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He rubbed at his neck. “Really stupid. It wasn’t the only stupid thing I’ve done these last few years, but…”
“What happened?” she asked, only empathy emanating from those big blue eyes of hers, and she moved closer to him. Chris followed as if he were a magnet, his body and words unable to resist.
“I, uh…” Avoiding any particulars, he said, “I like cars. I like driving fast, and that night, I got some bad news and decided to go for a drive. Even though I thought I was okay to drive, I shouldn’t have. Went around a curve, and bam. Thankfully, I didn’t hurt anyone.” He stopped, flinching at the possibility of what might have happened. “The court fined me and ordered me to do some community service, and after I finished, my friend thought it might be a good idea if I got away for a while.” Never mind the paparazzi stalking him, the constant calls for interviews.
Bronte smiled softly. “I’m proud of you for knowing you made a mistake and trying to make up for it.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
“Yes, I do.” She tipped her head back as if offended and wagged a finger, a small tilt of her pretty pink lips at the corner. “I see you. I see the nervous tic of your leg, the way your fingers can’t keep still—” her face softened, eyes burning into him “—your honesty.”
And in that second, Chris was sure Bronte could see more than he wanted her to. It made him nervous and scared and some other emotion he couldn’t yet name.
He moved so his back was against the window, their knees touching. “Well, you know so much about me, and I don’t know anything about you.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“No drugs, rehab, or illicit past?”
She made a face, as if she was afraid to admit it. “I smoked pot a few times in high school.”
His jaw dropped in mock horror. “I can’t believe it. I don’t think we can be friends anymore. I can’t have such a bad influence around me.”
“Rude.” She laughed, reaching to flick his arm, but he grabbed her wrist in defense. Her grin immediately faded when their eyes met.
For the length of a heartbeat, panic rose in his chest, thinking she’d figured out who he was, but as he felt her rapid pulse against his fingertips, he knew whatever it was that passed between them had nothing to do with his celebrity status.
“Sorry,” she said, recoiling out of his grasp as if she’d been burned.
He wanted to apologize too, for whatever it was he did that made her uncomfortable, but she was so stiff sitting next to him now that he was afraid to push it. For a few minutes, he did nothing but listen to the hum of the engines. It was only when the flight attendant came around with the refreshments that they fell back into an easier rhythm.
With sodas in hand, Chris and Bronte passed the time by asking each other questions about everything and nothing in particular. Favorite memory? His was when he got his first guitar for Christmas at ten years old. Hers was the family trip across the country in an old station wagon. Their stance on organized religion and politics? He had been raised in a strict Christian home, attending church and bible study multiple times a week, which set him off on the path he was on now, although he didn’t tell her that. While she said she was a registered independent but leaned left. He loved cold weather and hated mayonnaise. She loathed social media and adored her monthly book club meetings, where she was usually one of the few who read the book. The others, she told him with a smile, went for the wine and cheese.
He answered her questions truthfully, yet not completely honestly. He had no reason to feel bad about that, but he still did.
Before Chris knew it, the pilot’s voice returned, signaling the descent into Lehigh Valley International Airport, and with the sudden dip of the plane, he gripped the armrest.
Bronte leaned into him. “You okay?”
Surprisingly… “Yeah. I’m okay.”
The plane touched down with a bumpy landing, and Bronte’s head bounced into his shoulder. She frowned, touching the tender spot below her right eye. His thumb brushed her reddening cheekbone. “Sorry.”
She leaned ever so slightly into his touch, and when the aircraft came to a stop, the passengers stood in a rumbling wave, reaching for their carry-ons, while Chris and Bronte stayed in their seats, their faces inches from each other. Not quite close enough to kiss, but definitely close enough to smell the cinnamon-flavored gum she had been chewing to keep her ears from popping.
When the rest of the passengers surged forward, forming a line to exit, she sat up. “Guess we better…”
He looked around, wishing they had more time together in their cramped, cozy bubble. He didn’t want to let go of this yet. He didn’t want to let go of her.
“Yeah,” he agreed, slow to get up.
Bronte walked ahead of him, but as soon as she stepped onto the jetway, she peeked over her shoulder. He was stuck behind an elderly couple, and she slowed, waiting for him to catch up, leaving him encouraged. She obviously didn’t want their time to end yet either.
They leisurely made their way to baggage claim in easy silence, every once in a while catching each other’s eyes with a sly smile. And more than once, Chris kept his fingers from wrapping around her hand as she pointed out which way to go.
When they reached the luggage carousel, Bronte gestured to a small suitcase. “That’s mine.” She moved to grab it, but he stopped her and picked it up, setting it down at her feet. “Thanks.”
“So,” he began.
