Page 18 of That First Flight

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Besides, I’ve only been here a few months myself. The only places I know are where I live and this bar. That’s about it.”

“We should rectify that then, shouldn’t we?”

“I have a lot going on right now here with…” I stop myself because Oliver doesn’t know I have a daughter and I’m not sure I’m ready to disclose that information. “With work. I’m on schedule for the next week every single day,” I lie.

“Hmm,” he mumbles, wiping his mouth with a napkin after taking a bite of his burger. “Maybe I should extend my trip then.”

“Oh, you’re persistent.” I can’t help but smile.

“For some reason, I am with you.”

I feel my cheeks heat up at his admission, making it feel like a summer day in this corner of the bar.

“You never told meyourlast name.”

“Ford.” He reaches his hand across the table for me to shake it as if we’re meeting for the first time. My hand cups his and the electricity that courses up my arm at his touch is enough to shut the entire city down. “Oliver Ford.”

“Wait.” My eyes widen in shock. “As in…Notes from Oliver Ford?”

“You’ve heard of my blog?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Here and there.”

I try to hide my embarrassment that I actually follow the blog. Religiously. I’m constantly blown away by the foods he shares and wanting to learn how to create each one he posts. Wishing like hell I could visit all the places he’s been to. My foodie heart is obsessed with it.

Then, throw in the incredible scenic views he captures with his camera.

Like Oliver said before, he wants to entice people to explore the great outdoors with little notes from his travels. He does just that with every single post. He’s added to my bucket list an insane number of times.

I can’t believe I finally get to put a face to the name. The photos he posts of himself usually have his face cut off. I always assumed it was for privacy reasons.

He’s the shirtless man with the chiseled abs that’s enough to cause you to drool over your laptop.

He’s the rugged outdoorsman who can rock a backwards baseball cap and pair of Levi’s that perfectly showcase his incredible ass.

He’s the man who, without a doubt, would want nothing to do with a washed up, single mom like me.

I’m pretty sure I got a full forty minutes of sleep last night.

That’s probably exaggerating a little bit, but it felt like I tossed and turned on the couch all night long while my mind spun with thoughts of everything under the sun.

That’s the issue when dealing with my anxiety. I worry so much about anything and everything. Mostly, it’s things completely out of my control but my brain doesn’t seem to realize that.

It’s full of intrusive thoughts of things that could possibly go wrong and I can’t stop them from coming. Generally, it leads to full-body shakes, a spiked heart rate and breathing I struggle to control.

One night a while back, Dr. Google told me those feelings are signs of a panic attack coming on. Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t something I could seek help or obtain medication for since I lived under a microscope with my parents. I was too scared that they would deem me too unstable to care for my daughter.

I learned over the years that a lot of my problems stem from my relationship with them. Not a single scar on my heart came from an enemy. They came from people who were supposed to love me and support me no matter what happens in life.

People who are supposed to lift you up and encourage you to do better, people who are supposed to stand by you through thick and thin.

Tears prick at my eyes for probably the tenth time since last night. I stopped keeping track. This wasn’t the life I had planned for me and thisdefinitelywasn’t the life I had planned for my daughter.

I wonder if she thinks less of me as her mom because I can’t afford nice things.

I wonder if she resents me for taking her away from the life we were living.

Was she happy?

---