One Bride for Five Mountain Men

“The sixteenth,” I say.

“Well then you are… a bit early,” she murmurs. “You should come back tomorrow.”

“Is it possible to change to today?” My stomach twists in knots, but I need to face my fears. Kelsey could have easily done all this, no problem. She would have taken charge, never mind any sneering. Except nobody would have sneered at her. No matter, I have to finally learn to do things on my own. Unbidden, King’s face comes into my mind. To get away from him gives me courage, no matter how much my body wants him. How much my soul wants him.

He will become a memory of the kind of life I never wanted. “I really would like to leave today.”

“Most things are possible. But it will cost you,” she says. “Your booking doesn’t allow last-minute changes.”

“Fine,” I say, despite tears threatening. I stared down at my hands, their familiar lines and planes grounding me somehow.

“Ah, wait just one moment, I may have found you a solution,” she says, and gives me a wink. “If you go on the very same flight today, there is one seat left. I can arrange it so you are switched, no charge,” she says triumphantly.

“Yes please,” I choke, a sob escaping my lips. “Please do that.” This’ll be over. And I can return to my life, be nearly normal, build my independence step by step instead of being thrown into a crazy life. No more over-the-top dresses, no more beautiful men with magical cocks—no more anything. Just normalcy.

The rest of the experience is a blur. Quite literally. My eyes keep filling up with stupid, hot tears as I manage my way through the airport, locating the English on signs, being jostled by other travelers, trying to get comfortable in the sterile airport gate seats. But that’s nothing compared to the grief that is awakening in my body. It’s all I could do to stay present, to breathe, to try to respond to the calls for my flight. It’s only once I sit in the seat of the plane, in which I vowed to stay the entire time, that I am finally able to relax.

I fasten the seat belt low over my hips and peer out the tiny window. This is probably the last time I'm going to see France, through this window. Workers run across the tarmac, back and forth with those orange tipped flashlights they carry. I see them dashing toward rolling luggage carts, holding their bulky headphones close to their ears.

The dreary weather starts to become a little more dreary, and long raindrops slash the window from the outside. After a few more moments, the window is so covered in rain that the scene outside is warped and obscured, too dark to see.

The man in the suit next to me leans over, his shoulder brushing unsubtly against my breast as he gestures with his chin at the outside world. I shrink back against my chair, relishing the idea that soon I'll be back in America where they have a slightly more generous notion of personal space.

“Rain, yes?” he smirks, his eyes wandering over the outlines of my dress. I hope the flight attendant comes around soon and offers us those blankets, so I can cover up. “Do you suppose ees good luck? The rain?”

“Um, yeah, luck,” I mutter, turning away.

Personal space. I can't wait.

I keep my eyes trained out the window, watching the starbursts of headlights bouncing around the raindrops as we roll toward the runway. In just minutes we are picking up speed, the giant tires whining against the concrete.

And then gravity presses me back into my chair like a hand as the plane takes off. I hear the landing gear clunking into the space below as it retracts, and somehow this feels like an accomplishment. It is just one more phase of the journey. We really are underway.

The man in the suit leans close to me again, though I'm trying not to acknowledge him in any way. His breath is oily and thick, sliding over my shoulder like a hand.

“I think I know you, oui?” he breathes.

I can't see him, but I imagine that he is just about to reach out and touch me. I'm not sure what I will do. There aren't any more seats on this flight, they told me so when I booked it. But I'm sure if I start screaming or trying to claw his eyeballs out, they will find somewhere to stow me.

I raise a hand without looking, sort of hoping that I will bop him on the nose as I do so.

“No, no. I don't know you,” I say, letting my voice get slightly louder at the end.

“Oh, yes. But I think I do,” he continues. “Perhaps I saw you?? Does that seem —”

“Miss?”

It's a woman's voice, and I twist around in my seat immediately, grateful that help has come. Did she see us? Did she know that I needed her?

The man in the suit settles back in his seat confirming that he was, indeed, way too damn close to me. What was he thinking? The French, I swear!

“Yes?” I stammer.

It is a flight attendant, and she grips the back of the seat in front of us as she leans forward. The plane is still ascending steeply and she has to hold herself at an angle to keep from tipping over. I assumed that flight attendants were generally strapped in like the rest of us during this kind of part of the journey, but I guess not.

Then I see she's got something in her hand, and she is holding it out to me.

“Miss?” she repeats. She blinks large, almond-shaped eyes and purses her lips suggestively as she glances at the man next to me. What is she doing? Is she also French? Is this some kind of conspiracy?