Page 11 of At First Flight
Wordlessly, I take the bag and clutch it against my chest as I allow Dean to guide me out of the store with his hand on mylower back, all the while explaining that he purchased a burner phone for me with unlimited everything.
I’m so overwhelmed I barely realize that he takes us toward a bathroom across the way. It’s one of the larger family-style kind, and as I shuffle inside, Dean follows suit.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I screech, feeling like a bunny cornered by a fox.
“I assume you’ll need help with your dress.”
I did, in fact, need help unlacing the back of the dress. I was grateful during the flight that I hadn’t needed his help when I used the restroom. The nice flight attendant had helped me gather the overabundant material for the much larger first-class lavatory.
“Fine, but that’s it. I have to pee, and I’d like to keep what little dignity I have remaining intact.”
“Of course.”
Removing his jacket, I drape it over my arms as I turn my back toward him, gathering my loose hair over my shoulder. A few seconds pass, and I wonder what’s holding him up. I know the laces and pearls are intricate, but nothing I didn’t think he could manage. When I peer over my shoulder, my skin grows hot as I take in the tic of his jaw and his hungry eyes.
Slowly, he reaches outward toward the center of my back. Instead of touching the material, the tips of his fingers brush against the skin of my back, sliding a loose piece of hair gently across my shoulder blade to join the rest of the strands. I hold my breath through the entire contact.
Then with deft fingers that leave me considering that he must have done this before, he loosens the laces until they fall through the final loop. With my arm holding his jacket, I squeezethe top of my dress against my body as he unfastens the few buttons that grace the bottom of the bodice.
No one moves. No one speaks. And Lord knows I’m not about to peer over at the mirror to look at him again. And just when I think he’s going to step away, Dean’s knuckle traces each vertebra of my spine as it travels toward the base of my neck. I could do nothing to fight against the shiver that racks my body. This stranger has me ready to bend at his will, and I’m not even sure he’s aware. But then again, I’m certain Dean realizes the power he holds over women.
“Dean,” I moan as his finger pauses, and as if I’ve imagined the entire thing, his warmth slips away.
A chill settles in the room as Dean coughs and says, “You’re all set. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Not trusting myself to look at him, I whisper that I’ll be done shortly. Once I hear the door click shut, I reach out to lock it, then start pushing the white monstrosity down my body. In the mirror across the way, I stare at the pool of lace and mesh as it rests in a heap at my feet. My body is covered in nothing more than nude-colored panties and a matching cotton bra. Simple and plain, just how I’d felt this morning at the dress fitting. A pauper among all the princesses. But as my gaze catches my stare in the mirror, I’m amazed to find my cheeks flushed and my eyes shimmering. And I know, without a doubt, that the vivacity in my body comes from one person—Dean.
After relieving myself, I dig through the bag and pull out the soft black pants, grateful they’re wide-leg so I don’t have to wrestle with my converse in a public bathroom. The pink cardigan is just as soft as it looked, the kind that feels like borrowed comfort—safe, simple, warm. I shrug it on quickly, tugging the hem down over my hips, and glance back at thediscarded wedding dress slumped in the corner like a ghost of the life I was supposed to step into.
For one reckless, wonderful second, I consider stuffing the whole damn thing into the trash can. Just bury it under the paper towels and soap wrappers.
But I don’t. Unfortunately, being that I’m broke, I figure I can sell the dress to a local consignment shop. At least that may help me get enough cash to find a place to sleep for the night.
Shoving the material with all my strength into the plastic bag, I’m disappointed to find half of the skirt spilling from the sides. Gathering all my strength, I punch the material one last time and pretend the last year of my life didn’t happen.
Because no matter how far I run, Prescott and his family will come looking. And not because they’re worried. Because they’re calculating. Because to them, everything is about appearances, and my disappearance is nothing more than a wrinkle in their perfectly curated life.
They’ll try my parents first. My sweet, unsuspecting folks back in Coral Bell Cove, who have no idea how far I drifted from them in the last year. No idea that I stopped calling as often, that I missed birthdays and holidays and Sunday dinners, not because I didn’t care, but because I was constantly being told I shouldn’t.
Prescott never outright said,you can’t talk to them.He was smarter than that. Smoother. A master at the subtle redirection.Don’t you want to spend that weekend at the fundraiser with my mother? Isn’t it a little childish to still be so close to your family?At first, it felt like a compromise. And then, slowly, it felt like erasure.
I thought I was imagining things when he started taking longer business trips. I told myself I was being paranoid whenhis texts got shorter and less frequent while he was away. I didn’t have proof of anything, just the empty spaces he left behind and the gnawing feeling that I wasn’t his only priority. Maybe not even his first.
Still, I tried. God, I tried. I smiled at his mother’s charity galas, laughed politely at his father’s off-color jokes, swallowed my discomfort and wore dresses I didn’t pick, ate food I didn’t like, and nodded through conversations I didn’t believe in.
And the deeper I was pulled into their world, the smaller mine became.
Until today.
Until the text.
And just like that, the fragile fantasy shattered.
Now, standing in this cramped restroom in an outfit I couldn’t even buy for myself, staring at the crumpled gown in the bag, it’s clearer than ever: I gave up too much trying to fit into a life that never had room for me.
And whatever Prescott’s family was hiding, whatever skeletons were polished up and paraded behind designer suits and practiced smiles, I sure don’t know the half of it. Not yet. And I’m not even certain I want to. But what little I’ve learned from being around them is that truth will come soon enough.
I’m not crawling back into their world. I’m not answering their calls or explaining myself or smoothing this over with grace and pleasantries. Not this time.
