At what point is it creepy to be staring at someone? After five seconds? Ten? Twenty? What about thirty minutes? Because no matter how many times I flick my eyes to the clock on the television, to the attendant behind the desk, to the people walking past, to the ugly carpet, or down to my hands, they keep returning to the fucking gorgeous girl sitting in the seat across from me.
She’s around my age, I think. Her brown hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her tits are pushed together by her arms because she’s holding a book. That’s all I’ve gathered from watching her. She keeps her head down, tilting from side to side depending on which page she’s reading, and every minute or so she crosses her legs, uncrosses them, crosses them at the ankles, or plants them both firmly on the ground. It’s like her mind isn’t on the book and she’s anxious. That energy seems to be showing itself through the movement of her legs.
She probably has brown eyes, but I’m most curious about her lips. What do they look like? When I clear my throat, the girl briefly glances up at me. If I thought she was gorgeous before, fuck. I was right; she has brown eyes. Her lips are a light red. A little plump. Totally fucking kissable.
But we’re in an airport and I don’t know her. I’m probably reaching creeper status for sure. I glance away, hoping something else will catch my attention. We still have an hour before we board. My eyes find the girl again. She’s alone. There are empty seats on either side of her and no one has sat next to her the entire time I’ve been watching, which has been since she sat down.
The girl sniffles and I wonder what her name is. She reaches up to wipe a tear. Shit. She’s crying? Maybe there’s a sad part in the book. Girls cry over that shit all the time. It’s like with movies, right? But then, she closes the book, carefully places it in the seat next to her, pulls her knees up to her chest, and folds her arms over them, her face disappearing into the little hole she created for herself.
Her shoulders shake and there are more sniffles, but I don’t hear any other sounds of crying. Do people cry like that over stuff in books? I glance at the bookmark. She’s only in the middle. Does tear-inducing crap happen at that point? I look around, hoping that she isn’t actually alone because I think whatever might’ve been on her mind abruptly upset her.
No one else is paying attention to her. Only me. A creepy seventeen-year-old who apparently likes to watch girls his age read books in the airport.
When her cries get a little louder, a little unhinged, turning into sobs, people notice. No one does anything. They send her odd looks and glance at one another, but they don’t do shit. Some look at me like I might’ve done something, but that’s it.
One second I’m in my seat, and the next, I pick up her book to take its place next to her. I gently touch her arm. She startles, looks up, and quickly wipes her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hands. God, even with red eyes and flushed cheeks, she’s still gorgeous. What kind of black magic is happening here?
“What?” Her eyes are bulging a little and there’s a touch of snippiness and wariness in her tone.
Might be helpful if I spoke instead of staring at her like the weirdo I am. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She snatches her book out of my hands and hugs it to her chest. “Do I look okay to you? Can’t you just leave me alone like everyone else?”
Oookay. I don’t do the crazy, rude, on-the-verge-of-hysteria type of chicks. Without a word, I move back to my seat. She’s hot and her voice is as gorgeous as she is with a sexy Southern accent, but nothing is worth the attitude. I pull out my phone to text one of my buddies about hanging out tomorrow.
“My grandma died. I’m on my way to her funeral.”
I lift my eyes at the sound of her soft voice. “Shit. Sorry.”
“Sorry for being a bitch.”
With a shrug, I say, “You have a good reason.” Feeling like I might be on her good side now, I move back to the seat next to her. “How come you’re traveling alone?”
“She’s my dad’s mom. The divorce was ugly and Mom doesn’t like his new wife, so I told her I would be okay going by myself, but now, I’m hating that I’m going to be there alone because I just know my dad is going to be stuck either up his own ass or up my stepmom’s.” She shakes her head, finally takes a breath, and I find myself enamored by her long sentence. How the words all rushed together and her book turned in her hand, this way and that, as she spoke. Clearly wanting to discuss something else, she asks, “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m Ian. What’s yours?” Ridiculously, I hold my breath. As if her name could hold such power or that it’ll be so beautiful it’s worth holding my breath over. What in the hell is this girl doing to me already?
“Sydney,” she replies.
I exhale. Sydney. That fits perfectly. I don’t know why or how, but it does.
“Why are you traveling alone?”
“I went to visit my mom and I’m on my way back home.”
“So, your parents are divorced, too?”
I nod. “Not ugly, though. Mom reconnected with an old boyfriend from high school, so she moved to be with him.”
“And you decided to stay with your dad? How come?”
The answers are a bit more complex than what I’m about to say, so I add a shrug in with my words. “Just didn’t want to move away from what I’d known all my life. There aren’t any problems with Dad and me, so it seemed right. I visit my mom every so often. Everyone’s happy.” Ready for a change of subject, I lean toward her and damn, she even smells good. She smells like something out of one of those bottles you’d buy in those stores that sell crap in like a hundred different fragrances. Normally, I hate to even walk past the store and get a whiff of whatever scent comes out, but smelling whatever that fragrance is on Sydney? I want to bury my nose in her hair or in the crook of her neck and—what the fuck is happe
ning to me? Clearing my throat, I ask, “What were you reading? A steamy romance?” My eyebrows dance and I nearly fall out of my chair when a small smile graces her face.
“Historical fiction this time.” Her smile grows with my surprise. “I like a lot of different genres.”
“That’s cool.”
“Are you a reader?” Her interest is piqued and I can hear the hope in her voice.
“Only when the teachers make me. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Hell yeah! Only one year younger than me, and I let her know that. Then, I ask, “Where are you from?”
“North Carolina. Don’t even say I have an accent,” she warns. “I had to hear about that from the flight attendant on the first leg of this trip.”
“Well, you do have one. It’s cute.”