Where the Black Line Ends

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

REED

F inally.

I sink into the worn leather, sighing in relief.

I can’t believe that actually worked. My father’s navy-blue dress pants and penny loafers closed in on that boarding bridge and I threw myself into the aisle, just missing him. It’s a good thing I read Dolores’s seat number before giving back her ticket. Row seven has never felt better.

I tip my head back and close my eyes. A sudden explosion of air blasts across my face, and I revel in the current. Folding my arms across my chest, I accidentally knock into the plastic shield covering the window. It unfurls with a whoosh, and I unwind my arms and scoot back into the rigid seat as far as it will allow.

The arched plexiglass exposes some grass and an empty stretch of runway, not all that exciting of a view yet, so I notice something else. Like the fact that my kneecaps forge a war with the seat in front of me. My shins could take on the hex imprint from the pocket stitches during this flight, and I could care less. This cramped space is freedom. Quiet freedom and it dawns on me that I’ve yet to pay attention to the person seated beside me .

When I look toward the aisle, I’m met with laminated cardstock. Emergency protocols , the front cover reads.

“Do people really use those things?” I mutter to myself.

A yelp sounds as the person on the other side fumbles the booklet. It topples over twice before the woman catches the corner and straightens in her seat, pretending it wasn’t about to drop to the floor.

I smirk.

A pair of chocolate-brown eyes settle on me. I get caught up in the gold flecks that warm her irises before I notice she’s frowning. No. Glaring? Either way, it’s hardly a menacing look with those rosy cheeks and plump lips.

“Some people like to feel prepared,” she argues.

I take it my lack of interest in safety regulations offended her.

“Do they though?” I question. “Where’s the adventure in that?” My eyebrow cocks of its own accord. The opposite of what hers are doing, which is drawing together in the center.

I’m not trying to be smug, but are any of those procedures really necessary? I guess I’m not one to comment. I cliff jump without much consideration for the hidden rocks beneath the water’s surface.

“I wouldn’t call nosediving to your impending death an adventure,” she contends.

So, she is one of those people who would use it.

“There’s a better way you’d like to go out then?” I tease her.

Am I really asking a nervous flier how she’d like to die?

“There is,” she fires back. “Old age.”

She can’t be much older than me. I scan her body to be sure when my eyes zero in on her sweater. Wait a minute… is that the same one I knocked into earlier? Did it have those brown speckles in it? I can’t remember. Then again—I glance around th e few rows touching ours—no one else is sporting wool this time of year.

I grin. “I can picture it.”

She chokes out a cough. “You’re picturing me… dying ?”

Wait… that’s not what I meant. I can fix this.

“No, I can picture you in old age. Soft lines framing those pretty brown eyes, silver whisps to those bangs, a homebody who knits on her porch swing. Maybe a little grumpy from time to time.”

She fights against the makings of a smile with the back of her hand. “You know nothing about me.”

“You’re right. So, tell me something,” I say, in need of a distraction.

She squares her shoulders. “I think guys like you are notorious for acting intrigued by women like me. You strike up a conversation. Get to know them. It’s playful at first. Until you realize you aren’t getting any action at the end of it, and then you lose interest.”

Wow . How many worthless guys has this girl dated? Apparently one too many with the way she crosses her arms like a shield to protect herself.

“So, you’re saying if I act uninterested in you, then you’ll believe me when I say I have no intention of ever trying to get into your pants?”

I thought my response was what she wanted to hear. But she winces when I emphasize the words no and ever . I’m not sure what this woman wants from me at this point, so I don’t even bother giving her the chance to answer. I’m happy to give her uninterested.

I yank the brochure from her hands, tip my head back against the headrest, and pretend to ignore her. From my periphery, she’s still gaping at me.

Point made .

Her face blooms into a deep rose color. I don’t know if it’s out of anger or embarrassment, but she has to believe that I’m not noticing it otherwise she’d hide that blush from me like the rest of the women I’ve talked to today.

I flip through the booklet, pretending to scan the pages, when she interrupts me.

“What I meant to say,” she goes on, “is that I think it’s best if you and I sit in silence for this flight.”

I look at her and nod back. The way her eyes flit between her lost reading material in my hand and my self-satisfied face is just as entertaining as our verbal sparring.

She finally gives up, settling back into her seat. And I’m left in the same predicament I was in before—boredom. I need music.

Something crinkles when I shuffle through the side pocket of my duffle bag for a pair of headphones. I reach for it instead. A package with a bright-red bow surfaces—surprise trail mix. Mom must have packed it for me. The small gesture thaws a frozen edge from the ice box I tend to keep my feelings for my parents in.

I tear the corner off with my teeth and dump the contents into my palm. The nut to M&M ratio is paltry, but I pick out the colorful candy anyway and dump anything remaining into my mouth.

“Are you going to eat those?”

I think I heard her say that, but I don’t dare assume after she was the one who initiated our vow of silence.

“Well?” she asks as her eyes flirt with the sugar in my hand.

I extend my palm. “They’re all yours,” I say, and she reaches for them, but before she can snatch them up, I trap them beneath my fingertips. “But I want it on record that you cracked first, not me.”

She rolls her eyes and pries my fingers open. “Fine.”

I watch her plop two red M&Ms in her mouth, followed by an orange, then four yellow and two green.

“What?” she says when she catches me staring.

“Nothing. I’ve just… never seen someone actually ‘taste the rainbow’ before. It’s cute.”

Does a comment like that count as flirting? Because I should not be flirting with her. For a whole host of reasons, but the biggest being that I’m about to prove her opinion of guys to be true. At the end of this flight, we’ll part ways and never speak again. I’d rather not be another tally mark on the list of men with ill intentions toward her.

“Isn’t that the slogan for Skittles?” she asks.

“Still applies, don’t you think?”

“I guess it does, yeah.” She blushes again, this time with me looking right at her. “It’s a habit I picked up from my aunt.”

Impending goodbye or not, I’m still bound to prove her wrong. Change her mind about me. Convince her that there are some guys in the world who truly care about getting to know someone. Some men who would do anything to keep the woman they’re interested in.

“Can I ask you a personal question, or will you keep me in the same camp as those self-centered guys you speak so fondly of?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, are you going to tell me your name first?”

I should have started with that.

“Reed Morgan.”

“Hailey Hart,” she says, offering her hand in a formal greeting.

Her eyes drop to the crease next to my smile as I shake it.

“Are you close with this aunt of yours?”

“Yeah. She’s like a mom to me.”

With the way her eyes cast down, I fear it’s the most personal question I could have picked. I don’t press any further, just bump into her with my knee instead. “Well, your aunt has great taste in candy.”

Her lips stretch into a smile. “My turn. Were you waiting for someone to get on this flight with you?”

Her question catches me off guard. How would she know that unless…

The apples of her cheeks darken.

“Were you watching me, Red?”

The nickname just slipped out. But… women don’t generally blush under my stare and still look at me the way she is right now. Like she isn’t afraid for me to see the way I affect her. It feels like a compliment, and it deserved to be noticed.

“Everyone was watching you,” she argues. “You were blocking the whole aisle for a good seven minutes.”

I chuckle and then sober. “Yes. I was waiting for someone.”

There’s an awkward pause, as if she’s hoping I elaborate. I don’t like talking about my family. But who am I to deny her an answer when my goal was to get her to realize not all men have one-track minds.

“Let me put it this way… I needed some space from that person, so I gave up my seat. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can switch back.”

She jolts her hand out. “No! It’s fine.”

But what’s not fine is the way she white-knuckles her armrest seconds later.