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He’s so quiet I’d forget he’s there, if not for the heat of his thigh stretched out next to me and my aching skull quieting enough to be very aware of just how close his mile-wide shoulders are to touching mine.
But I remember him well when my elbow bumps his and knocks it off the armrest.
“Oops,” I say. “So—”
I never get the word out before he plants his elbow back down and sweeps mine off. He never stops typing—and he’s still not looking at me.
I narrow my eyes.
Look, I’m grateful to him for turning off the lights and giving me his pocket square, but a single human sentence from him would be nice.
Annoyed, I nudge my elbow back on the armrest and send his dropping back down into his lap.
Then he does it right back without missing a beat.
Oh, now it’s on.
Hiding my smile, I sweep his elbow back off again, this time more forcefully—and there he is again, his huge arm brushing mine as he pushes right back.
Again.
Again.
Again and again and again until I’m hard pressed not to grin. He never pushes hard enough to come close to hurting me. Mostly, this feels like some weird game.
Okay.
I may look like a corpse and my hair is probably sticking up everywhere, but maybe I am getting to flirt with Mr. Walking Daddy Issues a little bit.
Even if he’s still no closer to showing the slightest hint of a smile, let alone breaking that no-nonsense expression. He still wears the same broody look of intense concentration as he scrolls through the data on his screen.
It looks like financial projections and profit reports that seem negative, I think.
But our weird little game ends as the Fasten seat belt light dings on, and my amusement turns into dread.
Here we go.
I just hope I don’t cry this time when the shifting pressure crushes my head like a grape.
As the pilot announces our arrival, we put our laptops away.
Jet Daddy keeps very pointedly ignoring me, but as we both fasten our seat belts, it happens.
He leaves the armrest free.
I smile slightly and hold on tight, bracing for pain.
But the pressure change doesn’t hit me as much like a plane crash to the face. I still end up clawing at the armrests until my fingers hurt, pinching my eyes shut.
The vise squeezing my skull only lets up once the wheels touch down on the runway and we start taxiing in.
My mouth feels sour, but I think I’ll make it to the terminal without showering Jet Daddy in my last meal.
I do go fuzzy and dark for a second, though.
Maybe more than a second—or is it a few minutes?
When I pry my eyes open again, people are disembarking and Jet Daddy is gone like a ghost that never existed.
