Page 3 of In Flight

To distract myself, I connect my phone to the wireless internet and message Cash. We’ve been dating for about three months now. I wouldn’t say we’re serious, but we’ve been going out consistently and I’ve been having a good time with him. He’s a nice, funny country boy, and he appreciates both my nature and my body.

I could do a lot worse.

A quick glance beside me reminds me of how much worse I could do.

Cash replies almost immediately since he’s back at home and not doing anything right now. He texts that he’s planning to hang out with a couple of buddies later in the evening and he misses me already.

I mention my annoying seatmate, and Cash asks about him. I feel better after recounting all my various grievances against the man beside me, but Cash says he doesn’t sound that bad.

The rational side of my brain agrees, but the rest of me doesn’t appreciate Cash’s assessment. I continue messaging him for a couple more minutes so it doesn’t look like I’m pouting, but then I end the conversation, sighing as I set my phone back down.

The man has been studiously pretending I don’t exist, so I’m surprised when he shifts his head toward me slightly. “Boyfriend being annoying too?”

“What? Of course not. Why would you say that?”

“Why are you pretending it’s not true?”

“You don’t even know who I was talking to.”

“I can reach a reasonable deduction. And he was definitely annoying you. You got tense and jittery the way you were when you were annoyed with me.”

I would really like to swat that smug expression off his face. “I don’t know why you believe it’s appropriate to make unfounded assumptions about strangers, but you’re not as smart and perceptive as you like to believe.”

“So you weren’t annoyed with your boyfriend just now?”

I want to lie, but I don’t. It’s simply not in my nature. Not even with this infuriating man. “He’s not really my boyfriend,” I say primly.

“Really?”

“We’ve been going out for a few months.”

“If you don’t know he’s it by now, you might as well move on.”

“I told you it’s only been a few months!”

“I heard you. But you’re clearly the kind of person who throws herself enthusiastically into anything that’s genuinely working for her, so you’d know by now if he was right for you.”

I gape at him, breathing raggedly, torn between outrage and a sliver of recognition that what he’s saying is actually true.

I’ve had a good time with Cash. But part of the good time is being with a man who really likes me when most of my life has been spent being overlooked by men. I sometimes try to imagine what a long life with Cash might look like, and it doesn’t excite me. It doesn’t feel quite right—like I’m forcing us into a shape that will never fit.

But that’s none of this man’s business. I’m certainly not about to admit it to him. I stare out the window at the wispy threads of clouds. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I think I do.”

“What exactly do you think you know?”

He closes his laptop, holding it steady on his lap. (He’s not the kind of person to drop or lose things like I am.) He takes a sip from the bottle of water he pulled from his case a little while ago. And he begins, “You weren’t born in Savannah although you live there now. You’re probably visiting your family in Boston, so my bet is that’s where you were born and raised. I’m guessing you moved to Savannah to attend the art school and just stayed there afterward, wanting to be your own person and get some distance from your family.”

A gasp gets stuck in my throat. It’s unnerving—shocking—how right he is about each detail. I don’t reply, just sit motionless as he continues.

“You’re obviously artistic. And crafty. You probably have an Etsy shop.”

I jerk slightly because that is true too.

“But it hasn’t taken off yet, so you need some sort of regular job. You were exaggerating your ditziness earlier, and there were some organized lists of future projects in the back of your notebook, so you’re obviously capable of containing your free spirit and creativity enough to do a normal office job. Something that doesn’t demand too much of you so that you have time and energy for your more important creative pursuits. People probably like you and think you’re approachable. If they don’t, you flash those dimples and they cave. So you’d find a job dealing with people fairly easy. Let me think.” He rubs his chin. His bristles make a slightly scratchy sound. “Human resources?”

I almost choke. “How—”

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