Crossing Paths (4 page)

Before long, an employee, who does not sound like an auctioneer, announces it’s time to begin boarding. I complete the same routines as earlier today. I hand over my ticket, trek down the hallway, place my carry-on in the overhead bin, take my seat, and freak out.

I close my eyes and attempt to calm my nerves. Someone’s leg brushes gently against my hand. I open my eyes, and there he is. His backside is directly to my right as he stores his bag away. I tell myself to look somewhere else but it isn’t happening. He turns and takes his seat across the aisle, two rows ahead.

When I catch the hazel-eyed stranger glancing at me, I attempt to drag my eyes away from his without success. Another group of passengers board the plane, and as they walk between us, they break my trance.

I pull out my magazine and pretend to read about the demise of another celebrity marriage.
Did he mean to touch me? Surely not.
In these tight, confined spaces, it’s easy to accidentally bump into people.

Within a few minutes, we are getting ready for takeoff. I put down my magazine, clench the armrests tightly, and close my eyes. As the plane speeds up, I tighten my grip. The ride smooths as we climb higher, and I open my eyes only to meet his again. I think I see a hint of a smile before he turns away.

I return to reading my magazine.

Later in the flight, I notice the stranger unbuckling his seat belt.
Is he coming to talk to me? What will I say?
The seat next to me is empty.
What if he asks to sit with me? Should I say yes if he asks me to dinner? What the hell? June, get a grip!

While he’s walking down the aisle toward me, I look at every small stitch of the seat in front of me. I reach for my drink, forgetting about the open magazine resting on my lap. In slow motion, my hand strikes the spine of the magazine, and it begins flying through the air. I reach for the magazine, and it slips out of my hands, gaining momentum upward. The pages seem to fan out in all directions, and then each page appears to smack him in the face one at a time before the shiny magazine finally falls to the floor.

He leans down to pick it up, and when he meets my eyes, he gives me a smile as he places the magazine on the tiny tray that still holds my untouched drink. As he draws his hand away, his soft fingertips touch my arm, and then he continues his trip to the restroom.

I am frozen in place.
That did not just happen. How could I have made a fool out of myself without even letting a word come out of my mouth?
I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep for the rest of the flight. During the landing, I convince myself to continue the charade even though I want to hold on to something for dear life.

As I start to exit the plane, I keep my eyes focused on my toes. I take my time getting off, hoping not to make anymore contact with a particular person. Once in the terminal, I rush to find the restroom. I’m not sure how long I need to stay for the coast to be clear, but whatever amount of time I have to serve in this restroom stall is what I deserve for the absurd amount of embarrassment I caused myself on that flight.

When I arrive at the hotel, I’m exhausted. I dread going to sleep in fear of another awkward meeting with an ex-boyfriend intertwined with a family intervention or worse. Lying on the surprisingly comfortable bed, my mind wanders, thinking about the past few years.
It can’t be my fault that I haven’t found Mr. Right.

After the situation with Gavin, it was difficult to find a date. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to date. It was that every guy I went out with or even had a simple conversation with wanted to know what happened. I was shocked at the gossipy nature of their questioning. Were we having sex? Did I see any warning signs? Was I really surprised? One guy actually made a joke about how I had the “special key to the closet,” like every guy I touched would turn gay. I honestly wondered what that said about him since he was one of the only guys who called for a second date. Needless to say, dating became a challenge my senior year. It was easier to spend time focusing on graduation and hanging out with Caroline.

Since I returned to Texas a month ago, my mother has been set on getting the dating train rolling again. Two weeks ago, she invited Barry, a childhood friend, over for our Sunday dinner. She spent the entire evening going on about how he became a doctor and was practicing in the same area as my father. She was so talkative that Barry was only able to speak a sentence or two in the midst of her praise. When he left that evening, I apologized on the front steps of my house. We both agreed to give my mother a show, and I allowed him to kiss me full on the lips, softly and tenderly. He smiled at me with a knowing grin as he turned to walk toward his car. Neither of us felt anything in the kiss. My mother, on the other hand, was sure there would be a wedding by this time next summer.

One thing my mom doesn’t understand is that I don’t go for men like Barry—men who never want to leave their hometown, who are happy to join the family business, and who live life as usual for as long as usual will allow. It is part of the reason I went to college on the East Coast. I wanted adventure. I wanted something different. Although I have moved back to Texas and it will always be considered home, I do not feel the same sense of obligation to the great state.

Closing my eyes, I picture the stranger from the airplane. His eyes drew me in so easily. Although he looked a bit older than me, I’m sure he’s probably still in his twenties.
What insight could be gained from a close-up view of those eyes? What would it be like to touch his face, gently run my fingers through his hair, and feel his lips against mine?
His hands would fit nicely around my hips or on the soft skin of my face.
I’m crazy. I don’t even know the guy.

It’s probably a safe bet to assume he’s unattainable.
Maybe he has a girlfriend or likes to sleep around? He could be a self-made billionaire who doesn’t trust women. A guy that good-looking has to be out of reach.

I turn on the TV to a late show I’ve never watched, and I drift off to sleep, thinking about the impossibility of a stranger.

Monday

“June, have you seen my gray pencil skirt?” I yell out while searching through my closet. “June?”
Damn it, she isn’t here.

I forgot she’s on a plane headed for New York City. She should be back late tomorrow afternoon, and I might just kill her if she comes back with the exact piece of clothing I can’t find.

My best friend, June, and I have lived together for the last three years, and we’re now renting an apartment together while we dive into the real world. During college, I spent most mornings making fun of her drab attire while she laughed at my brightly colored dresses and high heels. I guess the saying “opposites attract” can be true for friends as well. The only major similarities we have are we both speak English, and our dating history is a little spotty.

We met at a party. Although, I’m not sure June knew what it meant to party. We were college freshmen taking it all in. That particular night, I was making my way to the kitchen to refill my drink. Sliding my back along the stairway railing, I tried to avoid interrupting a couple with their tongues so far down each other’s throats I was worried they would stop breathing. As I came to the bottom of the stairs, I tripped on the last step, launching the remainder of my drink onto the back of a guy’s shirt, and then he spilled his drink on someone else. This domino effect continued for about four or five people until June got a plastic cup full of beer directly in the face. I apologized profusely as she wiped the liquid away from her eyes. When she looked up at me, she was smiling, laughing even.

“That’s okay. I was looking for a reason to get out of here anyway,” she said through her laughter. “I think I’ll just leave and get something for dinner. It’s still pretty early.”

“Can I join you?” The party was lame, and I had already embarrassed myself enough for one night.

With that, our friendship began. We left the party, got a change of clothes at June’s dorm room, and headed to Denny’s. Breakfast for dinner—I don’t think there is a better meal. June and I were both thousands of miles away from home, and we were beginning to miss our families. At one point, I told a stupid joke, and June laughed, spitting her drink all over me. We called it even, and from that night forward, we were inseparable.

After freshman year, we rented a two-bedroom duplex and lived there until graduation. We saw each other through general education courses, many more parties, and some crappy relationships. During the holidays, we went our separate ways to visit family, but when we returned to school, it was like no time had passed.

As graduation neared, we started to look at job options. On the same day, we both got calls about job offers in Houston, and we accepted without hesitation. We had already talked about how perfect it would be to get a place together as we started our careers.

I would have loved to go with her to New York today. I am sure it would have been fun even though the visit would be for less than twenty-four hours. I’ve heard the shopping and spas are amazing. I had already planned out where I might get a full massage and the stores I would need to hit first.

It’s too bad my job requires that I actually show up. I work for one of the top interior design firms in Houston. I’ve known I wanted to be an interior designer since I was five years old. When I was supposed to be napping on a Sunday afternoon, I was usually rearranging my stuffed animals, holding up paint samples against the wall, or flipping through the many design magazines that were always lying around. A room was never complete in my eyes. There was always room for improvement, especially when your decor options were limited to your mother’s fashion choices.

I love my job, but when I enter the office today, I’m hoping the day flies by quickly. With my best friend out of town and no other friends yet in this new town, life is pretty stale.

Dinner at June’s childhood home yesterday was great. Since I officially moved in with June after my family vacation had ended a little over a week ago, dinner away from the apartment was the first interesting thing I did.
See? My life is lame.
June’s family was simply precious. Her parents showed enough PDA to make Cupid vomit. Addison, her sister, seemed nice even though she was a little quiet. And their brother, Liam…
well, he is just hot.
I can’t believe I haven’t noticed him in any of June’s pictures. Before we left, her parents gave me huge hugs, and it felt like fresh air being breathed into my lungs.

On the way back to our apartment, June kept saying how pissed she was because her mom had brought up the fact that she hasn’t had a serious relationship in over a year. Honestly, her mom could have easily been talking to me, too.

While June had at least a couple of longer relationships in college, I tried to steer clear of the guys who seemed too serious. I just wanted to have fun and enjoy myself. For the most part, I accomplished my goal. I dated constantly—from football players to debate team members and from musicians to library workers. I didn’t really stick to a type.

June had a hard time keeping up with my dating pace. It was hilarious to watch her struggle as she tried to recall the names of my dates from the previous weekend. One night, when I came home with a different guy than the one who had picked me up earlier that evening, June literally fell off the couch in shock. The guy I brought home happened to be a study partner from one of my classes, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Good morning, Caroline.” My boss’ voice brings me back to reality.