TESS INSISTS ON DRIVING ME TO THE AIRPORT IN WHAT SHE DEEMS AN added measure of security, though I hardly see her logic when I’m about to be alone with Charlie for seven days.
“What are you doing? Just drop me at the curb,” I tell her when she drives past the departures lane toward the parking garage.
She shakes her head. “He needs to see my face.”
“And what will that do, exactly?”
“It will remind him there are people who know you are with him, people who love you. Maybe it’ll make him think twice before he tries anything.”
“You are rather intimidating,” I say, looking her up and down from the passenger seat. She comes across particularly juvenile today in a floral sundress and flip-flops, her blond hair pulled together in a loose braid at the nape of her neck.
We find Charlie leaning on the side of the ticketing counter. He smiles when he sees me, pushes himself up from the counter’s edge. He’s wearing a dark gray T-shirt that says CAN I GET A WATT WATT with a pair of yellow light bulbs and dark gray joggers that look a lot like the ones from the night of the fire alarm.
Tess steps in front of me when we reach his side and shakes his hand aggressively. “Charlie Sawyer Watters. Born December fourth, nineteen ninety-four, to Sheila and Corbin Watters in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Full-time waiter at The Wexley on Santa Monica in West Hollywood, part-time actor whose most notable role is as the guy in the muscle spray commercial where you spray on fake abs then cannonball into a pool.” She shakes his hand aggressively, stares him down as she does.
Yes. I’ve seen those commercials. But once again, I haven’t put two and two together. So incredibly disappointing that I keep missing things when it comes to Charlie, given I pride myself on preparedness. And preparedness, at its heart, requires observation.
The ridiculousness of the situation hits me. I’m about to get on a plane and spend seven days sharing a suite in paradise with the spray-on abs guy.
“I had to show that the product is waterproof. Their sales went up thirty-five percent after that commercial.” He looks to me for answers.
“My best friend, Tess.”
“Nice to meet you, best friend Tess. I’m sorry, I haven’t online stalked you.”
“All you need to know about me is that I excel at finding things on the internet, I have a slew of legal resources at my fingertips, and my uncle is a retired Green Beret sharpshooter. Can hit a target from over twenty-three hundred miles away.” She squints. “He never misses. And I may be small, but I practice Krav Maga.” This last bit is entirely made up.
“Okay then,” he says, taking the handle of my roller suitcase. All he has with him is a duffel bag.
I hug Tess goodbye, but her eyes are still on Charlie.
“Wait, aren’t you . . .”
“Okay, bye, Tess!” I stiff-arm her in the stomach.
“You are! Oh my god, you’re the guy from the bar!” She’s undeterred by my hand in her gut. The small ones are always surprisingly strong.
Charlie looks to me and raises his eyebrows with a sheepish grin.
“We’re leaving,” I say, shoving him since the tactic didn’t work on Tess. He turns and begins walking with his arms up in surrender. I grab the handle to my bag and press my palm into his back to keep him moving.
The last thing I hear is Tess yelling “Make good choices!” as we head toward the security line.
“Let’s take a picture,” Charlie says soon after we board the plane. He’s given me the window seat, despite the all-limbs guy in the aisle seat to his left. As the plane fills with the remaining passengers, I can’t help but notice how many passing women sweep a gaze over him. Charlie returns any eye contact with non-committal though polite smiles, but appears otherwise oblivious.
“What? Now?”
“Yes, we’re so excited for our romantic adventure to begin,” he says, deadpan.
He leans in, pressing the side of his head into mine, our temples touching. He smells like some sort of silky bar soap and it’s surprising yet pleasant.
“Just don’t tag me in anything,” I warn. I can’t have word of any of this getting back to Jack Palmer.
“Deal. Now, smile like you love me,” he says. I smile, the pressure to get it right leaving me feeling like a grinning sloth (and not in the adorable way).
“Wait, let me see it.” I reach for the phone before he can place it back into his pocket.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see the picture that’s going to introduce us into your world as lovers.” I cringe. Why did I say lovers?
Charlie hands me the phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we make a cute couple. Our skin tone is virtually the same and we carry matching wide grins. His piercing, pale blue eyes are easily the most captivating part of him. And if I really didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks happily in love.
“Seems believable,” I say as I hand the phone back to him.
He pauses to evaluate the picture himself. “You look great, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s not, I’m not—”
“Relax,” he says, putting the phone away.
“You relax,” I whisper, mostly to myself as I begin to feel the weight of what I’ve agreed to. “We need to set some ground rules for your posts.”
He wriggles his body into his seat and shifts to face me. “Let’s hear ’em,” he says in an amused tone.
“First, you need to make all your socials private. I don’t need anyone in my life coming across your posts. Second—reminder that you cannot tag me in anything.”
He nods. “Done. What else?”
I feel like there should be more, but I can’t seem to think of anything. “That’s it. For now.”
He holds out his hand and I shake it, our agreement for this trip official.
When the engine begins to hum in preparation for takeoff, Charlie goes quiet. I soon see that his hands are curled around both armrests and he’s bouncing his knee aggressively.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, fine. Not a great flyer.”
“You’re afraid of flying?”
“I’m not afraid. I’m just realistic. Planes are not natural.” He glances toward the cockpit.
“Birds are natural. And planes are shaped like birds.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the comment, so I keep trying. “The chances of dying in a plane crash—”
“One in eleven million. Yeah, I know.” His grip on the armrests tightens.
Interesting that he knows the survival rates. “Would you like my tie-dyed hoodie? As, like, a comfort item? I think I have it here somewhere. Or an adult coloring book, maybe?”
“You’re not funny.”
“C’mon, it’s pretty much your emotional support hoodie by now, isn’t it?”
His jaw is stern and I imagine he’s questioning his decision to bring me on this trip, albeit as his beard.
I soften a bit when he presses his eyes shut. “Quick—tell me your pet peeves. What about people drives you crazy?” I ask.
“What, why?” He opens his eyes and shifts them toward me but doesn’t move his head from its press against the headrest.
“Because you can’t be scared if you’re annoyed. Annoyed is better than scared.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re not scared. Nervous. I got it. Now come on. Share. I promise it’ll work.”
The plane accelerates.
He exhales sharply.
“Fine, I’ll go first,” I say when he doesn’t respond. “I can’t stand when people don’t return grocery carts. People who are rude to servers, that’s a big one. Drivers who creep way past the end of the merge zone to enter into traffic—”
“How long is your list, exactly?”
“Long. People do a lot of annoying things.”
“That last one, creeping past the merge zone? I do that occasionally.” He jerks the right corner of his mouth into some semblance of a fleeting grin at my look of dismay. “What else?” he asks, the tension in his neck softening.
“Replying All on emails. If you say you do that, I might have to get up and leave. And we’re on a plane, so that says something.”
“You’re safe there. I totally agree on that one,” he says, easing a bit more.
“Your turn.”
“Okay,” he says, moving his hands from the armrests to his lap. “I hate, like really hate, eating sounds. Chewing, slurping. And tapping. Nails, pens. It drives me crazy.” He shudders.
“Misophonia,” I tell him.
“Miso-what?”
“It’s called misophonia. Your strong distaste for chewing, slurping, et cetera.” I grin.
“It’s not funny. It’s a real problem. You’d be surprised by how many people are loud, open-mouth chewers. And they all seem to be in LA. Just watch. Now you’re going to notice it all the time.”
“Well, thanks for ruining every future meal for me.”
I think I see a slight smile, then the plane lurches once more as we climb and his knuckles are chalk-white again.
I pull my massive carry-on from under the seat in front of me into my lap and start digging through it, holding up items. “Would a snack help? I have almonds, granola bars?”
He shakes his head.
“A book? I have three.” I hold up the stack of paperback romances, a shirtless hard-bodied male adorning each cover. He takes a look, then shakes his head again.
“What I need is the drink cart.” He looks ahead to the flight attendants who are still strapped into their seats.
“I should have brought alcohol,” I muse, more to myself than him.
“I didn’t think your doomsday plans would involve booze,” he says, returning his attention to me.
“It’s multifunctional. Can be poured on wounds or consumed to help you forget it’s the end of days.”
“It can also kill poison ivy,” he says. “Should Earth become overrun by it when most of the humans are gone.”
It’s perhaps the most attractive thing anyone has ever said to me.
“We’d just need apple cider vinegar, for the rashes after exposure,” I say, practically giddy at the turn in our conversation.
“What else have you got in that Mary Poppins bag?”
One by one, I pull out the remaining contents and place them between my lap and his. A packet of baby wipes. Mini first aid kit. Eye mask and earplug set. A freezer-size bag of rolled-up chargers. Flint, which accompanies me most everywhere. A pocket survival kit, which causes him to raise his eyebrows.
“Why do you need three ChapSticks?” he says, referencing the next items in my palm.
“As you said, I like to be prepared.” I leave the pack of toilet seat covers and extra pairs of underwear at the bottom of the bag.
“For what, extensively cracked lips?”
“That, and ChapStick actually has several potential uses in an emergency. It can fix a zipper, patch holes, even stop a small bleed.”
“Why are you like this?” he asks, his arched brow and twitching eyelid indicating what I believe to be genuine interest.
I shrug. “There’s so much that’s out of our hands, you know? Being prepared for any situation helps me feel more in control.”
“What made you feel so out of control that you needed to gain it back?”
The question comes out as if it’s no big deal. As if he’s not asking me to bare the rawest parts of myself. I clear my throat, thinking of my childhood home. Of Zane. “I don’t know. Do you always ask this many questions?”
Seemingly out of nowhere, the plane lurches and he grabs my knee with a white-knuckle grip. He leaves it there for a moment and we make eye contact, his pale blue eyes seemingly cataloging me once again. I break the gaze, looking down at his hand. He retracts, moving it back to the armrest.
The flight attendants, barely affected by the turbulence, arrive at our row with the drink cart and we both order rum and Cokes.
Charlie eyes me as I take the Coke but toss the mini rum bottle into my bag. “If you’re not going to drink that . . .”
“Oh, so now you appreciate my Mary Poppins bag.”
The plane lurches again and he squeezes his eyes shut until it settles.
“Yes, I do. Very much so.”
“Yes what?” I cock my head and urge him along like a schoolteacher with a student who’s got the correct answer on the tip of their tongue.
The plane shifts again and he succumbs. “Yes. I appreciate you and your Mary Poppins bag.”
I reward him with the mini rum bottle.
“Now, handle yourself, please,” I tell him as I pull my laptop out of the bag and lower my tray table. “I have to figure this game out.”
He shrugs. As I place the other items back inside my bag, he touches my wrist.
“Wait,” he says when I lift the books.
First my leg, now my wrist. Despite his claim that he runs cold, his hand feels burning hot against my skin. Or maybe it’s just me.
“I’ll take that,” he says, pulling one of the romance novels from the stack.
“The Burning Locke is a personal favorite,” I tell him.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have anything else to do. I guess this’ll help me fall asleep.” He opens it and flips to the first chapter. “You know, I didn’t take you for a romance kind of girl.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Doomsday prep and apocalyptic gaming don’t really go hand in hand with romance, do they? I would have taken you for more of a how-to guide reader.”
“Well, I’m a multifaceted human,” I say.
His mouth takes a downward curve and I can’t tell if he is frowning or contemplating.
After he downs his double rum and Coke, it only takes a few minutes for Charlie to stop gripping the armrests completely. I glance over to see his eyes are closed, chin pointed to the flight attendant call button, full lips slightly parted, and The Burning Locke spread open across his lap. My eyes linger. I can observe him freely now, in close proximity. His dark brown hair curves perfectly to the right. I notice for the first time how long his eyelashes are, silky and naturally curled. I also see the dimple that sits atop his right cheekbone leaves a faint trace, even when his face is at rest.
I force my attention away from him. With Charlie sedated, I should focus fully on my design. Jack Palmer only provided light direction, but I imagine they will rate the game demo on playability, graphics, mechanics, and, most importantly, the potential for commercial appeal. None of this is possible without a concept, of course, and I have to come up with an idea, fast.
I stare at the blank screen, but all I can seem to think about is Charlie, this trip, and his plot for revenge on his ex. I wonder if I’m breaking some sort of girl code by being complicit in his deceit. I know I’m only hearing one side of things—Charlie’s—and I don’t even know if what he has shared with me is true. At best, his take is muddied by a broken heart.
I’m using him too, I remind myself. For this trip. For the opportunity to potentially tap into some creative brain flow that may only open when I’m thrust into entirely different, tropical surroundings. And of course, to get as far away from my neighborhood—and Zane and Jenna—as quickly as possible.
I sigh and stare out the window, wondering if this is a good idea. Perhaps my temporary impulsivity has led me too far in the opposite direction of who I am. I continue to watch as we rise above the remaining cloud layer to a level glide.
There’s no going back now.