Page 3 of Electric Blue Love
“Miss you too.”
“And, uh, be sure to thank Tasha’s father for arranging the ticket for you again. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”
I winced at the look that crossed my father’s face. He was old school and proud. He didn’t like the idea that someone else paid my way, but Tasha’s dad was a big wig at one of the airlines so getting me on a flight home for Spring Break was no big deal – her words. I was grateful to not have to take the bus and my family was grateful to see more of me.
“I will. I promise.”
After another round of hugs and loving glances, I stepped out into the city and inhaled deeply. I wanted to soak up every drop before I headed back to Connecticut. I thought about how little time I had left before I’d return for good as a career woman.
Had I lived enough in the four years I’d been gone? Had I experienced enough late nights and partying so that I wouldn’t look back on this stage of my life with regret? I knew the answer to both of those questions was a resounding no. Practical and worried about the ramifications of getting too carried away, I’d lived cautiously.
Tasha’s text about the party tonight was fresh on my mind. Maybe with the last months of college, my grades secure enough to relax a tiny bit, I could start spending more time on the extracurricular activities I’d neglected. Namely, dating.
Tasha would be on board and maybe with her help and some research of my own, I could think about a real boyfriend. Someone to celebrate the end of one chapter and the start of another. And I had just the someone in mind.
Flying coach wasbullshit. The crying babies and the cramped seats weren’t even the worst of it, although admittedly not a perk. The real problem with sitting in the back of the plane was the comradery among the other passengers. In first-class no one tried to chat about the weather or ask the dreaded “Are you visiting or returning home?”. No, in first class we sat in our large, reclining seats with plenty of leg room, cold drink on the tray table, laptop open, and we minded our own damn business.
I didn’t sit in first class because of some ego trip where I needed to flaunt my better than average salary around. I did it because I preferred the silence. Also, I traveled so much it was almost always a free upgrade. Not today.
At least I’d been lucky enough to snag an aisle seat. Unlike the girl sitting in 8B. She didn’t look up as I shrugged off my suit jacket and placed it with my carry-on bag in the overhead bin. She stared down at the magazine in her hands, a pen gripped in her mouth.
Pink lips were wrapped around the blue pen and her eyebrows were drawn together in deep concentration. The only indication I had that she knew her seat neighbor had arrived was the way she shielded the magazine with an elbow as I slid into my seat. Her stance reminded me of those smart kids who strategically placed their arm around the edge of the desk so that no one could cheat off their test answers.
Intrigued, I settled in and peeked over her arm and down at the glossy pages only catching the headline:How to Get Out of the Friend Zone and Land the Guy of Your Dreams. My eyes trailed up to the young woman so enthralled with such a ludicrous title and I studied her closer.
She was beautiful, but not in an in your face way. I definitely couldn’t see her being banned to the friend zone. Her blonde hair was piled up in a bun on the top of her head, face clear and tanned even in the dreary March weather we’d been having. A faded, oversized floral dress was worn over leggings and sparkly shoes completed a look that was a cross between a preppy sorority girl and an artsy free spirit. She dressed in a way that told me she didn’t know she was beautiful or if she knew, she just didn’t care enough to conform to a style.
Judging by her reading material I was sold on the first option.
As the other passengers filed into their seats, I found myself intrigued and unable to focus on anything but 8B. I glanced over politely, hoping she’d look up and make eye contact so I could get a better look at her. No luck. She kept her focus on the garbage reading material in front of her as the cabin doors were closed and the flight attendants prepared for departure. When we’d reached twenty thousand feet and she still hadn’t so much as side-eyed me, I gave up and pulled out my laptop to do some work.
I stared at the reports in front of me for five minutes, not reading a word, before I gave up and closed the laptop with a snap. She jumped, startled, and I turned to give her my attention. When her eyes finally found mine, I inhaled sharply.
Bright blue eyes were outlined with a heavy hand on the eyeliner or eyeshadow, whatever it was called, in a striking blue. I couldn’t decide if was a fashion statement or a fashion disaster, but her eyes held mine captive and my lips parted to speak, only no words came out. We stared for a moment too long, neither saying a word, until she glanced down at her exposed reading and flipped it shut.
“There’s no such thing as the friend zone with guys,” I said, finally finding my voice.
“Excuse me?”
Clearing my throat, I watched her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “With women, they tend to put men into categories like that: friends, guys they’re sort of interested in, guys they want to sleep with, guys they want a relationship with, etc. Men, we don’t do that. We don’t fit women into tidy little categories. We’re either interested or we’re not. And it changes constantly. What that article should have said was “How to Be More Than a One Night Fling” because that’s what you really want, right? To be more than a random hookup or friends with benefits.” I used my fingers to make quotations around the last phrase. “I never cared for that expression.”
A tiny noise escaped her mouth as she stared at me with a shocked look on her face.
“Want my advice?”
“No,” she blurted and shook her head, closing her eyes and turning her head to face forward. The captain’s voice filtered through the speakers giving the usual spiel and I drummed my fingers on the top of my computer waiting for him to finish so I could apologize.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You don’t want to waste your time on a guy that makes you read trash articles like that. He’s an idiot, for what it’s worth.”
“I wasn’t reading for me,” she said with a defensive tone. “I read all the articles.”
“Nah, not like that you don’t. You were glued to that thing. I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last half hour.”
“You have?” she asked, scrunching up her face in a way that created a cute little wrinkle between her eyebrows.
“Tell me about the article. What was their advice?”
Clutching the magazine to her chest, she looked up at me like she was gauging the seriousness of my question. I leaned back, giving her my full attention.
