Page 4 of At First Flight
“So since we’re getting married, why don’t you tell me your name?”
“I’m not telling you my name,” she mumbles as I stick out my hand across the aisle.
“I’m your future husb—”
“Are you for real right now?”
A normal man would have cowered at her tone. Her frown grew with each passing second. But I’m no average man, and I’ve been known to poke a bear or two. But I have an end goal in mind for my ghost girl.
“One hundred percent. Ever wanted to do something spontaneous?”
“I… well… I.”
“Come on,” I say as I lean over the empty seat, shifting my hand back, my elbow resting on the aisle side armrest. “What have you got to lose? Marry me, ghost girl.”
“You’re crazy.” I almost believe her. Almost let her words scathe my skin with their intention, but then the corner of her mouth tilts upward, and it all fizzles away. Making myself seem like a lunatic is all worth it by getting her to smile.
“Certifiable,” I agree.
The plane chooses that moment to lurch forward and start taxiing down the runway. The attendants go through their routine regarding safety, and the flight attendant from earlier checks on our bridal guest one last time before the engines kick into full gear.
As a kid, takeoffs sent me into a spiral of motion sickness. On our private jet, the attendants always had crackers and ginger ale ready once the plane leveled out. My motionsickness improved as I got older and utilized a plane more than the average billionaire. But as the plane surges through the sky, reaching a higher altitude with each passing second, my nausea is combated not by ginger or salty carbs but by a woman whose hands clutch the armrests as if her life depended on it. Her ivory skin has turned an ashen shade of white, matching her fingernails clawing at the metal of the support, all in stark contrast to the dark lashes fanned along her cheeks as she clenches her eyes tightly shut. The neckline of her dress moves in tandem with her short spurts of breath as she tries to pull air into her lungs. She’s at a point I recognize all too well—a looming panic attack.
Peering over the headrest, I search for the flight attendants, ignoring my own wave of uneasiness as the aircraft continues to climb. When I don’t locate them, I quickly unlock my seat belt and slither across the row from my seats to hers as if I were in the newest spy movie. Thankfully, no one says anything as I move.
“Hey.” My voice comes out low and rough, not quite a whisper but not loud enough to startle her. “You okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders are pulled in so tight I swear she’s trying to disappear inside herself. I hesitate. This isn’t something I do. I don’t reach across invisible lines. I don’t insert myself where I’m not wanted, but something about her makes me forget all that. My body moves before my mind can catch up.
I reach over and wrap my hand around hers, easing her fingers free from the support they’ve welded themselves to. Her skin is warm. Soft. Too soft for how hard she’s holding herself together.
Her breath hitches, and I expect her to pull away, to flinch, but she doesn’t.
I keep holding her hand, cradling it in mine. Her palm is smaller than I expected. Delicate. But her grip tightens like she’s been waiting for someone to anchor her.
My thumb moves in slow strokes over her clenched knuckles. A steady back and forth that feels instinctive even though nothing about this is familiar.
I’ve never done this before. Never offered comfort like it’s mine to give. I don’t know the first thing about calming panic attacks. But I don’t feel out of my depth sitting here and holding her hand.
I feel steady.
Cracking one eye open, she peers over at me. And despite whatever she thought of me during our initial meeting, pink stains her cheeks as she flips her hand around and intertwines our fingers together.
For the first time in decades, I feel a sense of peace, even as the plane ascends to new heights. She must feel the same because her breath begins to slow, her skin returning to its just barely sun-kissed state.
By the time the plane levels and the seat belt light flicks off, ghost girl sports a healthy sheen of nervousness over her pale skin as our hands unclench. But not the kind related to the takeoff of the flight. More like she doesn’t know what to do with me.
“So have you given it any more thought?” I ask as the attendants work their way through the aisle with their snacks and drinks. They’d serve us lunch a bit later during the almost seven-hour flight.
At first, I wonder if the bride hears me, but slowly, she grapples with her dress as she turns to face me.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Well, I’m hoping to change that. Dean Harrington,” I say, turning to face her completely and holding a hand out. She stares wide-eyed at it as if waiting for my fingers to grow claws and score her delicate skin, clearly not recalling how she gripped my hand minutes ago. When she realizes I’m nothing more than an ordinary man with a propensity to say exactly what’s on my mind, she clasps her hand within mine.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Any name to go with that shake?”
