Page 4 of The Summer Show
I flicked a dubious glance at his clawed hands. “Is it always like this?”
He continued staring at me. At some point I decided to give up or I would wind up a dead and desiccated husk, waiting on his reply.
I waggled the book. “Want me to keep reading?”
There was a dip as the plane struck a moody air current. This time it wasn’t just his hands affected. Blood drained out of Mr. 24C’s face, turning him the same shade of gray as these seats.
“I’ll keep reading,” I said hastily, making the decision for him.
The fingers of one hand released long enough for him to bend slightly and reach the bag he had stowed under the seat in front. He hoisted the messenger bag onto his lap and unzipped. He pulled out a small pill bottle, thumbed off the lid, tipped a single white pill into his hand. He threw it into his mouth and swallowed.
No water involved.
From beginning to end, the whole action lasted a few seconds. This was someone who packed smart and knew precisely where everything was. Something about his organization skills spoke to me. They said, Teach me your ways.
Mr. 24C was clearly some kind of superhero.
That thought stayed with me until he’d stashed everything away and his hands found the armrest again, choking the metal out of them.
To distract myself, I flipped the pages until the main characters were fully clothed again. “Chapter 12. Milly wasn’t sure she could walk, but her legs surprised—”
“Why reading?”
My head jerked up. “What do you mean?”
Stiff jawed, he nodded to my book. “Why reading? Why not talk my ear off?”
Good question. And here I was with a ready answer. “Stories are more therapeutic than smalltalk, and they’re more fun. Who doesn’t want to get lost in a fantasy world for a while? It’s like a mini vacation where you don’t have to go anywhere.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
All evidence to the contrary. But I wasn’t about to say that. He was a stranger, and despite my mother’s efforts, I had manners. “Maybe I do.”
“For what?”
The truth was I’d spent time in therapy, but not for years. Part of being an amazing parent meant that Dad had wasted no time finding a great therapist to work with Brit and me after Mom took a match to our childhood. That didn’t mean I didn’t still wake up at 3:00 AM some mornings, poking at my emotions like a tongue on a sore tooth.
It didn’t help that my mother occasionally resurfaced, not to be a parent, and never to apologize, but to use me in some way. Her tarot phase was one of the hardest. For months, Mom wouldn’t poop unless she consulted the cards first. She needed a guinea pig to practice her skills on, and I was the designated piggy. Every morning she called while I was driving to Bush Lake Elementary, gleefully eager to dispense her tarot pack’s daily wisdom. And every morning, I’d reach for my inhaler as soon as I reached the teachers’ lounge to fend off the anxiety-induced asthma before I wound up in the ER again like I did the day of the book burning.
But I didn’t dump any of that on Mr. 24C. He was carrying enough of his own baggage by the looks of things.
“Life stuff.”
He nodded once and closed his eyes. “Keep reading. Please.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t hate it.”
“Okay.” I found where I’d left off.
“Don’t skip the sexy parts.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later he conked out. His hands finally showed the armrests mercy and fell into loose balls on his lap. Partway through Chapter Fifteen, at the speed of paint drying, he tipped sideways and landed cheek down on my shoulder. I didn’t have the heart to move him, so I let myself be slowly crushed by his bulk.
He was hot. Ridiculously hot.