Page 52 of In Flight

Eleven

ALTHOUGH I’M CONVINCEDI’m doing the smart, mature thing by keeping my heart from going all in too soon, I regret my decision almost immediately.

For the rest of Monday, I wish I handled the situation differently, though I have no idea what else I should have done.

All Tuesday, I manage to calm myself down by repeatedly visualizing Isaac’s face when we parted. He wasn’t upset. He wasn’t annoyed by my hesitance. He understood. After all, he’s the reasonable, methodical one. He won’t want to rush into a full relationship without everything being worked out first.

But on Wednesday, I’m second-guessing myself again, and each following day I swing back and forth between optimism and hopeless regret.

It’s a very unsettling emotional state to exist in for five days.

Finally Friday arrives, and I’m frazzled. Not the giddiness of previous flight days. This one is as much dread as excitement.

Because what if I messed up?

What if I lost even the temporary connection to Isaac that has meant so much to me these past weeks?

What if, like always, I acted precipitately—based on the whims of my heart rather than the safer, steadier grounding of real life?

What if I’m never going to be able to make a relationship work long-term?

All this keeps me jittery and nervous as a friend drops me at the airport and I go through the regular, tedious procedure of lines and security and practically disrobing in front of crowds of strangers. I keep hoping to see Isaac as I make my way to the normal gate, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

That doesn’t mean anything. He’s always running a bit late.

By the time I get in my seat, I wish I wore a lighter top. I’ve got on a long, pleated plaid skirt and a heavy cable-knit sweater with a deep V-neck because I thought the dark red color and the neckline make me look sexy. At least as sexy as I’m capable of—which isn’t very. I’ve never had the knack that so many women have to attract sexual attention in street clothes.

At my best, I look sweet and cozy. Not sultry at all.

I’m beginning to question the purpose of my looking nice at all when the flight attendant goes through the aisle, closing the overhead compartments. She pauses above me. “Where’s your man today?”

My man.

The words sound absolutely, deliciously right.

But Isaac isn’t my man. I don’t even have his phone number.

What if Monday night didn’t mean as much to him as it meant to me? What if, for whatever reason, he’s running away now? Ghosting me?

It’s happened to me twice before, back in my early twenties. I’ve never had one-night stands, but a couple of times I spent a few weeks flirting with a guy and becoming increasingly hopeful about the potential. But as soon as I slept with him, he vanished, breaking off all contact. The first time, I was young and confused and clueless. I texted repeatedly. Called twice. Left a mortifying message explaining that I was worried something happened to him.

I finally got the message when I saw him with another woman at a coffee shop near campus.

The second time it happened, I sent one message and nothing more after the first one went unanswered.

This time I can’t even send a message.

I’ll never know if Isaac got scared and ran. Or if sex with me wasn’t as good as he was hoping and he decided not to bother with more. Or if he got hit by a truck on his way to work.

There are a couple dozen Isaac Beckers in the Boston area. I don’t know the name of his company. I’d never be able to track him down.

I’m so upset I’m close to tears, staring out the small window as the ground crew finishes loading the baggage, when a voice comes from above me.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

I jump. Unfortunately, it’s an actual jump—a small one—because I’m so surprised by Isaac’s presence when I’d mentally determined he wasn’t going to show up.

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