The younger man doesn’t quite smile at the older man, but his energy shifts from intense focus to a polite greeting.
“Good seeing you, Mr. Parkinson. Where you headed?”
“Virginia,” he says. “My son insisted. Won’t be the same without Nancy, but Matt bought the ticket, and I’m too cheap to waste it.”
The younger man gives a clipped smile. “I can respect that.”
“How’s the team gonna be this year? We ain’t losing the Fischer brothers, are we?”
The man shrugs. “That’s above my pay grade.”
“Well, keep winning, and I won’t have a quarrel with you, Fletch.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a good holiday.”
The two men shake hands, and then the older man spots me. His demeanor softens from tough to tender. He walks over to me and takes my hand, and this simple touch is like water to a dry sponge. I absorb every drop until it’s about to spill from my eyes. “Travel safely, girl,” he says.
I smile. “You too.”
The sweet old man lets go, and I watch him walk through the terminal until he gets lost in a sea of passengers.
When I turn back to my line, it’s to see the younger man—Fletch? What kind of name is that?—fixing a pair of dark blue eyes at me.
I blink in surprise, then smile.
He scowls and looks away.
Okay then. Definitely not interested in small talk. I should probably be offended, but I make a point of assuming the best. Mr. Parkinson called him ‘Coach,’ so maybe he’s just focused on something with his team. Or maybe he hates airports as much as my online friend Arrow does.
My hand is still warm from where my new friend held it. Touch is my love language, but it’s the thing I get the least of in my life. I live alone and travel—well, traveled—for work. I haven’t had a boyfriend in two years or even caught up with my old college roommate in months.
But I’m low maintenance, so that brief, sweet hand squeeze will keep my bucket full for a while. And for that, I’m grateful.
I debate sitting down now that I’m done eavesdropping, but I figure that will look weird, especially with the handsome, scowling man already having clocked me.
Meanwhile, the woman behind me keeps doing that thing in line where she inches her bag closer like she’s planning to slide ahead of me the second the gate agent starts scanning tickets. We’re not even moving, so I’m not sure if she thinks she’s being subtle or if she doesn’t care.
Funny thing is, if she asked to get in front of me, I’d jump to the back of the line just to make sure I’m not in her way. Helping people is sort of my thing.
You’d think a former true crime junkie would be too suspicious to be pathologically helpful.
You’d be wrong.
I’m the type to touch a hot stove, not because I want to get burned, but because I worry the stove has gotten a bad rap. I’ll get burned over and over because I simply can’t believe it wants to hurt me. (And by stoves, I mean people.)
I’d call it an occupational hazard, but it’s a Poppy Lewis hazard.
Sometimes, when I feel myself on the verge of giving in too much, of erasing yet another line I drew in pencil, I lie and tell people I have an urgent client matter, and then I pull up my favorite online forum and message Arrow.
And as the woman beside me talks on the phone and paces, encroaching more and more in my space, I do it now. I pull outmy phone and let her fully push in front of me to spare us both the awkwardness of her pretending she didn’t notice she was cutting.
Problem solved!
I look at my messages and try to think of something dazzlingly clever, because Arrow is as sharp as his name.
(Arrow’s not his real name. People with healthy boundaries don’t share real names in online forums. I probably would have given him my real name the second time we messaged—along with my social security number and mother’s maiden name, just for funsies. But Arrow doesn’t cross lines or test boundaries. Even if I sometimes wish he would.)
Where was I?
