“At least let me walk you inside,” he says, calling after me.

I don’t stop walking until I’m in the house. I don’t bother telling my mother that Miles is gone. She would only start an inquisition if she saw me crying. At this moment, nothing else matters – only the pain.

Rebecca

“Can I get you anything else, miss?” the dainty brunette stewardess asks as she hands me a glass of champagne and napkin.

“No, thank you. The champagne is lovely.” My nerves are on high alert. I can feel a knot forming in my shoulders every time we hit a bump of turbulence. I grasp the arms of my chair with my clammy hands and fight back the building need to spew all over the seat in front of me. The older man sitting next to me leans back, eyeing me with caution. There isn’t much room between us. I’m sure he’s kicking himself for getting seated next to this train wreck. If I throw up, he’s definitely in the splash zone. My stomach turns again as the plane rattles. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I pinch my nose and silently count to ten, hoping that it will calm me. The last thing I need right now is to show up in a new city with vomit all over me.

God, I hate flying.

When I called Carol to let her know my flight was leaving, she offered to upgrade my ticket to first class so I wouldn’t be sausaged beside someone for the next four hours. As tempting as the offer was, she’s already done enough for me. I even thought about booking a train from California to New York, but it would’ve taken too long. My interview with StoneHaven Publishing is on Monday – only three days away. I need time to prepare for it. As confident as I am that I would make a great fit, there’s still the possibility of not getting the job. I’m sure my mother would love to hear that I’m coming back home. She wants me to follow my dreams, but only if that includes catching a husband and staying in California.

Saying goodbye to my mother was painful. Each time I carried one of my luggage bags outside, she made a face like I had just killed one of her non-existent grandbabies. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Miles is a really big douche and that we’re done. I may have told her a little white lie. She asked me if we we’re on a break, and I kind of nodded my head yes. I’m not sure if lying to her about it is any better, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear her complain that I’m never going to get married. She loves to remind me that I’ll probably die a spinster. At the current moment, that doesn’t sound too bad. I can almost see my name in the papers. Rebecca Gellar, spinster with five cats, dies after Hollywood breakup. Speaking of Hollywood, I definitely need a welcomed distraction from this plane ride, so catching up on my latest celebrity gossip sounds like heaven. Reading the celebrity magazine STARS is my newest guilty pleasure.

I flip through the latest issue and cringe at the sight of a paparazzi photo of Miles and Scarlett cuddling close together at our favorite pastry & coffee shop on Melrose. They seem to be Hollywood’s latest IT couple. I know I’m better off without Miles’ cheating ass, but it still hurts to see them together. As I scan down to the picture of Scarlett and Miles to read the article beside it, my heart jolts at the bolded word: ENGAGED. We’re nearly 40,000 feet in the air, but I can still feel my whole world plummet as I read over the details of the article: “Hollywood TV star Miles Storm and co-star Scarlett Jones are engaged.” My eyes begin to water at the zoomed in picture of Scarlett’s ring.

The real zinger is the fact that Miles gave her a ring. We were engaged almost six months and he had been dragging his feet to buy me an engagement ring. I guess our relationship was never really meant to last. I can’t believe he tried to feed me his bullshit about how Scarlett didn’t mean anything to him. Apparently, she meant a lot more than I did.

The voice of the airplane’s captain comes in muffled over the intercom, drawing me from my thoughts. I strain to hear him over the general noise of the plane and only manage to catch three words: STORM and STRONG WINDS. My hand immediately goes to my seatbelt just in time to fasten it as the plane is hits a major gust of wind. The whole body of the airplane shakes, causing my glass of champagne to teeter and spill over. The dip of the plane sends a familiar but strange sensation through my stomach. It’s like free-falling on a rollercoaster decline.

The fasten seatbelt sign lights up as I spot the stewardesses coming down the rows checking each seat. I push up my tray, down what’s left of spilled glass, and grab ahold of my purse. I need to calm my nerves and my stomach. My imagination starts to drift and I can feel the cold sliver of anxiety creep into my chest. I need to get off. This is the last way I want to die. God, if it wasn’t for Miles, I wouldn’t even be on this stupid plane, flying in this disastrous weather. I’ve never hated him as much as I do right now! I fight my every desire to run down the aisle like a raving mad woman. We hit another air pocket and my body goes flying up, along with my purse. My bag flips over, sliding into first class, along with my wallet and motion sickness pills inside. Shit. I should just leave it there until the storm settles. I’ll be fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. The plane jostles us again. Oh, god, I’m not fine. I start to hyperventilate in my seat. I need a bag. I pull out the brown paper bag wedged between the seat pockets in front of me.

Everything I’ve seen on TV tells me that this will help, but as soon as I slip the brown bag over my nose and mouth, I feel worse. I need my pills. I need to take some more. I click off my seatbelt and scramble down the row, running into seats as the airplane sways. A shrill voice of a flight attendant stops me as I make it to the curtain dividing first class from economy. I know I don’t have much time to run and grab my purse.

“Ma’am! Please get back to your seat immediately.”

I turn slightly, my body shaking from anxiety and dread. I don’t wait for her to stop me from entering first class. The first thing I notice is the stark contrast between the seat spacing. In economy, you’re cramped with little-to-no legroom. For the past two hours, I’ve been fighting with the gentleman next to me over the armrest. I can’t help but frown at the disparity between first class and economy. Each row has enough space to recline back and fall asleep. The lights are dimmed throughout the section, and the general atmosphere seems a lot more relaxed. In fact, many of the passengers seem to be sleeping – all but one, a beautiful blonde stranger staring at the bright screen of his tablet. The luminous light gives his face an almost angelic appearance with the exception of his brows, which seem shrouded in deep thought. The plane sways to the side, tossing me against the chair of a nearby female passenger. She stirs and looks up at me with a mixture of annoyance and sleep.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

The beautiful stranger a few rows ahead seems undisturbed by my presence. The leather seat chairs to his right and left are completely empty, and it takes me a moment to realize that he probably purchased all of them. I can only imagine how much it is to buy one first class seat, not to mention six. I know Carol spent way too much money on my ticket and I’m not even up here.

I scan the floor for my belongings and notice my purse clinging for life only a few feet away from the stranger’s seat. Before I have a chance to move, I notice the prissy flight attendant staring me down from the opening of the curtain divider. Geez, lady.

“Ma’am, please return to your seat. Coach passengers are not allowed up here.” Despite her calmness, I sense a thread of disdain in her voice. Perhaps this isn’t the first time a passenger made their way up here. She probably thinks I’m trying to switch my seat. As much as I would love not to be stuck in a seat with barely any legroom, I’m more worried about puking everywhere. I need my purse. A wave of nausea flows over me. I can feel beads of sweat breaking out on my neck and forehead.

“I’m just getting my purse...” I manage to squeak.

“Ma’am, the fasten seatbelt sign is still on,” she says, pointing to the drawing of two hands buckling a seatbelt. “We cannot have anyone walking around at this time.”

I shrug off her awkward stare and scramble over to my purse. The blonde stranger doesn’t notice me at first as I kneel to search beneath his seat. It isn’t until I pull the strap of my purse that he senses my presence. I yank hard to release my purse, but my wallet goes flying, along with my pills. Fuck. A sigh of frustration escapes me as I grab for them. A flash of light cascades over me as a warm hand encloses around my wrist, stopping me midway.

“Excuse me, miss, what are you doing down there?” I’m immediately taken aback by the closeness of his face. Two blue eyes stare at me impassively. They somehow perfectly match his nose and striking cheekbones. If it weren’t for the slight smirk on his lips, you’d think he’s angry. But it’s worse. He’s laughing at me. He must find this all so very amusing. A streak of anger rushes to my cheeks, setting them on fire.

“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, clenching back my irritation.

He eyes me with curiosity as he slowly studies me. He’s a playboy, I’m sure. Handsome men like him are trouble. I’m sure he’s used to women throwing themselves at his feet. I silently admire the light beard he sports. It makes him look like a bit of a rogue in his grey tailored suit. His facial hair reminds me of the way Miles used to wear his. He used to run his chin across my bare skin in the morning. It was his way of waking me up. I loved the way it felt on me when we made love. The way it used to feel before he went and smashed my whole world into tiny little pieces.