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Jonah
During our junior year of college, Elliott told me I should never leave the house unsupervised. I had just broken my leg in three places trying to flip my snowboard off a cliff. In my defense, someone dared me to, and the cliff looked a lot smaller before I was upside down in the air. People love daring me to do things because they know I’ll always deliver.
Maybe there’s some profound psychological reason for the way I am. Maybe it has to do with growing up without an arm—overprotective parents, kids who left me out of everything. All I know is that when I hearcan’torshouldn’t, my first thought islet’s fucking go.
Now I’ve really messed up.
Me: Help.
I sit on the rubbery floor of the huge first-class lavatory, fingers shaking as I try to text Elliott. I’m gullible enough to believe whoever told me that using a phone mid-flight takes out the comms and makes the plane crash, but today’s a fucking emergency, so I guess we’re going down.
He answers instantly.
E: What did you do now?
Me: I flirted with the person sitting next to me on the plane.I grimace.And it worked.
E: I fail to see the problem. Is she hot?
The wordshegut-punches me, reminds me that a stranger on a plane knows more about me than my family or my best friend ever will.
Me: Insanely hot. And way, way, way out of my league.
E: She must not think so.
A noise scares the shit out of me, but it’s just a flight attendant banging a cabinet. I’m dizzy and nauseous and almost completely sure I hallucinated the last ten minutes.
Me: Just tell me how to take it back, man.
There’s a long enough pause that I start to hyperventilate, watching the three dots bouncing under my text.
E: Nope. You’ve landed how many girlfriends? Believe in yourself for once, loser.
He should take up motivational speaking.
Me: None of those girls were like this.
E: Is she a seven-foot-tall glamazon with a whip?
I cough a panicked laugh.
Me: Closer than you know.
I’m not sure if he’s a CEO or a stock broker or what, but that man was like a damn god with his expensive suit, the perfectly sculpted face and stern brows. Apparently a pissed-off bi-curious wet dream that tells you what a sorry piece of trash you are and makes you love it kind of does it for me.
E: Sounds like it’s too late. Hope you enjoy flogging.
Me: Fuck you.
E: That’s the spirit.
Relief sets in as I stuff my phone in my pocket. He didn’t show up. That’s agoodthing. As I open the toilet, I try to figure out how two full-sized guys could even fuck in here, all sweaty and grinding together.
Now I’m just a little too aroused to pee. I stand there, staring into the bowl, suffocating on my pounding heart.
I jump out of my skin when someone raps sharply on the door, fumbling to do up my fly. “Sorry, I’ll be right out—”
When I flip the latch, he strolls in like it’s unoccupied, shutting the door behind him as I back up, trip over my own feet, and land on my ass on the plastic toilet lid.
