Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Three

Trapped more than 30,000 feet in the air, I'm now severely regretting my decision to go along with this hare-brained scheme. And also wishing my current seat comes with an ejection button.

At least in the airport, I could mostly avoid Lewis. I managed to lose him at security, retreated to a quiet corner of the lounge, and didn't re-emerge until the gate was announced. The plane, though, is a whole different story.

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

I'm at his mercy.

He hasn't moved from my old seat despite my protests and is now skimming through the in-flight magazine, providing irritating commentary as he does so. "They've listed Disneyland Paris as a 'hidden gem' in Europe," he scoffs. "Who the hell wrote this piece? A ten year old with no sense of direction?"

"If the contents of the magazine are annoying you so much, why are you still reading it?" I hiss at him. This is now the third or fourth article he's provided an unwanted critique for. 

"Sometimes it can actually be fun - or even a bit therapeutic - to let yourself be a little bit angry for a while, believe it or not," he shrugs, putting the magazine down on the seat between us and rearranging his seemingly endless limbs so he's facing me. "For example, sometimes I like to read troll comments online just to remind myself that I'm a decent human being, and I wouldn't dream of lowering myself to that sort of level. It's life-affirming."

"Hmm." I barely afford him a glance. He doesn't need to know I do this, too. I wouldn't want him thinking we have anything in common. 

"Or . . ." He trails the word out long enough that I almost involuntarily revolve back towards him, my curiosity piqued despite myself. I quickly regret that. "You can't beat a good hate-fuck, right?"

"W-what?" I ask faintly, drawn back into his chocolate gaze against my will. Did he really just say "hate-fuck" or am I suffering from some form of high altitude insanity?

"Oh come on, you know what I'm talking about." His lips curl upwards into the wickedest of grins, reminding me in one smile of some of many reasons why I've never warmed to the guy. He's cocky; he's smug; and he wears his red flags proudly, metaphorically strung together around his neck like a defective lei. His voice lowers considerably. "Sometimes you meet someone who annoys the absolute shit out of you, and the only way you can possibly make yourself feel better is to shag them right out of your system."

There's an extra depth of darkness to his eyes right now, which rattles me more than I care to admit. Something that makes me think he might be . . . Talking about me? And this is making me even more anxious about the next ten days.

"You've never felt that way about anyone?" He prompts me, and I realise I've been quiet for way too long. Possibly staring, also. As much as I hate to admit it, Lewis is pleasant to look at. His short black hair, slightly longer and rumpled on top, has a sheen that no amount of expensive conditioner has ever given me. Perfect eyebrows and ridiculous eyelashes provide the ideal frame for his brown eyes. Meanwhile, the tiniest hint of dimples bookending his full lips and the freckles dappling his nose deceptively hint at an innocence that I doubt has ever existed. 

Easy on the eye, for sure. But hard on the brain. I have no idea how to respond to his most recent question, and from the flash of victory on his handsome face I can tell he knows he's flummoxed me. It's as if we're playing the same game, but with different rules, and I simply don't understand his. I turn back to my Kindle without answering. Ignoring him seems the easiest option at the moment.

"We could just . . . do it, you know," he says now, teasingly.  "Clear all that sexual tension up with one quick ten minute session?"

I seriously hope he's joking, but I'm not certain he is. Either way, I can't prevent the exasperated huff of laughter that escapes my lips at those words. "You must be dreaming if you think there's any sexual tension between us," I scoff. "Anyway, I'd rather not be another notch on your bedpost, thanks very much."

Lewis has a reputation as a bit of a man-whore. Maybe it's fair; maybe it's not. I'm well aware that rumours can get out of hand, and what seems like cold hard fact can often be fallacy. But Lewis does himself no favours and has always played right into that stereotype. 

"You're missing out." He shrugs again, his voice light, but as he picks the magazine back up and I chance him the briefest of looks, I notice the smile slip briefly from his face. When he realises I'm watching though, the grin comes back brighter and somehow naughtier. "There's probably only going to be one bed in this suite, after all," he adds with a wink, and I frown as I turn away from him once more.

"Don't remind me." That's probably been my number one worry since I first agreed to this trip. I'm desperately hoping there will be some sort of sofa I can sleep on. Failing that, the floor. The bath. An inflatable in the pool. Anything rather than having to share a bed with Lewis!

Silence falls then, but I sense it will only be brief; Lewis will definitely have more to say. He always does. 

"Ruby," he says quietly, waiting for me to look back up at him before he says anything further. And his face, much to my surprise, is serious. "Look, I know this isn't the ideal situation, for either of us. But we'll make it work. I'm not sure how," he adds with a grimace. "But . . . Let's just agree to try, okay?"

I nod resignedly. "Deal."

"We can work out the sleeping situation once we're there," he adds, his tone reassuring and, as a result, unfamiliar. "And I know you'll not be wanting me around, so we can give each other a wide berth apart from that. We can both still have a good holiday. Separately." His hand tentatively touches my forearm and squeezes it lightly before he stands and moves back to his old seat. He's finally playing the game my way, and I should be relieved about that.

So why do I somehow still feel as if I'm losing?