Page 34 of Nantucket Gala

Henry turned to look at the pretty woman across the aisle. Her hand was raised as though she were trying to grasp at something, and she put her third finger and thumb together in half a snap. Henry raised his eyebrows and his glass of wine.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” the woman finished.

Henry was surprised. He tried to fit the girl within the context of his ordinary life in Los Angeles—the coffee shops he wrote at, the grocery stores he frequented, and the bars where he bought the cheapest drinks available. He snapped his fingers.

“I’m not sure,” Henry said finally, feeling disappointed in himself.

The woman’s blue eyes were the color of the Nantucket Sound on the brightest of summer days.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” the woman said, smiling in a way that showed all of her pristine teeth.

“Maybe I just look like someone you know.”

The woman shook her head so her red curls bounced across her shoulders. It was endearing. “The longer I look at you, the more I’m sure I know you.”

Henry took a sip of wine. He wasn’t sure what to say. But for whatever reason, he wanted to continue this conversation. He didn’t want her to look away.

“My name is Henry,” he said.

“Henry what?”

“Henry Crawford.”

The woman wrinkled her freckled nose. “I don’t know that name.”

“What’s yours?”

“I’m not sure I should say,” the woman said playfully. “What if I don’t really know you? I’m not in the habit of giving away personal details to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger. I told you. I’m Henry Crawford. You can look me up online,” Henry said.

The woman chuckled. “I’m not going to pay for airline internet just to look up your name.”

Henry felt a funny mix of frustration and joy. It had been ages since he’d flirted with anyone, and maybe even longer since he’d felt genuinely attracted to someone.

“You don’t think I’m worth the cost of the internet?” Henry asked.

“It’s not that,” the woman went on. “It’s just that I really enjoy these hours in the sky without internet. Nobody can email me or call me or send me a DM. I can’t see a single meme. They’re hours of joy difficult to recreate elsewhere.”

“You could always turn off your phone.”

The woman raised her shoulders and smiled wider. “That sounds too easy, Henry Crawford.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Do you live in LA?”

“I do,” she said. “But I hate it.”

Henry laughed. “I haven’t been there long, but I think I know what you mean.”

“I can’t keep up with all the status chasing,” she said.

“I like to stay in my room and write,” Henry agreed.

The woman looked at him with squinty eyes. “I still can’t figure out how I know you.”

Henry was getting frustrated. His hands were clammy. Was she really not going to tell him her name?

“Tell me this, Henry,” she said. “What are you chasing in LA? What brought you there?”

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