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I didn’t know why—I swear!—but my face turned red when he said that.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He gamely smiled at me. “We’re all about new adventures this weekend, right?”
“Right.” Cheered, I maneuvered through the traffic and got off on the exit for Logan Airport. I hated the tunnel that led to the airport—a mile under a sagging ceiling, only two lanes, and not enough light. I glanced at Bob. “Kind of claustrophobic, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Claustrophobic. Yeah. I hate that feeling.” I didn’t know if it was just the crappy tunnel lights or if he was looking a little green. He didn’t say another word as we exited the tunnel and I turned into the parking garage.
We hopped out. I grabbed my rolling garment bag, but Bob gallantly took my other suitcase.
I smiled. “Thanks.” I took a closer peek at him when we got out of the garage. He did, in fact, look more than a little green. “Bob, we can totally take the ferry.”
“Nah, I’m fine.” He smiled at me, but there were tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip.
I wanted to argue, but he plastered a smile on his face and bravely strode into the airport. He didn’t say a word through security and didn’t hesitate as he took off his shoes and put everything into a plastic bin. He waited for me on the other side, smiling.
But even underneath that handsome face and the polite expression, I recognized the terror in his eyes. I wasn’t sure how to comfort him. He was a big guy, at least six foot two, with muscular shoulders and a swagger. He’d held the door for me and carried my suitcase. He was a gentleman, and by my estimation, a guy’s guy. Big, strong guy’s guys did not like to admit to being petrified about something like flying. I knew it was a stereotype, but it was also true.
I sat down next to him as we put our shoes back on. “Hey, do you like sports?”
Bob looked at me as if I had three heads. “Yes. Do you?”
“Love them. I especially love baseball.”
He nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
“You know what I love best about baseball?”
Bob shook his head patiently. He clearly had no idea where I was going with the conversation.
“The psychology behind pitching. Pitching is everything, right?”
“Um, yep,” he said politely.
“But because that’s true, the pitchers have the most pressure on them. They can win games, but they can also lose them. Pitchers suffer from a high rate of anxiety. Did you know that?” I was totally making that up, but I doubted he would Google to fact-check me in real time. “Do you know how pitchers handle their anxiety?”
Bob shook his head.
“They breathe. They do yoga breathing. Do you know how to do that?”
“No, I don’t.” But he looked interested.
“In through your nose”—I inhaled deeply—“and out through your mouth.” I exhaled in a whoosh. “You try it!”
Bob inhaled through his nose then exhaled through his mouth. “Thanks. That’s great.”
I patted his shoulder. “Forty minutes. One and done!”
He nodded, smiled, and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Forty minutes. One and done.”
I plastered another smile on my face. “That’s it!”
Forty minutes. One and done. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Five
BOB
