Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,5
my hands up. “I didn’t think I was going to make it to the gate on time.” Because it’s a brilliant excuse for crashing into you while you’ve been standing here waiting. I sound like a moron.
“No problem. At least you made it, right?” She glances up at me for only a second; just long enough to respond to my apology. Her grass-green eyes pierce through me in the one quick instant. I know her. Why is she so familiar?
“I wasn’t expecting the miserable traffic in the city today,” I say, continuing the conversation for no reason other than hoping she looks up at me again.
The last time I’ve seen a woman with so many freckles was my senior year of high school, but the chances of this woman being Melody Quinn is slim, so I’ll have to chalk her up to a doppelgänger. Although, maybe the idea isn’t so ironic considering Pops said she is flying home from South Carolina today too. It would still be a crazy coincidence, I think. Plus, it’s been ten years and that’s a long time to go without seeing someone, then immediately recognizing them.
Maybe it’s not her.
I may never know since they call her zone before mine and she makes her way onto the plane without a second glance.
A flight attendant announces my zone next, and I make my way through the gate and down the thin aisle between the rows, finding my assigned seat to be ironically—okay … not so much irony anymore … next to the woman I crashed into in front of the gate.
“What are the odds, huh?” I ask, tossing my bag into the overhead compartment. “I always wondered how the airlines decide on zone numbers. You would think we would be in the same zone if we’re sharing a row, right?” I sound like I’m out of breath from lifting a ten-pound bag over my head. Nice.
“It would make sense,” she says. The unsureness in her voice makes it clear she isn’t up for chit chat. Melody Quinn used to talk so much, we had to tell her to take a breath. It can’t be the same person. Plus, I’m sure she’d recognize me if we knew each other. She’d make some kind of expression that told me so, but she didn’t in the airport, and she doesn’t when she spots me taking the empty seat beside her.
I think I’ve stared at her long enough that she’s likely labeling me as a creep, but I need to know if I’m seeing things.
I strike up a conversation with Melody’s doppelgänger by commenting on her apparent apprehension for flying as she studies the emergency landing card.
“We won’t crash,” I tell her.
Her gaze floats to mine again and I’m jarred by the stark contrast between her dark lashes and light-colored eyes. The Melody I used to know never wore makeup, so I don’t know what her features would look like with dark enhancements against her lighter features. “I wasn’t thinking we might crash,” she says with a raised brow. “But thank you for the reassurance.”
I could ask for her name, but it’s a little soon and a bit forward. Plus, she’s deliberately ignoring me, which seems like the Melody I once knew. Her knee bounces furiously as her pink painted fingernails drum against the armrest. Maybe flying isn’t her thing. Flying wasn’t my thing either until they forced me into a helicopter, sans doors. There I sat with my legs dangling off the side while strangling the weapon in my hands. This flight is luxurious in comparison.
“You seem stressed out. That’s all,” I respond with regard to watching her read the instruction manual on how to use the oxygen masks that would fall from the ceiling panel in the case of an emergency.
“I am very stressed, but not because I’m flying,” she replies. Her response is short and pointed, highlighting her disinterest to chat. It’s time to stop prying into a stranger’s life. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”
“No Worries.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket with hope of distracting myself from the aftermath of the assumptions I attacked this poor girl with. I’ll mind my business and we can both go back to our normal lives at the end of the flight. No harm done.
“I didn’t think anyone still used Twitter,” she mutters under her breath.
She’s good. I didn’t even notice her look over at what’s on my phone, nor did I realize I was scrolling through Twitter. I