Page 1 of The Promises We Break

1

HUDSON

“My apologies, Mr. Byrnes. The flight was overbooked and your ticket was canceled. We asked if anyone would be open to giving up their seat in first class, however no one was willing. I’m looking up some other options for you right now.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I glance up at the poor, probably ridiculously underpaid, woman who looks beyond exhausted, giving people bad news. Her eyes lack energy as she plasters on a fake smile, making quick work on her keyboard.

Looking around the check-in area, there are hordes of people. Some impatiently wait, while others are completely oblivious to their surroundings, perusing their phones, scrolling mindlessly through whatever is capturing their attention.

The woman next to me has her luggage wide open as she transfers clothes and toiletries from one bag to another. She is in a panicked rush as her husband aggressively asks her why she needed six pairs of shoes and enough denim to dress an army.

Why the guys decided to have Jake’s bachelor party the firstweekend after the New Year, when travel is at its absolute peak, is a complete mystery to me.

I peek down at the name tag of the woman that’s helping me,Ruth, and when I look back, she has replaced that grimace with another smile. This one tinted with remorse. She’s probably in her late fifties or early sixties, close to retirement, and would probably rather spend her days retired with her grandchildren. Instead, she is here, getting yelled at for things beyond her personal control.

As I open my mouth to reply to her, she winces, like she is preparing for verbal armageddon. She’s conditioned for abuse.

This poor thing.

“Hey, Ruth. It’s not your fault. Please don’t stress. I’m not in a rush to get there urgently, but I do need to get there before 8pm this evening. Can you give me my options to make that happen?” Am I frustrated? Sure. But my tone is sincere because, in the grand scheme of life issues, this isn’t a tragedy.

Inconvenient? Yes. Life threatening and worth unnecessary anger? No.

Plus, I’ve just received the most hopeful news of my career, and not even being stuck at the airport during the holidays can dampen that mood.

The breathy smile she releases is both sweet and endearing. Kindness goes a long way. I wish more people could step outside themselves in moments like these and show compassion and understanding.

“Absolutely! I see we have a first class seat available this evening that will get you into Las Vegas around 8pm.” She’s moving her fingers from her keyboard to her mouse and back again. “Actually, I can get you onthissame flight, sir. Although the seat is in coach.” She leans her head to the left to look past her computer screen, trailing my body from head to toe. “Fortunately, it’s in the emergency exit row, so you’ll have some extra leg space.”

Her once over of me is the exact reason I always book first class. I’ve played baseball my entire life and my over-utilized upper body muscles are as thick as my shoulders are wide. At least that’s what it feels like when you cram me into a coach seat. Like shoving an octopus in a sardine can. My six-foot-four height doesn’t help the matter.

“Emergency exit row?” I bounce my head back and forth. It’s about a two and a half hour flight. I’ll just plug my headphones in and sit tight. Literally—in a water slide tunnel position—for two hours. “That sounds great, Ruth. Let’s do that.”

“Oh, wonderful, Mr. Byrnes. I will issue a fully transferable first-class credit for you to use at your convenience, and this flight will also be on us.” She hands me my boarding pass and California ID back with a beaming smile.

“Have a great day, Ruth. Keep smiling, okay?” I take a step back toward the security checkpoint and she calls out.

“Mr. Byrnes?” I glance back as she mouths. “Thank you.”

Showing my Texas roots, I dip my chin and tip my baseball cap at her before heading toward my flight.

2

HUDSON

As I duck through the entrance of the plane to make my way down the bean pole they call an aisle, I instantly regret my coach decision. The air is as stiff as Marge Simpson’s hair and as spacious as a Costco parking lot on Christmas Eve. I’m trying to remain positive, but I hope this isn’t a precursor to how this weekend will turn out.

I walk past the seats, and I skim over the aisle numbers for row nineteen. Seventeen, eighteen, ah, nineteen. Here we are.

A quick glance down at the dual lined exit seats has my neck whiplash with a double take. Gorgeous, bright auburn hair, that flows over a petite woman, steals my attention. Her leg is crossed over the other as she balances a crossword puzzle on her lap, nibbling on the top of the pen she is holding.

Sensing my looming presence, she tilts her head toward me, simultaneously bringing her hand to her face to pull the thick cinnamon curtain that attempts to cradle her face behind her ear.

The gaze of her emerald eyes collides with my chocolate ones, and the back draft that flows between them creates a mesh of invisible fireworks that I feeleverywhere. The oncestuffy air is now replaced with thick, dense oxygen, forbidding my body to breathe, and I’m internally choking on the rapid beating of my own heart.

She is the most captivating woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

“Is that your seat?” a gruff voice behind me asks impatiently, ripping us out of our trance.

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