Page 29 of Things I Overshared
But I managed to look away, peel off my sweater, and sit for five minutes, wondering if I was having a seizure.I don’t even like the man! I’m off men! He has a girlfriend!Clearly, it was just my body’s reaction to a physical need. A need I hadn’t taken care of in a while. Not to mention, there would be no sniffing or kissing or need-meeting with anyone for this entire trip. Yikes. This was going to be a long six weeks.
I blink hard a few times to wake myself and forget my mid-flight mental lapse. I brace myself for what I’ll find to my right, as I can feel myself looking oily and disheveled, and am positive Bossman will look stellar, as usual. I am mostly right but also glad to find a hint of fatigue around those sharp, light blue eyes.
He wordlessly hands me the boxed meal from his tray. My face must show my confusion.
“Breakfast,” he explains plainly. I think I feel my lips part. “Your blood sugar,” he adds with a look that says “duh, obviously.” Now my mouth is definitely hanging open.
“H-How do you know about my low blood sugar?”
He runs his bottom lip through his teeth in irritation before responding. “I believe you’ve mentioned it in every meeting over the last four years.”
“I have not!”
“Along with a lengthy description of whatever snack you’d brought into said meeting.”
I start to argue and falter fast. I am too stunned to comment on the absurd “every meeting” and “lengthy description” parts of what he just said. Because he is not far off, if maybe exaggerating a little.
Everyone in the office probably knows this fact about me. I don’t know if I should continue to be embarrassed about my oversharing habit. I do know, quite abruptly, that I am annoyingly famished. He goes back to focusing on his iPad, and I have to pull my eyes away from him.
“Thanks,” I finally offer. He doesn’t respond.
I pack up my airplane sleep accoutrements and scarf down the meal, which is pretty bad, with the exception of the two mini cinnamon rolls. I focus on the views outside the window and breathe through the descent, forcing myself not to blurt my thoughts at the creature to my right. (Nearly half of all airplane accidents happen during the descent or landing!) I clutch my chair in lieu of his arm as we land safely back on the ground.
When it’s time to stand and ready for our exit, I can’t get my gigantic bag to pull free from under the seat in front of me. I feel the pressure of people behind us, and my hands sweat. No one wants to bethatidiot who slows the whole process, as if there weren’t fifty warnings it was almost time to disembark. With a rather unattractive grunt, I give my bag another forceful tug and hear a small ripping sound.
“Let me,” Emerson offers, looking appalled. I move out of his way, and with irritating grace and patience, he gets the bag free and lifts it up. “Bloody hell, woman!” The words slip out of him in a loud whisper as he lobs my backpack onto the seat.
The shock and exasperation on his face forces me to giggle. “I know.” I wince slightly as I reach out to take the strap from him.
“Go!” He motions with his hand toward the aisle because it’s our turn to leave. He puts my backpack on over his small messenger bag.
I can hear him muttering very British-sounding curses behind me.
It brings me great joy, because I am mature.
When we get out of the gate area and into the breezeway, I finally look back at him.
“I can take my bag now, thank you.”
“No.” He seems annoyed, as if I asked him to carry my bag, which I most definitely did not. He doesn’t look down from the information screens as he says it.
“Uh,no? Seriously, it’s fine, I can carry it,” I say, my irritation growing.
“Miss Canton.” He sighs. “I am too tired to make sure you do not fall over backward trying to lug this monstrosity all the way to our car. Please, let’s just go.”
He gestures in the direction of the customs desks, according to the overhead sign, and I start walking, but I turn my eyes into little slits. “Are you going to be this grumpy the whole month?”
He only sighs in response.
I realize, as we start walking, that I. Am. In. London! Mom convinced Dad to splurge on a family Europe trip when I was a child, our only overseas adventure, which I don’t remember. So I do not offer any excuse or apology to Old Man Clark when I skip and squeal a little bit as we get closer to customs. And at my awkward screechy sound, he winces, or maybe he has a facial tick. I don’t care.
At the customs counter, he takes charge again, as if we’re traveling together. I mean, we are traveling together, but not together, obviously. I don’t hate his whole take-control thing, though, especially since this is all familiar to him and totally foreign to me.
At baggage claim, he sloughs my bag at my feet with a dismayed shake of his head and says, “I’ll go get us a trolly.”
“A what?” I say as he walks away. When he comes back with a luggage cart, I can’t help but smile. “Ohhh, a trolly is a cart! Man, this is going to be so fun. Will you please call everything by its British name? Really lean into your accent too. Ooo is your family cockney? Is that how you say it? Will your accent get worse like mine does if I spend a week at home? The ‘y’alls just fly outta me.”
He sighs and walks to the carousel. His sigh seemed less irritated this time. I realize sighs are probably an entire facet of his oral communication skills, and decide I will need to study them closely.
