Page 2 of Charming
“It’s okay,” she says, her Spanish accent thick, “Go. Vamos.” She tells me with a smile and gives me a wave. Tossing her a quick, “Thank you!” over my shoulder, I run down the jet way toward the plane’s door.
“Hi,” I tell the exceptionally pretty flight attendant breathlessly as I get to the door. My breaths are ragged and I feel slightly dizzy from the chaos.
“Gabriella Barrie?” she asks as she takes in my appearance, her gaze resting at my hand where I’m once again clutching my pants that now sit a bit lower than my waist, before returning to my eyes.
“Yes. I’m so sorry I’m late. I was in the restroom for a long time.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel my cheeks flush. “I mean, not because I was going to the bathroom all that time. I mean, I guess I did pee. But that’s not what took me a long time. It was because I was sad. Crying. Men, what are you going to do?” She continues to stare at me, and it increases my discomfort. Clearing my throat, I shrug, “Uh, thank you. Thank you so much. Sorry again,” I tell her feeling like a complete fool and apparently unable to just shut the hell up.
She smiles tightly, “Please find an available seat. Fortunately, our flight isn’t full.”
Nodding, I turn away from her and flush deeper when I see the passengers in the front have heard every word I just babbled. Lifting my head and faking confidence I don’t feel, I pass them, making my way down the aisle, looking for a seat. I carefully avoid the eyes of other passengers, their ire and annoyance palpable due to waiting on me. Part of me feels like I should grab the intercom phone and make a formal group apology. Lifting my chin, I try to roll it off my shoulders and see a row that has only one woman sitting in the aisle. She’s smiling widely at me and she’s the first kind face I see. “Hi. May I please sit here?”
She smiles, “Of course, dear.”
“Thank you.” Reaching across her to set my purse in the seat I’ve claimed, I swing my carry-on up to the open overhead bin. There’s plenty of space available, but my soft sided bag is stuffed and doesn’t slide inside easily. Hoping it’s pushed in enough, I try to close the bin, but it won’t latch. Even when I give it an extra slam and a few pushes for good measure. With a sigh, I let the bin open back up, then start shoving and pushing my bag roughly with both hands in an attempt to rearrange its contents to get it back a couple more inches. Feeling additional penetrating stares of passengers and the flight attendants alike compound my frustration.
“Ugh,” I yell and look around for an airline attendant for help. “Excuse me,” I call to a blonde one down the aisle a bit. She is poised in a selfie pose, twirling her hair around a finger while she speaks to an attractive man. He’s smiling at her and I realize she not only didn’t hear me, but it’s going to take a miracle to get her attention. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my bag and start shoving it again, harder this time, both hands beating against it in annoyance as continuous beads of sweat fall down my nape. It’s immovable.
With a curse I yank it out, turn it around, and give it another hard push. At the same time the bag finally slides back into position, I feel my jeans slide down my hips and a ceremony of gasps fill my ears.
With embarrassment I realize I could be partially mooning my fellow passengers behind me. Quickly lifting my pants, I will myself to believe that no one actually saw anything, but must forego the masquerade, clearly aware of the definition of their gasps. Under my lashes, I glance behind me to see one woman looking away, her shoulders shaking in what I assume is laughter. Laughter at me. The sight causes my face to flush redder, which is a feat given that I know I’m already bright red. Another woman, older, catches my eye and then touches her forehead, sternum, and each of her shoulders in the sign of the cross – likely saying a quick prayer to cleanse my soul or to protect her from me. A quick glance to the row behind them finds me meeting brown eyes of a man who looks to be around my age - mid twenties. He grins widely at me, and even winks. Why I’m regarding their expressions I do not know – it’s like I’ve been paralyzed. Shaking my head as if to wake up from this nightmare, and turning hastily, I scoot past my row companion hitting my leg on the armrest on the way. Falling into my seat, I struggle to fix my pants, then buckle my seatbelt across my lap. With a sigh I turn to look out the window as feelings of total mortification and humiliation wash over me warring with the brokenness I’m already struggling with today. Funny how earlier I didn’t think this day could get any worse.
As if on cue, tears start streaming from my eyes, and I’m sniffling in no time. I pull the seat back toward me in hopes that an unused napkin resides there but seeing none, reach for my purse, rifling through looking for a tissue in what is likely to be a vain attempt, lucidly aware that I threw the toilet paper I had grabbed in the bag that now resides above me – what was I thinking? A tap on my arm gets my attention and I turn to see the woman next to me holding out a tissue. With a shaky smile I take it from her and wipe my nose, “Thank you.” She hands me another.
“Of course, dear. Are you okay?”
The simple act of kindness, the concern in her voice, and the fact her salt and pepper hair, dark eyes, and soft smile reminds me a little bit of my beloved aunt, makes the tears flow faster. “No, not really,” I respond honestly.
“Do you feel like talking about it?”
Twisting the tissue in my hands I force out a laugh, “It’s a long story.”
“Oh honey, we have nothing but time.”
She isn’t wrong; we have a long flight ahead of us. Still. Turning my head to the right at the crazy thought of spilling my guts to a stranger, I begin to shake my head no, but something stops me. Truth is, I feel like I want to tell her. She’s someone that has no idea who I am or anyone I might speak to her about. Baring my soul to her is more than intriguing, it feels necessary, and safe. Maybe she sees that I’m considering it because she smiles warmly at me, “Who knows, dear, maybe talking to me will be like confiding in your very own Fairy Godmother, and I’ll be able to help make your dreams come true.”
Laughing softly at the mirth in her eyes, I sniffle, “Well, that’s a nice thought. If only it were true.”
She smiles and holds out her hand, “My name is Faye, love. And you are?”
“Gabriella, but my friends call me ‘Ella’.”
“Well, Ella, will you please tell me why you’re so sad?”
I begin shredding the tissue in my hand and I watch as the pieces fall like snow into my lap, “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Well that’s easy, love. At the beginning of course.”
With a nod and a small smile, I take a deep breath, and begin.
When I was a little girl, Cinderella was my favorite princess. I loved watching her dance at the ball in the arms of Prince Charming – it’s still my favorite part. Even though it was a cartoon and not an animated version like we have today, you could clearly see the love in Cinderella’s eyes, a small smile of happiness upon her lips, and even a look of stunned disbelief at times on her face. Looks that told me she couldn’t believe how happy she was and that she was dancing in the arms of her love.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the vision, I focus intently, desperately searching for a look just like that princess in blue. But, there isn’t even a hint of a smile upon my lips or a trace of a twinkle in my eyes. Instead, there’s uncertainty, desperation, and perhaps a twinge of fear. I’m wondering for the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing. Am I sure that I want to walk down the aisle? Is this really the man that I want to be with for the rest of my life? Is Jeremy my real life prince? Are these thoughts normal to have on myactualwedding day?
Fidgeting with my veil, I purposefully take some deep breaths; hoping doing so will calm my nerves. Closing my eyes, I try to picture my doubts as dust particles that simply blow away with each, and every, exhale. I give up when it feels like I’m closer to hyperventilating than calming down. I’m trying to avoid a tiny voice in the back of my mind that’s screaming, “RUN!” It seems that ignoring it is only making it get louder and louder. It’s telling me that I’m about to make a mistake. A huge, gigantic mistake.
When Jeremy proposed marriage, saying “yes” just seemed to be the appropriate response. We knew one another in college and were casual acquaintances initially. His father worked for mine and I knew who his dad was, but Jeremy and I had never officially met before. We didn’t begin dating until he attended a work function with his father that I was also attending; we gravitated toward each other and hung out for the evening, spending hours talking. We never quit spending time together after that and our relationship developed from there. He met my stepmother and stepsister and I saw his dad again, met his mother and his brother. My family loved him, his loved me, and most of our friends always made comments about how perfectly matched we were, and I wondered if maybe they could see something that I didn’t. I knew that I loved Jeremy, but lately I’d been questioning if I wasinlove with him.
I enjoyed spending time with him, but I always felt like something was missing. I never felt the passionate, fiery love that I’ve read about and saw in movies. But, I know that those kinds of feelings are fictional. It’s silly to base real life on some fairy tale and so I pushed them aside and told myself I was being unrealistic. So, when he proposed, regardless of my hesitations, I agreed to become Mrs. Jeremy le Pieu.
