Now she was racing across the country, praying for eight more hours. “Can I get you anything before we take off?” “Water, a pillow!” Sarah looked up. The flight attendant was young, pretty, with a smile that probably worked well on businessmen looking for attention. “Water would be great. Thank you.” “And for you, sir?” The man in the leather jacket shook his head.
“I’m fine.” His voice surprised Sarah. She’d expected gravel roughness, something to match his appearance, but it was quiet, controlled. The voice of someone who didn’t need to raise it to be heard. The flight attendant moved on. Sarah accepted her water, took a long drink, tried to steady her nerves. Long trip.
She turned. The man was looking at her, not staring, not learing, just looking the way you might look at someone you’d recognize from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place. “Excuse me?” I asked if it’s a long trip. You look like you’re carrying something heavy. Sarah’s defenses went up instantly. Don’t engage. Don’t encourage.
Don’t give him Dungeonham anything to work with, but the words came out anyway squeezed through the cracks in her exhaustion. My mother’s dying in Boston. We’re trying to get there before she couldn’t finish. The man nodded slowly. I’m sorry. Two words. No platitudes. No, she’ll pull through or everything happens for a reason or any of the other meaningless phrases people threw at grief like confetti.
Just acknowledgement, just truth. Thank you, Sarah whispered. He turned back to the window and she thought that would be the end of it. She was wrong. 2 hours into the flight, Sarah noticed the man from first class. He’d been up and down the aisle three times already. Stretching his legs, he told the flight attendants, getting the blood flowing.
But his path was wrong, too deliberate, too focused. He stopped at row 12, checked the overhead bin, moved on. Row 13. Same routine, then row 14. Well, well, look who’s stuck back here in steerage. He was leaning into their row, one hand braced on the seatback, the other holding a rocks glass half full of whiskey.
His suit probably cost more than Sarah’s monthly rent. Gold Rolex catching the dim cabin lights. Hair that looked styled even at 2 in the morning. And a smile that made Sarah’s skin crawl. Traveling solo with a kid. That’s ambitious. We’re fine. Thank you. I didn’t ask if you were fine. His eyes traveled down her body slow and appraising.
I said it’s ambitious. Single mom, right? I can always tell. You’ve got that look, the bags under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders like you’re waiting for the next disaster. Sarah’s jaw tightened. Please go back to your seat. I’m just making conversation. Long flight, you know, gets boring up in first class.
All those empty seats, nobody interesting to talk to. He leaned closer. She could smell the whiskey now mixing with cologne that probably cost more than her car. Name’s Derek. Derek Lawson and you are not interested. His smile flickered just for a moment. Something ugly underneath quickly covered over. Feisty. I like that. She asked you to leave.
The voice came from Sarah’s right. Quiet, flat, but it cut through the cabin like a blade throughsilk. Derek straightened. His eyes moved past Sarah to the man in the leather jacket. And for just a second, something like caution flickered across his face. Mind your own business, Grandpa. I am minding my business.
