Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

The airport"shustle doesn"t do much to ease my frazzled nerves. I"m squirming in one of those stiff airport seats, feeling out of place in my new joggers and sweatshirt. My drenched attire, a vivid reminder of today"s drama, is crumpled in a bag at my feet. My legs are doing this jittery dance, echoing my nerves.

I"ve never been a fan of flying—the mere thought constricts my breath like a too-tight hug. And yet, here I am, in the heart of LAX, amidst the symphony of arrivals and departures. Iris"s voice over the phone was like a lifeline, her invitation to Mystic Hollow a beacon of hope. "I just need a breather," I assured her, though a part of me wonders if I'm running from more than Tomas"s betrayal and Claudia"s deceit.

My musings are interrupted by a voice, smooth and easy, like a breeze on a hot day. "Is this spot taken?" He"s all casual charm, the kind that"s disarming.

I glance up, meeting his gaze. There"s a warmth there, perhaps a hint of amusement as if he"s all too aware of the contrast between his ease and my tension. "No, it"s not," I reply, more curtly than intended, my words clipped by the edge of my nerves.

He doesn"t seem to take offense, merely offering a nod of thanks as he settles into the seat with an ease that seems almost foreign to me at the moment.

I try to scroll on my phone to distract myself from the upcoming flight and fear of us all plummeting in the Gulf of Mexico, but I'm failing horribly. I find myself eyeing the man next to me. He's the epitome of Californian ease—tan skin, the kind of tousled blonde hair that looks styled but probably isn"t, and a physique that suggests surfing might be more than just a hobby for him. He exudes an aura I recognize all too well; he"s a shifter, though of what kind, I can"t immediately tell. But his relaxed demeanor, the way he slouches into the seat with a carefree grace, irks me. It"s as if the world hasn"t just upended his life. That's probably because it hasn't.

As the minutes tick by, his breathing deepens, and I realize he"s drifted off to sleep. The ease with which he finds peace, even here, is almost enviable. Almost. I"m left to battle my demons alone. The wine bottle in my bag feels like a siren call, its contents promising a temporary escape from the fear gnawing at me. I imagine uncorking it, the rich aroma filling my senses, the liquid courage possibly enough to board the plane without a second thought. But I resist, barely. The thought of being escorted off the premises for public intoxication isn"t the kind of adventure I"m looking to add to today"s list of disasters.

The boarding call echoes through the terminal, a final summons that sends a jolt of panic through my already frayed nerves. Thoughts of fleeing, of abandoning this impulsive flight to Mystic Hollow, swirl chaotically in my mind. What was I thinking, running away on a whim, fueled by betrayal and heartbreak? My eyes dart toward the exit, a viable escape from the looming anxiety of takeoff.

But then, the stranger beside me stirs, his blue eyes opening with a clarity that cuts through my panic. There"s a depth in his gaze; it"s a look, intense and unwavering, that seems to freeze time around us. At that moment, with my jumbled thoughts and the panic that"s been threatening to overwhelm me, his eyes offer a silent promise of solace.

"Ready to head out?" he asks, his tone casual as if we"re old travel companions rather than strangers who"ve just met. His question, simple yet grounding, pulls me back to the moment, to the decision I"ve made to leave, however rash it may have been.

I nod, more to convince myself than in answer to his question.

He stands, offering a hand to help me up. "Mind if I sit next to you on the flight?" he asks, his tone light. "Standby ticket," he adds, as if that explains everything.

"Sure," I reply, grateful for any familiar face in the sea of strangers. We shuffle towards the plane, the slow march doing nothing to calm my racing heart.

As we board, the cramped space of the cabin closes in around me. California Guy, with his easy smile and relaxed demeanor, seems unfazed by the tight quarters, the hum of the engine, the very things that send spikes of fear through my heart.

Once seated, I take deep breaths all throughout the captain's overhead greeting and the flight attendants' safety briefing. All too quickly, we start taxing down the runway. I clutch the armrests, my knuckles turning white.

"You fly to Tampa often?" California Guy asks, his voice cutting through my internal meltdown.

I blink, thrown by the question. "Um, no. Never," I manage to say.

"What"s the occasion?" His expression is encouraging.

The plane"s acceleration sends my heart into overdrive. I can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone engage in small talk.

"Just flying for fun, then?" His chuckle is meant to ease the tension, but I am too close to freaking out for it to work.

It"s clear to everyone around us how much fun I"m having. An older lady sitting across the aisle from me gives me a polite, encouraging smile. I imagine I"m white as a ghost.

"Takeoff"s the worst part for a lot of people," California Guy comments, leaning a bit closer, his voice steady and calm. "But hey, once we"re up there, it"s smooth sailing. You"ll see."

I barely nod, too focused on the sensation of the plane accelerating, the world outside blurring past faster and faster.

"Just imagine it"s like... a roller coaster," he suggests, trying to find a comparison that might comfort me. "You know, the anticipation"s always the scariest part. But then, when you"re finally going, it"s not so bad."

I manage a weak smile, not convinced but appreciative of his efforts to distract me.

"Here we go," he says as the plane"s nose lifts, the pressure building in my ears. "Just a bit more, and we"ll be cruising."

His words, meant to soothe, float around me as I close my eyes, willing myself to find even a fraction of his serenity amidst my fear.

The plane"s ascent through the clouds is less than smooth, each bump sending fresh waves of panic through me. My hand shoots out, seeking something solid in the turbulence. His hand meets mine, strong and reassuring. "It"s going to be okay," he murmurs, his voice barely above the drone of the engines but clear in the circle of calm he creates around us.

We remain like that, intertwined, as he continues to offer words of comfort. When the plane finally reaches cruising altitude, the smoothness of the flight seems to mirror the temporary peace he"s offered me. I hastily let go of his hand, cheeks warming with a flush of embarrassment. "I"m so sorry," I stammer, feeling the need to fill the silence with apologies.

"There"s nothing to be sorry for," he assures me with a kind smile, his demeanor as laid-back as when we first met.

The flight attendant"s arrival with the drink cart is a welcome distraction from my awkwardness. "Anything to drink?" the attendant asks.

"Do you have Jack Daniels?" I reply, trying to steady my voice. My hands, however, betray my nerves as they fumble for my purse.

"Sure, it"s five dollars." The attendant slides out of the cart's top drawer and takes out a little bottle.

I finally fish my debit card out of my purse and hand it over. "Make it two."

"Would you like coke or ginger ale?" the attendant asks, reaching to fill a glass with ice.

"Just the Jack, thanks," I confirm, avoiding the gaze of California Guy beside me as I complete the transaction and take the small bottles, their contents promising a brief escape.

The woman across the aisle, her gray hair framing a face lined with the wisdom of years, catches my attention with a knowing look. She leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, "Honey, try this." She slides a small, unmarked pill into my palm, her eyes warm with empathy.

California Guy, who"s been half-watching our silent drama unfold, pipes up, his tone laced with mild concern. "Might want to think twice before mixing that with booze," he says, nodding towards the mini bottles of whiskey I"ve just liberated.

With a defiant tilt of my chin, I down the pill, washing it down with a generous gulp of whiskey. "Thanks, Doc," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

He shakes his head, a resigned sigh escaping him as he settles back into his seat, earpods in place, effectively shutting out the world. Again, I envy his ability to retreat so easily.

As the plane levels off and the landscape below becomes a blur of colors and shapes, the gentle buzz from my impromptu cocktail of remedies begins to take hold. My eyelids grow heavy, the edges of my anxiety softening. In this hazy state, I can"t help but marvel at the strange, fleeting connections life throws our way. With a sigh, I surrender to the pull of sleep, the chaos of my day fading into a quiet, comforting darkness.