“Well,” I said, scrutinizing her profile on the screen. “We have the same color hair . . . and color eyes . . .” But I stopped myself from pointing out the obvious, that my features weren’t nearly as chiseled as hers, that no one had ever called me beautiful, that lovely was as close as I’d get.
Before, when I thought he was a creep, I didn’t care that I was watching the Endless Love remake. The film had found its way into my lesson plan at the high school. My students, today’s teenagers, spurned reading, so I regularly peppered the lengthy list of classics with contemporary reads and their visual counterparts. I was grading Stephanie Lippman’s theory on our latest assignment, where she tackled forbidden love—a study on class, religion, and why we are attracted to what we can’t have.
“You have her lips,” he said, interrupting my internal thesis and pointing at the screen. “They’re lovely lips,” he added, rubbing his own with perfectly polished fingers.
“Are you flirting with me?” I came right out and asked.
“I am.” And then, “I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been entirely rude. I don’t even know your name. I should’ve introduced myself before making a pass at you. I’m Philip.” He extended a beautiful hand in my direction. “I’ll never compliment you again. At least not until we’re properly introduced. I promise. I never break my promises.”
Our fingers met, and I told him I was Charlotte. He smiled a cheeky grin, honest and sincere, and the shield I’d constructed began to soften, until the plane jerked.
“You don’t like turbulence?” he asked, referring to the way my hands clenched the armrests.
“I don’t like flying.”
“How on earth will you see the world without flying, my dear girl? Flying shouldn’t frighten you, not being able to fly is far worse.”
He inquired of my limited travels as though I’d only half lived. “I’ve been everywhere I need to go,” I answered. “Places you’ve never been . . . would never understand . . .” I was referring to my books, the stories that kept me alive and took me all over the world—their destinations only rivaled by the depth of what I’d come to understand about living . . . about life. “You don’t always have to physically go somewhere to experience something magical.”
His expression changed as though he were seeing me for the first time.
“You’re intriguing, Charlotte. What is it you do when you’re not captivating old men on airplanes?”
He wasn’t old, but he was older. His damp hair had begun to dry, and a faint dusting of gray spread through the golden strands. I had just turned thirty. He had to be forty, maybe more.
“I hope I’m captivating high schoolers in their Honors English classes,” I said. “The film’s based on a book we’re reading. One of my students brilliantly exposed the theory of wanting what you can’t have.”
Instead of losing interest, he challenged me with more questions.
“Why do you think that is?” he asked.
“Forbidden fruit,” I replied. “Human nature. When we’re told we can’t have something, our desire for it grows.”
“Is that a terrible thing?” he asked, calling out for Anne to bring us another round of drinks. “I’ve made some very sound business decisions when I’ve been told I can’t have something. I imagine for some it has favorable results, but for others, it might be dreadful. I doubt my wife would like to hear that your keen attention toward me on this plane was because you knew you couldn’t have me.”
Guys like Philip were predictable. I’d known my share of them—confident to the point of cocky, charming and well spoken, and I wasn’t altogether numb. His finger was bare, though that never proved anything. He was staring at me, through me, and there was a small part of me that felt let down.
“It’s all right,” he said, his lips finding my ear, his voice a consoling whisper. “I was merely testing your hypothesis. I’m unspoken for at the moment. Did it work?”
Amusing. I found this Philip downright amusing.
Anne approached with wine for me, bourbon for him, and packets of mixed nuts. I told her I’m allergic to the nuts, and handed them back. I knew I shouldn’t drink anymore. I was already enjoying his company too much, but I clinked cups with him anyway.
“Tell me how this bitty film hypothesizes the forbidden love theory,” he said.
I faced the screen and the beautiful couple. The star-crossed lovers. “Rich girl–poor boy syndrome. Mom and Dad don’t approve. Expect drama. Pushback. By the time they get together, there’s so much romantic tension and dopamine buildup . . . it’s like a drug . . . a euphoric finish . . . and a hell of a lot more satisfying than boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, and live happily ever after. The struggle, the conflict, it’s real, and it’s what makes a satisfying finish.”
“Are you telling me their love’s not real, but a mere dopamine overdose? These two lovely creatures”—and he’s pointing at my screen again—“they finally get to be together and it’s doomed?”
His curiosity flattered me. Most men found these theories childish and boring. “Not always,” I said. “Besides, happily ever after is overrated. It’s all very complicated.”
He glanced at his watch. “We have plenty of time.”
“I think the point is,” and I corrected myself, “I think the point my student was trying to make is that a certain beginning induces exaggerated, confusing feelings, and sometimes, not always, when a couple finally gets together, they forget why they were chasing each other in the first place.” He was watching me closely. “Desire like that can leave you very lonely and unsatisfied.”
“Are you lonely and unsatisfied, Charlotte?”
I turned toward the sea of clouds outside my window, but his fingers found my chin, and soon I was staring into eyes that spoke without saying a word.
“If you’re asking if I’m in a relationship,” I said, his touch pressing into me, “I avoid those kinds of commitments. Six classes of teenagers five days a week is plenty.” He let go, and my gaze fell to the plastic cup, my fingertips tracing its rim. “You should know that being alone doesn’t make a person lonely. It’s being around the wrong people.”
“Relationships!” He finished his drink and tossed an ice cube in his mouth. “The bane of my existence. According to your assignment, any good one turns sour rather quickly. I’m not very good at modern dating,” he added, the ice making a cracking sound. “Just ask my ex-wife. God bless that Natasha. The patience of a saint. Are all the chases doomed to fail? Do you believe that?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I reminded him. “You’re quoting Stephanie Lippman. A high schooler with a new boyfriend every week.”
“But do you believe it?” he asked again.
I paused. Images of my father crossing the driveway and getting into his car. This time for good. “I don’t know what I believe.”
“You have to believe in something.”
I turned to face him. “What do you believe?”