Page 82 of Most Eligible
My stomach burns and acid licks the back of my throat. I lurch out of my seat and push past Rhett down the aisle before careening into the tiny bathroom. I don’t stop moving until I lock the door and start heaving up my guts into the toilet.
Someone bangs on the door, but I ignore them. Shaking from head to toe, I grip the sink as I grimace at myself in the mirror. I flush the toilet, cover my ears so I don’t have to hear the unnaturally loud pressurized noise, and wipe the sweat from my pale forehead. Whoever was outside seems to have given up, so after rinsing my mouth out, careful not to swallow any of the plane water, I open the door.
Rhett is standing outside and nearly falls into the bathroom as the door opens. He slams it shut behind him.
“Are you okay?”
“I—yeah, I just threw up a little,” I mumble.
He sweeps his eyes over my face, presses the backs of his fingers to my cheek. The plane lurches again and he grabs my hip to keep me upright. In this tiny bathroom, there isn’t more than an inch between us. I’m sure my breath smells disgusting, but he leans in and brushes his lips over my ear.
“We’ll be there soon,” he whispers.
My knees go weak at his touch, his voice, even though this is a blatant lie—according to my seatback monitor, there were still five hours and thirteen minutes left when I got up. I wish I was as good at lying to myself as I am at lying to other people.
“What if we crash?” I half-whisper. “What if we have an emergency landing or have to do that position where you bracefor impact, or—” I break off as an even more horrible thought occurs to me. “What if we fall in the water and I’m eaten by a shark?”
Rhett’s mouth twitches as he tries valiantly not to laugh. “We’re not going to—”
My vision tunnels and now all I can see is an image of myself plunging into the depths of the Atlantic. All for what? So I couldmaybeget a job?
“I can’t die like this,” I gasp, clutching at my throat. My chest squeezes tight with panic. “Why did I ever agree to this?”
“To being on reality TV?” he asks. “I ask myself that every day.”
“No…” I hesitate. My mind is racing. If I tell him, I’m risking everything. But he’s here, with me, in an airplane bathroom that probably smells like death. He’s helped me and saved me and covered for me time and time again—don’t I owe him a little honesty? “I only agreed to come here for a job. My friend hired me to write an exposé onLove Shack—as Gracie Hart. And I agreed to do it because… I don’t even know now.” I put a hand to my forehead, as if trying to keep the panicked thoughts from escaping. I glance at Rhett, but his face is impassive. “You don’t seem surprised.”
His lips twitch again like he’s trying not to smirk. “I had my suspicions,” he says finally. “You’re not exactly the reality TV type.”
“Hey!” I swat his arm, but then the plane lurches again, and I end up holding on for dear life.
I try to remember the me of last year, even the me of six months ago, throwing herself headfirst into every work opportunity that came up just to get that goddamn country singer out of her mind. The me that dodged calls from my mom and woke up every half hour to give my cat-of-the-month his medication. The me that was foolish enough to think I could survive this show.
“It’s my dream job,” I whisper. I don’t even know if he can hear me over the rumbling of the engine. “She promised she’d hire me as a full-time music journalist if I did this. Most magazines don’t really hire for that anymore, it’s all freelance or contract or—”
“Georgia,” he cuts me off, placing a hand on my waist.Shut up, I tell myself. He doesn’t want to hear me rant about layoffs or the gig economy. I shouldn’t have said anything to begin with. But isn’t there a saying about airplane bathrooms? What happens in an airplane bathroom stays there? Or maybe I’m thinking of the mile high club…
“Georgia,” he says again. “Look at me.” His fingers flex over the slice of skin between my T-shirt and leggings.
I pull my eyes to his face. Airplane bathroom lighting must be the worst in the world, but somehow, he still looks good, the bluish tint making him more mysterious and less alien like me.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says.
“Please don’t tell,” I whisper. My panic is clearing, but now alarm bells are ringing in my head over what I’ve just told him.
“I won’t,” he promises. “You know I wouldn’t do that.” And I do. At long last, I think I trust him. If only I could say the same for myself. “But you don’t want to be in Lainey’s way. Trust me, I’d know.”
“So she did leak the information about your arrest?”
His forehead creases. “She denied it, but I wasn’t expecting her to be honest. I don’t think she knows you were with me in Nashville, but if you’re going to stay on the show, you have to be careful.” He looks at me, his eyes serious. “Are you going to stay?”
My lips part as I nod, bracing myself for the impact of my admission. “Is that okay?” I whisper.
He sets his jaw, then smiles. “You don’t need my permission.”
I let out a breath, suddenly hyperaware of his fingers on my waist. He steps back, releasing me, pulls something out of hisfront pocket and places it in my hand. “I should get back to my seat.” With a swift half-smile, he turns and exits the tiny bathroom. I open my palm and find a small white earbud.
After glancing around to make sure that nobody saw us together, I sneak back to my seat and sink down.
