Free Melted and Whipped by Cleo Pietsche Page B

airplane.
    “Can I offer you something to eat or drink?” the flight attendant asks.
    “What do you have?” I’m not thirsty, but I’m nervous, and I want something to do with my hands, which are still trembling.
    “Anything you want,” she says.
    “A mimosa?”
    “That’s festive. Coming right up.” She seems so happy.
    And then I realize it’s Christmas Day. All these people were dragged out of bed at dawn on Christmas Day because of me.
    Immediately I feel even worse.
    Porter reappears. “We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me.
    “Porter,” I say, but I can’t continue.
    He leans forward and gently touches my knee. “Did you get another phone call?”
    “No. I…” Before I can explain, the flight attendant returns carrying a tray with two drinks. She places the mimosa on the little table. “Thank you,” I say, barely holding back from apologizing.
    Porter gets coffee. Unless she emptied a few shots of peppermint schnapps in it, I’m the only one drinking. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any shittier. Miserable, I take a sip of my mimosa. The bubbles and citrus mix perfectly in my mouth, but I can’t enjoy the drink.
    “Will it help if I hold your hand?” Porter asks.
    The last thing I want is to take another favor from anyone, especially Porter, but if I say no I’ll be lying. So instead I say nothing at all.
    He takes my hand, holding it between his. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he says.
    “I’m not going through anything. My sister is.” It comes out a little harshly, and I shake my head. “Don’t listen to me, Porter. I’m…” I’m sick of myself. I feel selfish and guilty, and angry because I should have picked up extra shifts or done whatever it took to fly home for the holidays. I should have been there. “I appreciate that you’re doing this, but it doesn’t seem fair to have dragged your crew away from their families on Christmas.”
    Porter’s smile is warm. “Lisa, the attendant, loves working holidays because she knows she’ll get a nice bonus. One of the pilots is based in New York, and the other lives in Florida. None of them live here.”
    “Oh,” I say. What he’s telling me makes sense. “In that case, I guess you’re the bad guy for dragging them out here for the holidays.”
    He grins. “I’m very fair to my employees. Later, when I use the bathroom, you can ask Lisa.”
    “No, I wouldn’t do that.”
    He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
    The plane’s engines become a little louder, though not much, and soon we begin to move. The ride is so smooth, if I closed my eyes I would think we were sitting still. Gradually, I become aware of Porter’s hands around mine, cupping my fingers between his. Even though sex should be the last thing on my mind, the sensations and images from last night press to the front.
    A quick glance around and I notice Lisa is out of sight, out of earshot. “How can you tell if a woman is kinky?” I ask.
    Porter seems to consider that before frowning. “I don’t know. How?”
    I almost laugh when I realize he thought I was asking him a joke. “No, it’s a serious question. How can you tell?”
    Porter does laugh, then he leans toward the window. “This is my favorite part. I like watching the mountains become small. Humanity’s response to the awesome scope of the natural world.”
    “Distance,” I say.
    “Distance and perspective.”
    Now I laugh. “It’s like we’re back in art appreciation class,” I say.
    “I’m going to nod, and you’re going to pretend I said something that adds to the conversation, because I don’t remember a damned thing from that class.”
    “Really? I feel like I’m always seeing or hearing something that reminds me.” Which is funny, because I spent more time staring at Porter than taking notes, but I guess it got into my mind somehow. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “I’d never taken any kind of art