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The game of legsie was interesting. Too scared to speak to me but not too scared to try to come on to me?
I decided my flight wasn’t going to be as boring as I’d feared.
“Your leg is touching mine,” I said.
The woman jumped like I’d just administered an electric shock from my knee. “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered. She was motionless for a second, then she actually cupped her hand over her eyes and bowed her head.
I smirked. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”
Another long pause.
She slowly pulled her hand away, then turned to look at me with clear shock. I’d never been a picky man when it came to beautiful women. But ever since a string of hyper attractive girlfriends had proven to be nothing but gold diggers, clout chasers, and users, I’d found myself drawn increasingly to normal. I had nothing against beauty, of course, and if a beautiful woman with the right personality came my way, I’d be happy to see where things went.
It was more that I was learning the warning signs. The type. And you could bet your ass there was a type in New York City. The first warning flag was the Instagram influencer type. I always found myself posing for so many pictures that I felt like I should start charging an advertising fee. Then there were celebrities looking for a PR boost. Nobodies looking for a boost to their bank accounts. The list was endless, and the common denominator was men in my position were a means to an end, and I’d become cautious about throwing myself into yet another situation to be used.
For some reason, this particular woman didn’t strike me as any of the above. She looked wounded. Like someone who, on a good day, would’ve probably told me to go fuck myself. Except it wasn’t a good day. There were irritated patches of pink under her light brown eyes. Her makeup had been mostly rubbed away, as far as I could tell, and her blonde hair was in a messy state between ponytail and a bison’s afro. Honestly, I found the whole package endearing.
Too bad I was about to be off the market.
“I’m sorry,” She finally said again. She turned her head and stared toward the window, clearly hoping I’d forget she existed.
“I’m Chris Rose, by the way.”
Without looking, she nodded. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere.”
I looked down at her legs, which she had moved several inches from mine. I had a quick internal debate, then decided, what the hell? I moved my knee over and bumped it against her leg.
She went stiff. She turned her head just slightly toward me, enough for me to see she was wearing the hint of a smile. “I’m Belle. And your leg is touching mine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s because I’m about to have to swear off women for the foreseeable future. About to,” I added again, wondering if she’d pick up my meaning.
She finally faced me, but I noticed she was careful not to peel her leg away from mine. It was the conversation beneath the conversation—the unspoken safe word. “Swear off women? What, are you going to get ordained as a priest or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, but apparently wasn’t the nosy type, because she didn’t press for details. Belle gave a little shrug. “I swore off men a couple hours ago.”
“Sounds like I caught you just a little too late. Swearing your oaths as a nun or something?”
“Or something,” she said with a crooked little smile. Belle took a shaky breath, then dug in her dress for something. She looked up at me sheepishly. “It has pockets,” she explained as she pulled a crumpled, neon pink sticky note free.
She turned her body to the side so I couldn’t see what she was doing, scribbled something with a pen, and then put it back in her pocket.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I made an amendment. Once I land in New York. I’m officially swearing off men.”
I’d had my fair share of spontaneous connections with women before. But I’d never met someone with quite the odd mixture of shyness and bravery Belle seemed to have. Truth was, it had me hard as a rock and wishing we were somewhere other than an airplane. I would’ve loved to have her to myself for a night. To lay her out on a king-sized bed and watch her sink into a plush pile of pillows.
I took Belle’s hand and pulled her through the aisle toward the bathroom.
A middle-aged stewardess had been loading the concession cart beside the bathroom. She whirled to face us, face contorting into a frown.
“Sir, you can’t—” the stewardess started. “Oh. You’re—”
I knew what she was about to say but cut her off. “This is my wife. She’s pregnant. I know she doesn’t look it, but she gets extreme morning sickness. I’ve got to help her. Unless you’d rather she barf all over first class, that is.”
