Page 28 of Things I Overshared
“Well, for a while, it was paparazzipalooza, following me around, and Skye sometimes, being hounded by journalists like we’re the freaking Kardashians. We’re not billionaires, and we’re Okies, for crap’s sake. None of us expected the reaction, but Sadie thinks maybe because we were hidden and under the radar for so long, it made us a bigger deal than we really are? More intrigue, maybe?” A large thumping sound in the plane’s underbelly causes me to jump.
“And why did you?”
I look over at him, shocked that he just asked me a question. “Hide?” He nods. “For Skye, it was about proving herself without the family name. For Sally, she’s still in college, so Dad wanted to shield her in our Oklahoma bubble as long as he could—we all did. For me, well, it’s because of exactly what ended up happening! I mean, the photographers were not that bad compared to—” I shudder, starting to relive it all. “ . . . anyway! It was nuts.”
He studies me for a second. “You don’t enjoy the attention?”
“Oh, I did. I did. I’m not gonna lie. I loved it at first. Shocker, I know. But then it got—” I am cut off by the arrival of my wine and Emerson’s beer. “So, youdolike ale,” I say with a smirk.
“I do.” We both take a drink, mine more of a gulp since I’m eager to die to the world and wake up in London. “It got . . . ?” he asks, not without effort. It takes me a second to realize he’s urging me to go on. I am so surprised, I get goose bumps.
“Um, ugly. Things got pretty ugly. Not just the hate messages and dick pics and stalker stuff either.” His face changes for a second. The phrase “dick pic” must be too much for Stuffy McStufferson.Ha, you don’t even know!
“As much as I like people, it turns out they don’t really like me, or, I mean, men don’t like me. Well, not the men that I thought liked me. Or the men that I wanted to like me. Instead, they liked my name. Or the attention. Or money. That’s why I’m off men. Completely. This is a no-men trip for me, absolutely zero, zilcho, noneski. No dates, no drinks, I’m not even going to flirt.” He locks eyes with me for a second. “I know, I know, salespeople flirt, but I’m serious about this! Clearly, I don’t just pick losers—my picker is flat-out broken. Hashtagfacts. Because how dumb am I that I didn’t see it coming? I mean, twice I was
. . . well, I’m sure you know, I’m sure the whole C-suite saw me in all my glory.”
Emerson starts choking on his beer, and I realize I’ve gotten much too loud again. Too loud and too open, spilling way too many deeply personal beans with my coworker.Did I just say “me in all my glory”?! Idiot!
As Emerson collects himself, the plane begins to take off.
All the odds and stats and fears barrel into my mind as fast as the plane thundering down the concrete. I see flashes of my mother’s accident, gory photos I’ve tried to unsee over the years. Blood on pavement. One bloody running shoe in the grass. I see snapshots of the funeral, my dad’s eyes watering, my older sisters stoic. Rose petals blowing away in the strong Oklahoma wind. My breath fails again.
Without meaning to, I reach out and grab, clutching the hard, warm forearm next to me. For half a second, I feel a charge in my fingers and a comfort in my chest. Until Emerson stiffens and flinches, as if he’s been burned.
I pull my hand away and feel my face flush with embarrassment. Swift anger rises in my cheeks that I’m so embarrassed over touching this ice sculpture of a man. This man, who is still clearly repulsed by me and my too-big, too-loud, too-much personality. I suck down the last of my wine.
“I know, I know. Overshared, too loud, too much, and to top it off, too touchy, apparently.” I gesture at his arm that I just violated. “Sorry. I think we can just agree to ignore each other until we land.” I start to dig in my bag, blocking out whatever facial expression he’s throwing at me. I’m guessing one of relief.
“As you wish,” he mumbles.
“As you wish?As you wish?!No.” I laugh angrily. “No.You are not Wesley in this scenario. I don’t care if you have the accent and the hot, quiet pirate thing going, you . . . you are freaking Scar is who you are, buddy.”
“The murderous uncle?” He sounds genuinely offended.
“Okay, maybe not a murderer, but Hans. Definitely Prince Hans.”
“Hans?”
“FromFrozen?” His face is still twisted in confusion. “You’ve never seenFrozen?!” I say, loudly enough that he raises his eyebrows and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, give me a break—anyone in this cabin who heard me is also shocked you haven’t seen it. It was Disney’s revival into animated musicals and won like one billion awards. The music is awesome, and Kristen Bell is a dream in that movie, a dream, Emerson Clark, and you are most definitely evil Prince Hans.” He takes a deep breath and lets out an even deeper sigh. “Now, you’ll be happy to know I am done talking to you for this flight—hell, probably this whole trip. So. Good night!”
I can feel him watching as I pull out my eye mask, pillow, blanket, and ear plugs, setting them all on the side of my seat. I yank slippers from my backpack and put them on my feet, not caring if he thinks my exposed socked feet are inappropriate for the plane. He can tell that to my perfectly comfortable toes while his feet swell like sausages in his stupid dress shoes.
I know he’s still watching as I fluff out my blanket over my legs and put my eye mask on my forehead, not yet over my eyes. I open the plastic baggy of fresh earplugs and put them in, avoiding looking in his direction. Finally, it’s time to blow up my inflatable pillow.
I feel it then.
The purple coming to my cheeks—on top of the existing plethora of pinks—confirming that I am, in fact, the most high-maintenance of high-maintenance fliers. And that it’s hard to make a dramatic post-argument exit when you don’t actually exit.
My ears get hot as crimson spreads outward from my cheeks, because I have to blow and blow into the pillow. Thewhooooooosh whoooooooshsound is getting louder by the second. I see Emerson cock his head out of the corner of my eye, but I will not look at him. I will not.Good luck with your free paper-thin blanket and jankity little neck pillow, Frosty!
After one hundred long years, the deceivingly large travel pillow is inflated. I shove it over to the wall, slam down my window shutter, and push the recline button on my seat. The seat mocks me with a long, slow squeak. After another century, my seat is flat and I am curled onto my side facing away from my travel partner. Sweating and fifty shades of dark pinks and purples, I pull my eye mask over my eyes and let my sedatives take over.
Chapter 8
I wake up grateful to see there’s only an hour left in the flight. My body cooperated, and I slept hard—only stirred for one quick trip to the restroom a few hours in. Iceman was asleep, but barely reclined, the weirdo. Good thing, though, because I really had to go, and my bladder may have interpreted climbing over his seat as a direct challenge.
I had only let myself stare at sleeping Emerson for a few seconds, max. He looked the tiniest bit softer when he slept. Thawed just a smidge. Younger too. I looked away when I found myself feeling the urge to straddle him on the wide seat and both slap him across the face and also maybe take a big, deep neck-sniff of his manly scent.
