Page 72 of Falling for You Again

“If you’re like my sister on her wedding day, you probably haven’t eaten anything except the champagne when you boarded. I asked the attendant to leave you a tray. You need to eat.”

I needed to pee.

“Move, please.” I struggled to get out of my seat.

“Why?” His brows pulled to the center as if a seamstress sewed them together.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I said with some urgency.

“Oh.Ohhhh.” He was out of his seat in an instant, taking our dinners with him and balancing the trays with a skill that under normal circumstances might have been admirable.

But nothing about that day had been normal. I was operating in new territory. For months, my wedding day had been planned down to the second. I’d woken that morning fully expecting to be married by evening. But I’d done the most spontaneous thing in my life, and my immediate future resided in a fog bank.

Gathering the skirt and train, I scooted from the row and up the aisle, squeezing into the narrow lavatory. I turned to close the door, and in my search for the latch, the train spilled into the aisle.

“Shit.” I pulled the train back and shoved the bifold door. It didn’t budge. I tried again. The door closed partially only to bounce back open. “Fuuuuuuck,” I cursed through gritted teeth. The mountain of fabric blocked the door. Where was a bridesmaid when you needed one? I couldn’t close the door on my own—impossible in that dress.

I poked my head into the aisle. The flight attendant was busy serving dinner. The nearest person out of their seat was my seatmate. He stood holding our trays, talking to the woman seated in the row acrossfrom us. If I’d overheard correctly when we boarded, she was traveling with her husband to Las Vegas for their fortieth wedding anniversary. They planned on taking in a show and gambling.

Good for them for having a long, successful marriage. I couldn’t imagine Paul and I would have lasted for a fraction of that time, not if our marriage was as stifling as the months leading up to the wedding. Or as stifling as that dress.

“Hey,” I said to get my seatmate’s attention, wishing I’d had the forethought to ask him his name. “Hey you.”

A front-row passenger curiously looked up at me, then back at my seatmate, who was chatting like he could stand there all day, holding our food.

“Guy with the trays,” I said a little louder with more desperation.

“Excuse me, sir.” The front row passenger tapped my seatmate’s arm and pointed at me.

He finally looked over, his face pulled in confusion as if wondering what could I possibly want with him.

“Help.”

He cocked his head. If his hands were free, he’d be pointing at himself and asking, “Me?”

I widened my eyes, hoping he caught on to my desperation. It took a second, but he clued in.

He set our food on our seat trays and came over. “What’s up?”

“Can you push in the rest of my dress?”

“What? Oh. Sure.” He looked down and picked up the errant layer I couldn’t reach and handed it to me.

“Close the door, please.”

He did and I fumbled to locate the latch. The door popped open a crack. I growled in frustration and toed the door fully open. He was headed back to our row. “Wait!”

He backed up to the lavatory doorway, his brows lifted in question.

“Hold the door closed, please.”

“You want me to stand here while you ...” He didn’t finish that thought. And if my bladder hadn’t been about to burst, I would have teased him about the deep blush smearing across his cheeks. His skin was like a mood ring.

“I can’t reach the lock. You have to hold it closed from your side.”

I didn’t wait for his agreement. I shut the door with a huge sigh of gratitude when it didn’t bounce open again. Thank goodness he held it from the other side because, through a miraculous feat of contortion, I was able to do my business. I even managed to wash and dry my hands.

Then I caught sight of my reflection. I looked haggard. Smudged mascara with hair as stiff as straw from the amount of hairspray the stylist had used, sticking up all over my head. There I was, on a plane to Vegas, of all god-awful places, because I had no plan after I’d run. All I’d known was that I had wanted out—out of my commitment to marry Paul and out of our relationship. I now wanted out of that dress.

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