Page 1 of The Widower's Girlfriend
1
Walker
My phone pings from my carry-on briefcase, its incessant chirping driving me crazy already. I had a cup of coffee at home while I pulled on my wool suit, but clearly, I need another. Early mornings don’t normally annoy me like this, but lately, I’ve been feeling like my life is out of control once again. Case in point: I’m at LAX, one of the busiest airports in the United States at 6 a.m. on a Monday headed to speak at a conference in Denver, Colorado, in February. Clearly, I didn’t book this flight or I would have valued my love of sleep and sunshine more than yet another speaking gig. I need to have a word with my assistant.
I check the Rolex on my wrist that my father gave me and see I have enough time to pop into the line at the coffee cart before my flight starts boarding. That is, if the lady in front of me at the entrance to the security line gets her act together.
“Oh crap,” she mutters under her breath while struggling to flip her suitcase over. I feel the tugging of a smile, even though her mishap means my window for coffee gets smaller and smaller.
The wheels on her rolling suitcase don’t seem to be functioning so instead of trying to fix it, she resorts to dragging the ugly bag while we snake through the line leading to the security checkpoint. Her huge purse starts to slide off her shoulder and she pauses to shove it back up before yet again dragging her suitcase.
When she makes the turn at the first bend in the queue, I get a glimpse of her face.
And what a face it is.
She’s gorgeous, with cornflower blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and blonde hair that keeps slipping onto her face and getting stuck in the lip gloss that highlights her pouty lips. My smile grows and my gaze locks onto her like we’re the only two people in the huge airport.
I’m startled by her beauty and then I’m startled that I gave her beauty more than tepid appreciation. My wife died eight years ago, and though I’ll always miss her like a part of me is missing, I’m not still in the throes of the grief process either. I’ve worked hard to move my way through the grieving phases in a healthy manner. Though I’ve dated a bit the last few years, and even with all the local women in Newport Beach, CA, who fit society’s definition of beauty, I haven’t been genuinely interested in anyone yet. I was beginning to think my grief broke something inside of me.
“Oh!” The extended handle on her suitcase pulls out of its slot altogether, the case falling over onto the floor with a loud bang. She scrambles to pick it back up, her face ablaze. She barely gets a hand on it when her purse slides off her shoulder again, swinging her off-balance with the weight of all the junk women put in their purses. By the time she’s teetering and about to go down, I get to her side. I grab an elbow pin-wheeling wildly and pull her back to center, the force of my tug sending her into my chest.
“Wha—” She looks at my chest in bewilderment, before her gaze rises to my face. Her eyes finally lock on mine and the airport recedes completely, leaving the two of us in our own little universe.
A beat or two goes by, both of us speechless, for probably very different reasons. My brain freezes, and for once, I’m out of words.
The startled look fades out of her face, replaced by a polite smile that looks practiced. I much prefer the honesty of her flusterment. That thought alone pulls me out my fog and brings me back to the busy day that awaits me. If I’d only let go of the strange woman I still have in my grasp.
“You may want to consider a new suitcase.” I smirk down at her sorry excuse for luggage and pry my fingers off her arm. A step back and the noise of travelers rushing around us hits my conscience.
If it’s even possible, she blushes harder and retrieves her bag, still awkwardly holding the broken handle, evidence of the shoddy condition of her luggage. Once she has everything, she looks back up at me, fake smile firmly in place.
“Ah, but then what would build my character, you know?” She winks and walks past me, her bag dragging along the floor, a startling counterpoint to her confident gait. Head held high, she keeps winding through the line.
After picking my jaw up off the floor, I follow quickly behind her. I’m not sure what affects me more: the lighthearted wink or the witty retort I wasn’t expecting. Either way you bet I’m going to enjoy watching her go through security. A few people snuck into the line between us, so thankfully I don’t look like a creep following her.
I’ve completely forgotten about my beloved cup of coffee as I see her bumble her way through the checkpoint. She nearly falls over again trying to get her boots off to walk through the metal detector. Heads turn and a bubble of irritation grows in my gut as I see it’s mostly men looking at her. With appreciation.
I roll my eyes, realizing I just did the same thing, but that was different.
Besides, she’s too young for me. She’s barely a full-fledged adult based on her looks and her choice of ridiculous luggage. I may only be thirty-four, but I feel ancient, having gone through the wringer when my late wife got sick. I need to stop looking and I definitely need to stop touching her.
Decision made, I look away and focus on getting myself through security and then hunting down the coffee line. With two minutes to spare, I get my black coffee and race to my gate. They’re just calling all first-class passengers to board when I walk up and slide right into the short line.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. James.” The female attendant scans the barcode on my phone and gives me the extra wide smile they reserve for first-class passengers. When I started making decent money a few years ago, I decided to indulge in more leg room and better food every time I flew. Which was often, based on my speaking schedule. At six foot four, the extra leg room was almost a necessity. I didn’t feel guilty about the added expense, but I made sure to retain an appreciation for everything that came with the upgrade.
Settled into my plush chair, I stow my laptop bag below the seat in front of me and rest my head back, eyes closed. There’s plenty of time on the flight to go through my presentation and make sure I’m ready to go. I’ve given this presentation dozens of times before, but since I’m being paid to make it, I always take the time to make sure I give it perfectly. Just a few short years ago, I was the grieving man, searching for any help that could get me through that dark time. To give anything less than my best would be a disservice to people who really need me.
I take a few deep breaths, visualizing the view of the beach from my front deck, feeling the ocean breeze on my skin and the sound of the seagulls swooping down for their early morning breakfast. Today’s flight didn’t leave room for my normal morning meditation, but that’s the thing about meditation: you can do it anywhere.
That is, unless you’re on a full airplane and a loud, persistent scratching noise pierces the air. I open one eye and see the lady from security entering the plane, bag dragging loudly behind her. A flight attendant intercepts her.
"I'm sorry, miss. We're out of bulkhead space. I have to ask you to check your bag. I can take it for you right here.”
I see her chest rise and fall on a big sigh. I have to hand it to her, she handles the bad news well. She simply hands her bag over with a nod and continues down the aisle.
She looks around to find her aisle number, her gaze snagging on mine before darting away. The way she bites her bottom lip makes me feel smug, knowing she recognizes me.
I close my eyes again and swear I feel her as she passes me, her light perfume tickling my nose and washing away all hopes of meditating. Then she’s gone and I go through all the reasons I need to stop thinking about her, foremost being I’m a locally recognized widower who’s made a nice living off of my blog, which turned into a monetized YouTube channel, then a book deal, TV appearances, and then a speaking tour across the country.
