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But I tell myself this is what she wants, and it is not my place to override that. If she needed my help, she probably would have asked me for it instead of declaring her intentions to leave last night.
But if she accelerated her plans by a whole day, it must mean she is more upset than she is letting on. Perhaps she wanted me to ask her to stay?
Brushing the thought away, I nod at the airport valet who approaches me.
“M. King, I presume?”
He checks my credentials, then hands me two first class tickets, no questions asked. This is one of the great perks of being a frequent traveler and I feel a small twinge of remorse. Jordan is not getting the red carpet treatment that she deserves, while I am. She's having to hoof it through the airport, get searched in customs, and get sneered at by few more French people on her way out of the country. I'm going to hop on the back of this airport golf cart and get chauffeured right to the gate.
But this is my life. What am I going to do, apologize for it?
I take the seat next to the window and watch the line of passengers slowly making their way through first class, back to coach. They’re in the other aisle, while I'm way over here in the last seat next to the window.
“Champagne, monsieur?” the flight attendant asks me sweetly, bending over at the waist and flashing me a clear, unobstructed view down her neckline, between those tiny, European breasts, all the way to the concavity of her belly. My eyes bounce off of that area, somehow repelled automatically.
Perhaps she notices my disinterest, because she straightens immediately. But I accept the champagne, tipping it to my lips immediately to conceal my expression and my face in case Jordan wants to look over.
She's there again, standing in line, waiting for the other passengers to get their carry-on bags stowed in the overhead compartments and drop into their narrow, coach section seats.
The man behind her keeps shuffling up way too close, then smirking to himself and nodding. I don't like the way he's looking at her. Not one little bit. She doesn't even seem to notice that he manufactures some kind of physical impairment that has him hulking over her, practically collapsing on top of her.
As the plane begins to roll away from the gate and across the tarmac, I see the guy in the suit leering as he leans into the row, just beyond the blue curtain that separates first class from coach. He swings into the seat and I just know it. I just know that he's next to her. And I can tell from the look on his face exactly what he's planning.
“Excuse me, miss?” I ask the stewardess as she walks by. She turns back to face me. Her expression far less friendly than it was before.
“Oui?”
I withdraw a business card and hold it out to her.
“There is another passenger on this flight. Her name is Jordan Burke. Would you please give her this and ask her to join me? I reserved both these seats.”
The stewardess grips the back of the seat as the plane begins to take off, her eyes flickering nervously over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, sir, but the plane will be taking off in just a moment. I cannot —"
“You can,” I tell her simply. Of course she can. People only say “I can't” because they have been trained to do that.
In any case, she seems to understand that I am not going to take no for an answer, and she plucks the card from my fingers, nodding curtly with her lips pursed.
It doesn't take long. We’re only in the air for a minute or two when I feel her presence. Literally, I'm looking out the window, but I can feel her close to me.
I turn in my seat expecting to finally get the scolding I so richly deserve. She's going to be angry with me for leaving, for being here now, and for summoning her out of her seat like I own her.
But instead, she is smiling at me with gratitude or relief or something. A lock of hair falls in front of her face as the plane sways slightly, and she pushes it behind her ear.
“I believe you were in the wrong seat, darling,” I hear myself say like some kind of character in an old movie.
She smiles shyly and drops into the seat next to me. She's not angry? Whatever kind of luck this is, I'm happy to go along with it.
“How did you know?” she breathes. “I mean… It's like I just wished for you, and all of a sudden the flight attendant was handing me your card…”
She blinks, her eyes as wide and innocent as a child's.
“How did I know?” I repeat, trying not to let on how confused I am.
“Well, that guy, he was so creepy! Just hovering over me, trying to touch me, I think. You know what I mean?”
Hovering… Yes, I can see how that would be creepy, I scold myself, painfully aware that what he was doing is not completely unlike what I have also been doing by following her through the airport and buying her a seat without her knowledge.
