Page 31 of Grease & Grips
We don’t say much while we clean up, still catching our breath. I wash my hands while Andrés leans on the counter behind me, a little unsteady. His lips are swollen and there’s a faint pink flush climbing up his chest that makes me want to kiss him all over again.
“What you said, Mack…” he starts, “About me owning…”
“This doesn’t have to be more than it is,” I cut him off without looking at him. “It was good seeing you, but… I’m happy having this here.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he nods, quiet but not cold. “It was good. Really good.”
He straightens up, running a hand through his hair. “Can I at least sit with you till the flight?”
“Of course,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “Was kinda hoping you would.”
We head back out like nothing happened, slipping into two empty seats near the gate. We talk a little. He asks about the shop. I ask about his job. There’s a lull where I think maybe that’s it, but then he leans over and pulls out his phone.
“What’s your seat number,” he asks.
“18C,” I tell him.
He hums. “Okay.”
The boarding area starts to buzz, the gate agent's voice crackling over the speaker as they announce pre-boarding. Whatever’s left of that bathroom scene is still burning low in my gut, humming under my skin like it hasn’t decided whether to settle or flare back up.
“Now boarding Group 1, first class passengers…”
Andrés stands.
I blink up at him. “You’re in first?”
He shrugs, but a little smile he’s not letting fully show. “Work paid for it.”
Of course they did.
“See you in New York,” he says, hoisting his carry-on onto his shoulder as he starts toward the jet bridge, glancing back only once. I give him a small nod, and then he’s gone, swallowed up by other passengers.
I stay in my chair, bag balanced on my lap, heart beating a little too fast for someone waiting to board a plane. The hardthump of my heart is doing it’s best to drown out the ache that’s still tied up in the shape of his mouth and the way my fingers pressed into his hips.
When they finally call my group, I stand slow. The warmth from before is fading, replaced by a very familiar stretch of emptiness. Every step down the jet bridge I carry him with me because somehow, against all reason, it still feels like something’s not quite over.
I keep telling myself not to look for him with every step down the narrow aisle. That he’s up in first class with a glass of something bubbly, already forgetting whatever that was between us. Still, I scan the rows as I pass, because hope’s a hard habit to break.
When I finally hit row 18, I freeze because there he is. Sitting in the seat right next to mine like it was always his.
“You traded?” I ask, stunned, sliding into the seat beside him. “Out of first class?!”
“I told the guy next to you I needed to sit beside my boyfriend,” he says, tone light but eyes watching mine.
My mouth opens. Closes. My heart does something I don’t have a name for.
“Guess I better be on my best behavior,” I mutter.
He leans over, close enough for only me to hear. “Too late for that.”
The rest of the passengers trickle in, a slow shuffle of bags and bodies. Overhead bins slam shut, one after the other. Seatbelts click. The doors seal.
The space around us suddenly feels too small. I grip the armrests so tight my knuckles pop. “I’ve never flown before.”
“Wait… never?”
The plane jerks back from the gate like and my whole body seizes. There’s this low rumble under the floor, growing louder, deeper, like a monster waking up below us.
