like the type of man who would never want to be described as warm.

When he stood up earlier to let me pass, I was overwhelmed by his size. He’s probably an entire foot taller than I am, though that isn’t very hard to do since I clock in at 5’3” at the start of the day when my spine hasn’t fully compressed yet. I only get shorter from there.

I’ve always had a thing for tall guys. Call it genetics or hormones or some sort of subconscious, antiquated notion of wanting a big strong man to protect me, but damn if I don’t have a thing for them big boys.

Tall and lanky has been my thing in the past—a common body type in the yoga world—but I can definitely get behind the more filled-out, muscular frame Boyd is carrying around.

Sure, I can pretend I was just being friendly when I introduced myself. I do love chatting with people I’ve never met before, but the truth is that I couldn’t imagine anything better on a horridly long flight than chatting with the stud next to me—especially if it means I get to listen to that sexy-as-sin voice rumble my way.

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