Page 13 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Needing a distraction, I pull out the safety pamphlet from the seat in front of me and study it as if it contains highly guarded secrets of the universe. Next week’s lottery numbers. Who really killed JFK. Paul Rudd’s skincare regimen. All this and more could be in the palm of my hand and I couldn’t possibly pay more attention to it than I am this poorly illustrated instructional handout on how to use my seat as a floating device if shit gets real.
“Could you…put that away?”
Looking up, I see Ben staring at the sketches of doom in my hand. My gaze sweeps from his clenched jaw to his tensed shoulders and settles on his large hand—currently white-knuckling the armrest between us as if he may hulk out and rip it from its place at any moment. He’s nervous. Really,reallyfucking nervous. Nervous in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with me or this awkward situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“Ben?” I wait until he lifts his shifty gaze. “Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, blinking several times before answering. “I, uh, I don’t like flying.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, his breaths shuddered and uneven.
“I didn’t know you were afraid of flying.”
“Yeah, well, I’d never been on a plane when I knew you, so I didn’t, either.”
“But you fly all over the world,” I say, tucking away the safety pamphlet as the plane fills up around us. Takeoff shouldn’t be long now.
“I do it. Doesn’t mean Ilikeit. But I’ll be okay.” The sheen of sweat glistening above his brow suggests otherwise. “It’s only this bad until we get in the air. I usually have a few drinks before each flight to calm my nerves but…”
But I was a petty bitch.
Guilt surges through me. “Oh shit. Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. Just ignore me.”
Ben diverts his attention forward again, and after a moment I do the same, respectfully letting him suffer through his anxiety in private. The official safety demonstration begins playing on the screens in front of us, and an attendant briefly stops by our row to ask for verbal acknowledgment that as exit row passengers we’re willing and capable of assisting during an emergency. Ben manages a stiff “Yes,” but to be honest, I have my doubts.
Once the attendant is gone and the plane eases away from the gate, the strangled gasps at my side become impossible to ignore.
I look his way again, and Ben’s eyes are squeezed so tight that I can’t count the number of lines forming at his temples. Watching him struggle, my mind reflects on Ben as a small boy, those wide green eyes when he lifted the lid of that cedar chest and found me inside, the way he held out his hand and rescued me once when I needed it. The image is so clear it might as well have happened yesterday.
No matter the resentment I feel now, I have to help him because of then.
I press my hand against his forearm and he startles, those same brilliant green eyes opening to search mine.
“Take this off.” I tug at the sleeve of his jacket. “You’re sweating.”
With a stiff nod, he leans forward in his seat, and I pull his sleeve down his arm in our small, shared space, helping him strip down to his plain black T-shirt. I lay his jacket across my lap and lean forward to fish a bottle of water from my tote bag near my feet. I hand it to him, and he takes a long swallow before screwing the lid back on and tucking it in the pouch by his knee.
“Thank you,” he says in a low voice ridden with embarrassment.
As we gain speed down the tarmac, I keep my focus on Ben: the exaggerated movements of his throat as he swallows, the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he tries his damnedest to keep his anxiety at bay. And god help me, as a person with my own severe phobia, I can’t take it.
My hand leaves my lap of its own accord, hesitating only briefly before covering his on the armrest between us. At my touch, his surprised eyes bolt to mine, and if nothing else, I’ve at least shocked him out of his fear for a few seconds. “It’s going to be okay,” I say in my most reassuring voice as my fingers spread over his thick knuckles. “It’s going to befine.”
Chest falling as he releases a measured breath, Ben keeps his apprehensive gaze trained on mine as he slowly turns his hand over and the soft skin of my palm meets the rough, calloused skin of his. My stomach drops into free fall, my heart simultaneously pounding and aching at the cautiousness in his expression that wordlessly asks if his actions are okay.
“You rescued me once when I needed it,” I remind him.
Our fingers twist together, and the plane lifts off.
Then we’re airborne, hand in hand, and Ben’s no longer the only one struggling to breathe.
Three hours down…ten days to go.
Everything is fine.
* * *
Once we reach cruising altitude and Ben breathes easier, I slide my hand from his grip, offering up a pacifying quirk of my lips when he looks my way. Circulation returning to my fingertips, I pull out my laptop and set it atop the tray table.
