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I DROPPED MY sketchbook somewhere between Cash’s truck and the airport gate.
Where exactly I lost it, I have no idea. I don’t even realize it’s gone until I search through my knit tote so I can draw for a few minutes before we start boarding.
I used to always be frazzled as a girl—constantly worried about falling behind or keeping hold of my possessions or maintaining my outfit without straps showing and buttons undone—but over the years, I’ve learned to take my time and go through a series of mental checks before I leave the house. Now I’m only a mess like this when I have external deadlines that can’t be changed.
Like an airline flight time.
Last night I got involved in a new knitting pattern and waited too late to start packing. I rushed through the process before bed and checked my suitcase this morning before work, but all day I’ve worried about forgetting something. Then I left work late because I got caught up in a conversation with a coworker about the new photography exhibit in the library.
It’s a miracle the only thing I’ve lost is my sketchbook.
My therapist is always telling me to keep things in their proper perspective. Objects are not people, and they don’t hold the same value. Of course, I know that’s true. But I get attached to things. I always have—since all the way back in preschool when I found a pretty rock and carried it around like a baby, even putting it to bed every night.
I had several drawings in my sketchbook I’m really proud of. The thought of it tossed on the pavement to get kicked or driven over or rained on makes me want to cry.
I don’t, even though I’ve always been and still am an easy crier. That’s another thing I’ve learned over the years. Not to fall apart openly even when I’m sobbing on the inside.
The gate attendant has started calling out boarding groups, so I wouldn’t have time to draw anyway. Instead, I take a few minutes to make sure my essentials are still in their proper places. Wallet. License. Keys. Phone with the boarding pass pulled up and ready. My favorite colored pencils. My yarn and needles. Oatmeal cookies for sweets emergencies. My travel mug of spiced tea I made with a tea bag and hot water from a coffee stand just past security.
Everything else is where it should be as I get at the end of the line for the final boarding group.
My seat is in the back row.
I know that’s supposed to be the worst place on the whole plane, but it’s never bothered me at all. On my very first flight—a trip to the Caribbean with the family of one of my friends—I sat in the window seat in the back row on the right. Ever since then, it’s always been the seat I’ve chosen. On two flights when that seat was already taken, I was uncomfortable and fidgety the entire time.
That seat is mine. I’m attached to it the same way I’m attached to my sketchbook and my preschool rock. (I still have the rock, by the way, safely stowed away in my memento drawer.)
This flight—from Savannah to Boston—is one I’ve flown many times because Boston is my hometown and my parents and sister still live there. The plane is usually smallish, and today it’s one with the seat configuration of three on one side of the aisle and two on the other.
My seat is on the side with two. I perk up as I reach it. No one is in the seat next to me yet. Maybe it will stay empty so I can spread out.
After stowing my purple roller case in the overhead compartment, I settle in my seat, adjusting the seatback and lowering the tray table before I remember I’ll have to put it up at takeoff, so I hook it back in place against the seat in front of me. Between my lap and my left armrest, I organize my tea, my phone, my knitting, and a couple of torn sheets of lined paper from my journal in case I feel the need to sketch.
I really want my sketchbook.
Why the heck wasn’t I paying more attention?
It’s then—just then—that my sketchpad appears on my tray table.
Like a miracle or a magic trick.
I’m so stunned I stare at it for a minute before processing that the man who sat down in the seat beside me is the one who put it there.
When I look over, he’s not paying any attention to me. He’s wearing a dark gray suit that looks expensive and is pulling a superthin iPad out of his leather bag. It’s not a regular briefcase. More like an expensive messenger bag with a shoulder strap.
“Thank you.” I smile at him, still feeling flustered and bemused by the sudden appearance of my treasured possession. “Where did you find it?”
“You dropped it getting out of the pickup,” he says, still focused on his iPad (holding it in one hand since he’s clearly not the kind to forget about the tray tables) rather than looking at me. “I tried to catch you, but you disappeared. I was about to turn it in to lost and found when I saw you boarding my plane.”
He looks around my age—definitely in his thirties. He’s got thick, rumpled brown hair and brown eyes and a five-o’clock shadow. It’s hard to judge his height when he’s slouched in the seat with one of his legs stretched into the aisle, but he’s for sure taller than my five six. Probably several inches taller.
“Well, thank you for picking it up.” The cover is slightly damp from being dropped on wet pavement, and several of the pages are bent or wrinkled. I work on smoothing them down.
“Your boyfriend should have noticed you dropped it,” he says, pulling a document up on his tablet. “He was standing right there.” He still hasn’t looked at me directly, and it’s starting to bug me. So is his slightly condescending tone.
“Well, he didn’t.” I frown at the man. He smells faintly like coffee and faintly like soap, and it’s a warm, pleasant combination. A disorienting contrast to his attitude. “So thank you for noticing and giving it back to me.”
He shrugs. “Figured you wouldn’t want to lose all those drawings.”
“You looked inside?”
“I thought I’d lost you, so I was looking to see if there was a name so you could get it back. Believe me, drawings of flowers and curlicues and hobbit holes and your boyfriend aren’t items at which I’d sneak forbidden glimpses.”
My shoulders stiffen. I was about to take a sip of my tea, but I set it down on the armrest between us. “You don’t have to be rude about it. And they’re not hobbit holes.”
For the first time he slants me a look, arching his eyebrows in a particularly obnoxious way. “Aren’t they?”
I have what everyone describes as a sweet face. Large hazel eyes, full lips, and a dimple on each side of my mouth. I’m not any sort of beauty queen or fashion model. I’ve always considered myself medium in every way—in looks, in size, in desirability. But I have a soft appearance and a soft personality, and most of the people who know me would be shocked to receive any sort of glare from me.
But I glare at the man beside me. As coldly as I’m capable of. “No. They’re not. They’re illustrations for a children’s book I’m writing.”
“I see.” He’s typing something while he speaks, as if I’m merely peripheral to his attention.
I don’t get angry easily, but I’m so infuriated now that my toes curl in my cute little boots.
I’ve done nothing—nothing—to this man except exist, and he’s acting like I deserve to be mocked and belittled.
I don’t say anything else. Some people thrive on provoking reactions, and I’m not going to reward him with one. Turning away, I pick up my knitting and unwind the yarn from my needles (small plastic ones so they’ll be allowed through security) and start working and thinking about something other than the man beside me.
At the first faint sound of my needles sliding together, the man shoots me a quick look like he’s annoyed at what’s barely a sound.
Inspired and far more petty than I’ve ever known myself to be, I clack my needles together purposefully and spread the finished length of my scarf so it accidentally brushes against his arm.
Very carefully, as if it might be contaminated, he picks the scarf up and moves it back to my side of the armrest.
Hiding the amused quiver of my lips, I lean over to retrieve another skein. One I don’t need at the moment. I find a place for it amid the clutter on my lap and after a minute give it a quite intentional nudge that sends it rolling off onto the floor at the man’s feet.
“Oh, sorry,” I say sweetly, leaning over in an exaggerated flutter to fumble on the floor for the yarn. These are coach seats on a small plane. There’s really not much room for maneuvering. I elbow his thigh and get my hair all over his lap in the process of retrieving the skein.
My hair is my best feature. That’s what people have said all my life. It’s long—hanging halfway down my back—thick and curly, a dark brown that glints slightly reddish in the sunlight. I always wear it loose. People sometimes question whether it gets in my way, but I’m used to it like this and feel weird with it pulled up.
The man definitely doesn’t appreciate it. He clears his throat and brushes off the curls, then makes a soft grunting sound when I elbow him—accidentally, of course.
I’m beaming at him innocently as I sit back up, yarn in hand. “I’m so sorry! I’m just a ditzy mess, aren’t I?”
He’s looking at me fully now with narrowed eyes and tightened lips. “Uh-huh.”
Shit. He doesn’t believe me. He knows I’m exaggerating on purpose.
I don’t have a chance to tweak my strategy because the flight attendant starts with the preflight hand gestures to illustrate the recorded instructions. I organize my belongings again, managing to contain them to my side so the man doesn’t get too mad.
He’s a stranger after all. I have no idea what he’ll do if he loses control. Teasing him might be kind of fun, but it’s not worth the risk of pushing it too far.
When the plane starts its taxi to the runway, he appears to have forgotten I exist. He’s busy working away at whatever document is pulled up on his iPad.
I peer at it covertly until I decide it’s some sort of financial spreadsheet and immediately lose interest.
I knit for a while, but the man’s presence beside me keeps annoying me. Not because he’s doing anything wrong at the moment but because I can feel him silently judging me and wishing I were elsewhere.
I’m a nice person. Everyone says so. People often don’t notice me at all. I’m used to fading into the background. But no one has ever wished me away before, and I don’t appreciate it.
Why is he even sitting back here with me? There are several empty seats farther up in coach, so this one wasn’t the only one available when he bought his ticket. Or surely he could have afforded a seat in the small business-class cabin if his suit and electronics are any indication.
As soon as was allowed, he took out a high-end laptop from his case and is now working on that instead. He’s got the same MacBook as my sister Raven. I know how much that thing costs.
Why is he all the way back here? He’s definitely not like me, prone to getting attached to a particular seat.
To distract myself, I connect my phone to the wireless internet and message Cash. We’ve been dating for about three months now. I wouldn’t say we’re serious, but we’ve been going out consistently and I’ve been having a good time with him. He’s a nice, funny country boy, and he appreciates both my nature and my body.
I could do a lot worse.
A quick glance beside me reminds me of how much worse I could do.
Cash replies almost immediately since he’s back at home and not doing anything right now. He texts that he’s planning to hang out with a couple of buddies later in the evening and he misses me already.
I mention my annoying seatmate, and Cash asks about him. I feel better after recounting all my various grievances against the man beside me, but Cash says he doesn’t sound that bad.
The rational side of my brain agrees, but the rest of me doesn’t appreciate Cash’s assessment. I continue messaging him for a couple more minutes so it doesn’t look like I’m pouting, but then I end the conversation, sighing as I set my phone back down.
The man has been studiously pretending I don’t exist, so I’m surprised when he shifts his head toward me slightly. “Boyfriend being annoying too?”
“What? Of course not. Why would you say that?”
“Why are you pretending it’s not true?”
“You don’t even know who I was talking to.”
“I can reach a reasonable deduction. And he was definitely annoying you. You got tense and jittery the way you were when you were annoyed with me.”
I would really like to swat that smug expression off his face. “I don’t know why you believe it’s appropriate to make unfounded assumptions about strangers, but you’re not as smart and perceptive as you like to believe.”
“So you weren’t annoyed with your boyfriend just now?”
I want to lie, but I don’t. It’s simply not in my nature. Not even with this infuriating man. “He’s not really my boyfriend,” I say primly.
“Really?”
“We’ve been going out for a few months.”
“If you don’t know he’s it by now, you might as well move on.”
“I told you it’s only been a few months!”
“I heard you. But you’re clearly the kind of person who throws herself enthusiastically into anything that’s genuinely working for her, so you’d know by now if he was right for you.”
I gape at him, breathing raggedly, torn between outrage and a sliver of recognition that what he’s saying is actually true.
I’ve had a good time with Cash. But part of the good time is being with a man who really likes me when most of my life has been spent being overlooked by men. I sometimes try to imagine what a long life with Cash might look like, and it doesn’t excite me. It doesn’t feel quite right—like I’m forcing us into a shape that will never fit.
But that’s none of this man’s business. I’m certainly not about to admit it to him. I stare out the window at the wispy threads of clouds. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I think I do.”
“What exactly do you think you know?”
He closes his laptop, holding it steady on his lap. (He’s not the kind of person to drop or lose things like I am.) He takes a sip from the bottle of water he pulled from his case a little while ago. And he begins, “You weren’t born in Savannah although you live there now. You’re probably visiting your family in Boston, so my bet is that’s where you were born and raised. I’m guessing you moved to Savannah to attend the art school and just stayed there afterward, wanting to be your own person and get some distance from your family.”
A gasp gets stuck in my throat. It’s unnerving—shocking—how right he is about each detail. I don’t reply, just sit motionless as he continues.
“You’re obviously artistic. And crafty. You probably have an Etsy shop.”
I jerk slightly because that is true too.
“But it hasn’t taken off yet, so you need some sort of regular job. You were exaggerating your ditziness earlier, and there were some organized lists of future projects in the back of your notebook, so you’re obviously capable of containing your free spirit and creativity enough to do a normal office job. Something that doesn’t demand too much of you so that you have time and energy for your more important creative pursuits. People probably like you and think you’re approachable. If they don’t, you flash those dimples and they cave. So you’d find a job dealing with people fairly easy. Let me think.” He rubs his chin. His bristles make a slightly scratchy sound. “Human resources?”
I almost choke. “How—”
“It’s not a random guess. It’s a deduction. You claimed I know nothing about you, and I’m proving the opposite. You’ve dated a man you’re not really into for a few months now, so you must feel like you don’t have a lot of relationship prospects. You probably didn’t get much male attention in school, and so you’ve schooled yourself not to expect it. That bracelet you’re wearing is an antique, and it’s very expensive. Your family is wealthy. Your mother is probably a queen bee, and you might have a sister or sisters who are similar. So you fade into the background with your art and your handcrafts and your cozy life in Savannah and pretend it doesn’t matter to you that no one notices you.”
There’s nothing I can do but stare at him, breathless and frozen.
Exposed. Utterly naked. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this vulnerable before.
For the first time, the corner of his mouth quirks up in almost a smile. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You’ve managed to hit on a few details anyone might have noticed and made up your own interpretation of them,” I manage to say with a semblance of coolness. “But you’re not as brilliant as you believe. I can do the same thing with you.”
“Can you?”
“Yes. I can.” I look him up and down the way he did me. I’m not a detail person. Everyone who knows me would testify to that. But I have pretty good intuition, and it feels like I know this man already.
Certainly as much as he knows me.
“Your family isn’t wealthy. They’re probably not poor—just regular middle class. You definitely don’t live in Savannah. You’ve obviously been working, so I assume you’re heading home to Boston. You must have had to travel to Savannah for work. You have some sort of finance job and are working hard to climb the corporate ladder. You spend your money to look like you’re a success, but inside you’re not really convinced that you are.”
His gaze is colder now. Less smug.
I’m hitting the target, and it gives me confidence to go on. “You want the world to believe you’re completely in control and have everything anyone could want, so you hide all your vulnerabilities. You probably have a girlfriend. She’s wealthy and beautiful and socially connected, and that’s everything you’re supposed to want. You might even marry her. But you’re not any more into her than I’m into Cash. She’s an accessory to who you’re trying to be.”
The last bit is a wild guess. Nothing but instinct. But I can see I’m right in that too by the narrowing of his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“There’s no way you saw any details in me that would lead you to such a conclusion,” he says coolly.
“I don’t analyze details like you. I use intuition. But as you can see, my sense of things is every bit as effective as your brilliant deductions. What I don’t understand is why you’re back here with me. The man you want to be should be all the way up there.” I gesture toward the business-class cabin. “Why are you back here?”
He stares at me. Doesn’t answer.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
For a moment I really think he will. Something flickers in his expression that looks like acceptance. Acquiescence.
But he pulls it back into his detached smugness, turns away from me, lowers his tray table since the seat belt light has been turned off, and opens his laptop again.
He starts to work and doesn’t look at me again.
I’m actually hurt. It feels like a rejection. Like he slammed a door in my face.
After a while I manage to pull myself together and brush off the weirdly intense interaction.
It doesn’t matter. This man is a stranger. I’ll never see him again.
He doesn’t matter. I don’t even know his name.
He’s merely a rude, obnoxious stranger who is my unwilling seatmate for a short time.
Neither one of us says a word to each other for the remaining two hours of the flight.