Page 5 of Speechless

For all of his bravado, Dog-Hater doesn’t move. But the hot stranger does. He pushes himself around Dog-Hater to the front row, plops his bag in the seat next to me, and then not-so-gently pushes my old seatmate back to row four.

Dog-Hater seems stunned into silence as he gets shoved down into his new seat. The rest of the first-class cabin claps enthusiastically.

“Thank you.” The hot stranger sits down and I look over at him with as much gratitude as I can muster. His face seems strained with frustration. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Someone did. That guy was a dick.” He blows out a long breath. “Sorry it took me so long to say something. Are you all right?”

I chuckle softly as I try to slyly wipe the rest of the tears from my face. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s so rare I get that reaction to Rowan. Most people love him.”

“And why wouldn’t they?” He reaches over to scratch Rowan’s chin. Row immediately starts licking my new seatmate’s hand. I never want to apologize for him being friendly again.

I’m able to compose myself while the rest of the plane boards and while I hold on to Rowan tightly during takeoff. I reach for my headphones again once we’re airborne but get a light tap on the shoulder from my new seatmate.

“I’m actually quite glad I got to switch seats. I wanted to, erm, apologize for earlier, in the airport. Sometimes I have trouble finding my words and, well, you caught me off guard.” He smiles shyly and brushes a fallen curl from his brow.

He looks . . . apprehensive?

“So, I thought maybe we could start over, with actual introductions. What do you think?”

“Sure, why not.” I offer my hand to shake, wildly confused by the formality of this. “I’m Lucy Gold. Nice to meet you, airport stranger.” I offer a grin.

He takes my hand in his. “Henry Turner.”

* * *

What?

What?

No.

Now it’s my turn to be tongue-tied. Henry Turner isn’t that unique of a name, it’s probably just a coincidence.

But it’s not, I know it’s not.

He’s frowning at me like I didn’t make the connection.

“How old are you?” Ok, not my best opening line but it just sort of popped out.

“Well, based on how old you seem to think I should be, I guess the correct term would be . . . three and thirty?”

But my Henry Turner is . . . old! At least in my head he is. Is it really possible I never googled the composer I’ve been obsessed with for years? He looks nothing like Beethoven. Even his eyebrows are perfectly groomed.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I thought you were older. And I really don’t know why I just asked for your age. You’re reallytheHenry Turner?” I show him my playlist with over fourteen hours of his scores. “This is all yours?”

“I’d prefer if you just called me Henry, althoughTheHenry does have a nice ring to it. I’ll have to discuss with my team when I get home.”

I’m still gawking at him, and he offers a kind smile. He has really nice teeth. Aren’t British people supposed to be lacking in that department?

“And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier in the airport. It was surprising to hear you talk about my music so . . . genuinely. Thank you, by the way, for that. It was quite nice to hear, actually.”

“I—you’re welcome.” I shake my head, maybe a bit too vigorously. “But no, I should be thanking you. I’ve been—well, the last few months have been kind of tough for me, brutal really. Music can be so therapeutic, you know? It’s always what I turn to when I’m stressed or struggling with pain.”

How could I possibly convey how important his music is to me? How I can’t even leave the house without arming myself with my headphones and his playlist. I’m sure everyone living with a chronic illness finds their own therapy, but for me, when I’m constantly deciding between pain and life-altering changes to my body, his music is the only thing that grounds me.

“Yours has really helped me.” My voice breaks and I quickly turn away to pet Rowan.

Don’t cry Luce, not now, not here, notagain. You’re sitting next to Henry Turner. Don’t ruin the best thing that’s happened to you in months!

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