Page 1 of Balance

CHAPTER 1

TROYE

I fucking hated airplanes. And airports. And traveling. I hated feeling like a sardine in a can. The twenty depression pounds I’d put on since the break-up certainly didn’t help my comfort level. Already I was dreading being squashed into an airplane seat for the next six hours. But at the end of this long flight was my home, my bed, and my cat. I’d used my cameras to check on Morris frequently, and he seemed fine. But I knew he was missing me even if he didn’t show it.

I fucking hated the way airplanes smelled like stale air and stress. Maybe the sour, stressed smell was coming off of me, but I chose to blame the plane. It was a packed flight, and the closer I got to my row, the more nervous I got because there didn’t seem to be a lot of seats left on this plane.

My concern morphed into all-out panic when I reached my row and found someone in my seat. My stomach did a somersault as I checked my ticket and compared it against the row and seat label.

“Uh,” I said to the stranger. He’d already made himself comfortable, his baseball cap pulled low over his face. “Excuse me, but you’re in my seat.”

When he didn’t respond, I added, “Sir?”

Finally, baseball cap guy lifted his gaze. He gave me a onceover that had me worrying maybe I really was the bad smell on the airplane. My hands were slick with sweat, and I thought maybe my heart was going to explode.

Baseball cap guy was kind of hot, if you were into the smoldering, angry type with sharp cheekbones and a full, kissable mouth.

“Can I help you?” His voice was deep and smooth.

“You’re in my seat.” My nerves didn’t help my manners any, and I practically shoved my boarding pass in his face. “See. 15C. Troye Whittaker. That’s me.”

Hot, angry guy leaned to the right so he could reach into his back left pocket. He pulled out his wallet, and from there he pulled out his boarding pass. “I’m in my seat,” he said, showing me the pass.

Well, fuck my life. He wasn’t wrong. His name also wasn’t Baseball Cap or Hot Angry Guy. According to the pass, it was Matthew. He didn’t look like a Matthew. All the Matthews I ever met were smaller. Softer. Nicer.

“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re in my seat.” Logic had fled the building. It had skedaddled out of my head and right off the plane the minute I realized I was fucked. Someone was in my seat because it was also his seat.

“You can call it yours all you want, but that won’t change the fact that it’s my seat, and I’m already sitting in it.”

“Please, I just want to get home.”

Matthew looked at me with impatience. “You and the other three hundred people on this flight. You’re not special, Troye.”

I hated the way he said my name. It was so snotty sounding, like he’d decided he was offended by it. It was a perfectly good name. Better than Matthew. Matthews were a dime a dozen.

“You’re not God, Matthew.” I injected as much scorn into his name as I could, and that motherfucker had the audacity to smile at me like it was the cutest, funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“I’ve been called God a time or two.” Matthew’s gross smirk only grew.

“You’re in my seat,” I tried again. Because that was the way to solve a problem. Repeat yourself with increasing volume and shrillness until they finally cracked. Yes. It was a form of psychological torture invented by my mother and perfected by me.

Matthew shrugged a shoulder and pulled his cap down low again. Then promptly ignored me. Every eye in the plane was on me, and I could feel their individual stares boring a hole into me. Begging me to sit down. To not cause a scene. To get off the plane so they could be on their way.

Sometimes you can feel yourself doing something that you know is a bad idea, but you do it anyway. It’s as if you’re outside your body, watching yourself be an absolute dumbass, but you can’t stop yourself. You can’t alter your course of action because you’re not even in control of yourself anymore. Panicked lizard brain had taken over.

And that’s how I ended up plopping myself in Matthew’s lap. My carry-on was pressed tight to my chest, held there like a shield and a life vest, and maybe a security blanket.

Matthew shouted in surprise, which got the attention of the flight attendant, who just now seemed to notice there was a problem.

“Get off me!” he yelled. Screamed, really. An overreaction if you asked me.

“No. This is my seat, and you’re in it, so therefore you are now my seat.” It sounded perfectly logical—if you’d lost your grip on reality. I knew it was half-baked when I did it. But I was so fucking tired and I just wanted to get home, and Matthew was the only thing stopping me.

Well, him and a confused-looking flight attendant.

“Get off me, you fucking… leech.” Matthew tried to shove me off, but I remained wedged between him and the seat in front of him. The occupant of which had to be having a bad time with all the jostling Matthew was doing.

“Is there a problem here?” the flight attendant asked. Which was a really stupid question. Obviously there was a problem here.