Page 15 of The First Kind of Love
Newly-Sixteen propels herself out of her chair and halfway across my body as she encroaches on Fulton’s personal space. I shrink into my seat, but there’s really no way of derailing the awkwardness of this situation. Poor Fulton looks shell-shocked as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, cementing a fair distance between their bodies like he’ll catch an airborne disease just from the proximity.
“Oh, uh, thank you. I really appreciate it,” he responds.
Either this girl lacks self-awareness or has zero understanding of boundaries, because she inches closer to Fulton, cornering him like a fame-hungry vulture. “Can we pleeeaaaseee take a selfie? Ooh, and can you sign something for me? Actually, maybe like ten things. You’re not busy right now, are you? Are you on vacation?”
Dear God. At this point, dying in a plane crash and going up in flames seems less excruciating.
Fulton pauses, side-eyes me with a silent look that screamsplease help me, then opens his mouth to say something before being—unsurprisingly—cut off. The girl shoves her phone in his face, slings her arm around his shoulder as if they’re longtime friends, then proceeds to take about twenty photos all while crushing my helpless body.
I’d rather not make an enemy for this flight, so I bear the brunt of the comically unbearable tension, only comforted by the fact that Fulton and I are waist-deep in this mess together. I thought he’d be used to fan encounters, but he looks…constipated? It’s definitely not a question of photogenicity because that man could be mid-sneeze and still make the cover ofMen’s Fitness.
I hate to admit it, but a little sprout of jealousy blossoms deep in my stomach, watered by this self-consciousness that I’ve never felt around a man before.
But Fulton’s not justanyman, is he?
A million photos later, Fulton’s “Number One Fan” gets forced into her seat by a stern-looking flight attendant, and my hyperactive mind can pick out the exact moment the plane’s wheels start to roll down the tarmac. The engine roars from above the temperamental winds, and the granola bar I shoved down my gullet earlier is sloshing around in my gut.
This is it. I’m going to die. I’m going to die before I confess to my crush just how much I like him. I’m going to die seated next to a girl who won’t hesitate to lick the meat clean from my bones if we crash-land and wind up in some remote part of the mountains.
Fulton’s saying something, but the clarity of his words is distorted beyond my comprehension, as if he just passed underneath a waterfall, his caramel-rich timbre lost to the constant downpour. I stare at the seat in front of me, eyes zeroed in on the safety pamphlet peeking out of the back pocket, and a barrage of highly improbable fantasies buoy to the surface of my addled head.
“Shil—”
The plane seems to hurtle into turbo speed, whizzing down the runway so quickly that I’m convinced I’ll be projected out of my seat despite the strap securing me, and any iota of embarrassment surrounding my fear of flying gets thrown out the goddamn window.
Belly free-falling, migraine amplified times ten, my clammy hand crushes Fulton’s palm without a preamble. He doesn’t protest—or does he? I can’t hear him.
I slam my eyes shut, squeeze his poor hand in my deadlygrip, and plead with myself to focus on him rather than the approaching altitude shift. Despite the circumstances, his hand feels nice. It’s a little rough in places where hockey must have raised some callouses, but it’s soft overall, and he radiates heat like a bubbling spring of warm, pristine water.
The trauma that rears its ugly head is promptly curb-stomped by Fulton’s soft-spoken presence, and the scent of fresh dryer sheets, along with the base notes of his citrus-tinged cologne, act like my very own safety blanket.
For the first time in my life, the anxiety is overpowered by a feeling that’s been foreign to me—a feeling that kindles a sort of self-reawakening in the blaring chorus of my heart, that submerges my world in a motley of iridescent colors. It’s the way the horizon meets the sea line, merging into a kaleidoscope of orange and pink hues to soothe the tide. It’s the way white-hot pleasure slingshots through your veins when you’re tipped over the precipice. It’s the way affection calcifies in my bones any time Fulton’s name flashes across my subconscious—a person of permanence lighting up every one of my synapses.
He doesn’t pull away from me, and I don’t let go of his hand. Not even when the plane’s established a steady rhythm amongst the soft, snow-white clouds.
5
GOODBYE, RIVERSIDE. HELLO, CABO!
FULTON
Shiloh’s touching me, and it’s not an awkward I’m-just-trying-to-reach-across-you touch either. I can’t believe this is really happening. Three weeks. I get to spend three beautiful, uninterrupted weeks with the girl who’s plagued my every waking moment. I feel like the luckiest man alive right now.
Her touch is…unparalleled. Her dainty, slim fingers fit into the slats of my hockey-worn ones with ease. It’s a comforting caress, as delicate as the silk intricacies of a spiderweb, yet somehow strung together with a muted kind of strength.
Okay, I lied. At first, there wasdefinitelysome she-Hulk strength going on when she was crushing every bone in my hand with her immobilizing death grip, but regardless, I never wanted her to let go.
When she started to doze off, I stole a few sideways glances here and there, wanting to make sure that her chair wasn’t too uncomfortable. I know it’s creepy to watch a girl sleep, okay? But—God, it feels stupid to say—I feel an overwhelming sense of peace when I look at her. She’s a light snorer, barely audible to those who aren’t listening, and she curls in on her body like acat conserving heat. There’s also a charming puddle of drool on the collar of her sweatshirt.
The girl across the aisle hasn’t spoken to either of us since the plane took off, and I’m grateful for the silence honestly. Earbuds equipped, “Curb Your Anxiety” playlist at the ready, I’m about to start the first song when a tunnel of turbulence swallows the airplane, shaking everyone’s seats and awakening who I can only imagine is a very distressed baby Eda a few rows down from us. With a jerky lurch, Shiloh jackknifes into a high-alert position, and she clings to my arm like she’s just been magnetized to my side.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, and as ironic as it is, being able to serve as someone else’s life-sized anxiety repellant assuages my own rowdy bunch of nerves.
Her tiny body trembles with each amplified clank of the airplane. “Are we crashing to the ground?” she whispers, eyes sewn shut.
I quell a laugh, and I readjust my squished arm so I can protectively wrap her in a side embrace. “Nope. Think we’re just going through a rough patch.”
“I’m, um, not the biggest fan of flying.”
