Page 70 of My Lucky Star
After a boring but oddly pleasant two hours, I fell asleep, too.
Cem woke me two hours before arrival. Despite the luxury seating, I’d slept with my head hanging off my shoulders and pulled a muscle in my neck. I cried in pain, trying to gently move my head and realign my tortured spine. The pinch was so strong I fought nausea.
“Are you okay?” Cem stretched in his seat. “You slept in a really weird position.”
“I’ll be fine.” I massaged my neck, waiting for the cramp to release. It gradually did, but I couldn’t shake the full-body, battered and bruised feeling. Was this what long-haul flights were like? I’d never been further than Australia.
“We’ll get coffee soon,” Cem promised, peering down the hallway. “If that makes you feel better.”
“How did you know?” I almost blinked back tears.
The coffee tasted weak, so Cem suggested we drink twice as much, promptly ordering whatever he thought I needed, despite my protests. As we descended through American airspace and touched down on LAX, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being cared for, a dangerous feeling I was quickly getting used to, even dependent on.
“Don’t judge LA based on this,” Cem said with an apologetic smile as we stepped off the plane and entered a tired-looking, carpeted corridor. “I’ll bring you back for a proper visit and show you everything, okay? We’ll watch the sunset at Griffith Observatory. Buy ice creams at Santa Monica Pier. We’ll walk around the block where I used to live. I promise.”
I swallowed, unable to answer. Neither his words, nor his optimism, made any sense.
After a grueling layover of security checks and riding an endless labyrinth of hallways in an airport caddy, we made it to the gate and onto the next plane.
Turkish Airlines.
Listening to the airline staff conversing in Turkish, it finally hit me I was entering a foreign country. A truly foreign land with nothing familiar to guide me. Other than Cem.
The passengers getting on the plane looked a lot more like Cem and Emir. Brown eyes, dark curls and beards. Some of the women wore scarves, guiding kids with gorgeous, dark-fringed, chocolatey eyes. Most of them didn’t wear masks, and I stared at their faces as they passed us in first class. I could see the vague resemblance, but none of them looked striking like Cem. They were all ordinary people with ordinary faces.
Everyone seemed to speak Turkish –the flight attendants, passengers, as well as Cem and Emir. One of the flight attendants, an impossibly skinny woman with unnaturally plush lips, fussed with Emir and Cem, talking to them far more than the other passengers. I remained quiet, sitting still as a statue in my window seat, afraid that my English would draw attention of someone who might recognize Cem.
When the plane took off and the noise levels rose, I whispered to him. “Are we a couple now? Am I Burcu?”
Chapter 24
Cem
SHIT.
I’d expected the flight attendants to recognize me, but one of them must have been a particularly devoted fan. Despite her duties, she kept her eyes trained on me, casting glances across the aisles. Thankfully, Aria somehow sensed the situation and kept quiet, her face mostly turned away.
