Page 21 of Deep In Love
We’re going to die.
Maybe it’s the anxiety or the sudden consciousness of my mortality, but my panic increases tenfold. I can’t die; I’ve accomplishednothing. No first author publications. No whale falls. No PhD. Loveless. No money to my name. Celibate.
The last one washes over me like arctic water.
I cannot die without one more decent romp in the sheets.
My last hookup was a dud, and I decided it wasn’t worth spending weeks vetting someone new when he would only last thirty seconds.
“Breathe,” Mateo whispers, pausing a beat before reaching out and tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “It’s going to be fine.”
He slides the earbud back into my ear, but instead of the audiobook, the beginning notes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” play.
A goofy smile blossoms as he softly sings the beginning lines of the song. He wiggles his eyebrows, and the corner of my lips twitches.
The plane shakes, and his grip around my fingers tightens—a solid shield against an invisible enemy. His shoulders shimmy while he hovers our connected hands in front of my mouth.
I sing a single line on a shaky breath before the aircraft dips again and the air is ripped from my lungs.
Mateo takes over, singing every word of the seven-minute song until the turbulence ends and the seat belt sign flickers off. When I regain function of my legs, I fly to the bathroom, desperate for space from him—at least as much as I can manage in this soaring metal deathtrap.
I grip the sides of the tiny basin, horrified by my reflection. I’m a fucking wreck. My hair is out of sorts, my skin pale and clammy, and the scar crossing my brow is a deep, angry red.
The skin is puffy against the pad of my finger, the edges ragged all the way down to my cheekbone. Crude suturing work performed by a resident rather than a plastic surgeon left a lasting impact, and I’m reminded of one doctor’s choice every time I pass a mirror. Had it been a plastic surgeon, maybe it wouldn’t be so ugly.
I force a tilt of my lips, but it falls flat.
After smoothing out my hair and adjusting my top, I return to my seat but falter at the tender smile Mateo offers. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes haunt me—a ghost I both want to exorcise and demand to torment me forever.
Attraction barrels into my chest with unexpected force as I slump into my seat, and my heart flutters when he picks up my hand without a word and places it in his lap, nestled between each of his palms.
It’s the hand-holding, I tell myself to justify the weird flipping sensation in my chest.You’re touch-starved and anxiety-ridden. This is a response to that.
“Feeling better?” he asks, swiping his thumb against the back of my hand. I nod, unable to form a coherent response, because, surprisingly, I do feel better knowing he’s sitting beside me. “Good.”
He squeezes my hand, and for the remainder of the flight, I try to banish the tingles left by his touch.
I drag my duffle bag onto the ground, huffing from the exertion, when a hand wraps around the handle and lifts it with ease. I know it’s heavy because I had to bargain with the airline workers to avoid the overweight fee.
“I am entirely capable of carrying that myself.”
“No one said you weren’t.” Mateo slings his bag over one shoulder and mine over the other. My jaw may drop at the sheer strength required to carry both bags.
I nearly threw my back out carrying my own.
“Hand it over,” I demand.
The last thing I need is for him to believe I am some damsel in distress or incapable of completing tasks on my own. I may have pins and rods in my body, and my knees may creak when I walk up a flight of stairs, but I can still carry my bag.
“Just because youcancarry it, doesn’t mean you have to.”
“It’s my bag.”
He can’t do this for me, not when my emotions are out of whack and he comforted me through an anxiety attack without a single teasing remark. I need solid ground, so I tug on the handles, trying to wrestle it away from him.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, he tightens his grip, and I careen into his body, the air escaping my lungs when I ricochet into him.
“Fine!” I throw my hands up as I find my center of gravity. I asked for solid ground, but I’m annoyed that he’s about as solid as it gets. “If you insist on being a pack mule, I’m not going to argue with an ass.”
