But that was the past.
The unreachable, insurmountable past.
The plane jerked, forcing me back to the present.
“Shit.” She moved her hand off my thigh to grasp her drink as it sloshed all over her. “Crap, crap, crap,” she chanted, using a cocktail napkin to dry the dark-red pool of tomato juice on her white pants.
For a moment, I sat there and watched her struggle. It wasn’t the most chivalrous thing to do, but I was all out of grand gestures.
She unbuckled her seat belt and lurched to her feet, her phone along with a handful of ice cubes from her lap falling to the floor. “Damn, this is going to leave a huge stain.”
The plane jerked again and she stumbled forward, crashing into the seat in front of her before I could catch her arm.
“Dammit, sit down before you get hurt.”
Ignoring me, she bent over to fish her phone from under the seat. “Hit the button for the flight attendant. I need some club soda and a lemon. STAT.”
“No, what you need is to sit down.”
I gave her arm a tug and dragged her down to the seat. Using the tip of my boot, I swept her phone toward her. Aforementioned lack of chivalry aside, I was no contortionist; leaning over to pick it up was out of the question.
She folded her upper body over my lap and blindly patted around the floor. I fought the urge to run my fingers through the back of her hair. In the beginning, it would have been a no-brainer. I’d have curled forward and suggestively whispered in her ear, “Since you’re already down there…”
She would have grinned up at me, her whole face filled with mischief as she traced a finger over my zipper, ignoring anyone who dared to watch her as she replied, “You mean down here?”
I’d have grabbed her hand and made her stop even though I was the one who had started it. Sally had no filter. She always took it one step too far. I’d loved that about her when we’d first met. It was fresh and exciting, a far cry from the stuffy women I’d dated in the past.
But now, she was in the past too.
We were in the past.
Although, it wasn’t fair to say she was the only one who had changed. I was a different person too. The trauma of thinking you’d lost your soul mate would do that to a man.
I worried about her. Not more than I should, but probably more than was healthy. My sister had nagged me for months to talk to someone, but I’d felt like such a hypocrite, rushing off to therapists and doctors while she sat at home, playing with our dogs and testing out new recipes.
Still, one of us had to get help. Someone had to be the better half in this relationship. Currently, we were just two people—broken and even more broken.
And in love.
Irrevocably.
And terrified.
Constantly.
My stomach churned as I thought about what would happen after we got home. She’d go back to smiling all the time and touching me every chance she got. Then one day, I’d wake up and she’d already be awake. At first, I wouldn’t be sure if it was because she’d gotten up early or if she’d never gone to sleep. As the days passed, the answers would become clear while she slowly faded into a hollow pit of nothingness right in front of my eyes.
She’d insist she was fine.
I’d have a nervous breakdown waiting for her to fall apart.
And then, two months later, we’d be right back on this plane, headed to the very same post-traumatic stress treatment facility she’d left way too soon.
It wasn’t her fault. None of it.
Unfortunately, I’d learned over the last few months that my feelings of helplessness often manifested in frustration. I wanted to help her. I wanted to fix us. But all I could do was sit in the middle seat beside her, a mere passenger on her journey.
The flight attendant arrived with a stack of napkins and a trash bag. I watched, numb and emotionless, as they joked about the pilot owing her a new drink.
There was a whole chaotic process of the flight attendant retrieving a bottle of club soda, then a lemon, then a woman behind us piping up to say lime actually worked best. The man in front of us teased that we were close to a fruit salad. Then the male flight attendant came over with a towel and informed us that if we added a little gin to all that soda and lime, we might forget about the pants altogether.
They chatted and laughed and carried on like everything was so damn normal.
It wasn’t though.
They had no clue that beneath those beautiful eyes and bright smile was a fucking tragedy.
And there was not one damn thing I could do to make it better—for either of us.
