Heather's One-Chapter Bits

Countdown

I've taken to wrapping my wrist with any scrap of fabric I can find. I don't want to see it, don't want to see the numbers.

Of course, the whole world wants to see the numbers on my wrist. It's a miracle none of the pictures taken when I was young show the tiny analog clock attached to my skin. My managers tell me every day how important it is to keep it a secret.

Oh, not the clock. Everyone has a countdown clock on their wrist. It's the numbers on the clock that matter.

I pull a book from the empty seat beside me and try to distract myself. It only takes me a minute to realize I've read the same sentence over again nineteen times.

Annoyed, I toss the book across the plane. Instead, I take to looking out the window. The sky's so dark all I can see is my faint reflection over wavering stars. I marvel at how different I look now, on a plane to Boston at three in the morning, compared to the posters I see plastered everywhere. Both of us have tousled blond hair, and blue eyes, but I only recognize one image.

Slowly my left hand creeps over to the scarf currently covering my right wrist. My fingers play with it, pushing it up so I can just barely see the bottom of the numbers.

0 yrs 0 days 8 hrs 13 min 2 sec

I groan. It's only been four minutes and thirty two seconds since the last time I checked.

Why are the numbers so important? They only determine the time until the first time I meet my soulmate. That's not so important, is it? Definitely not something I should be kept awake and tossing over.

It's not like I don't already know who it's going to be... or at least I know she'll be one of a group of people. My manager saw my wrist last month and arranged for every notable celebrity girl my age that I haven't met yet to join me for lunch today.  He gave me profiles for all of them before I got on the plane last night.

Most of them seem alright. I don't feel like any of them stand out to me, but that might happen when I meet them. Whoever it is, I'll know at 1:03 PM today.

"Blake!" calls a voice from the back of the plane. I consider feigning sleep as footsteps get closer, but decide however well I act on camera, my manager will see right through me.

"I know you're awake," Harley says as he approaches the back of my chair. See what I mean?

I blink at him as he takes a seat opposite mine. He's still in a business suit. "What's the problem?"

"Change of venue," he says gravely. "The hotel restaurant I'd selected caught on fire last night. Just a kitchen fire, but they can't host you today."

"Where are you moving us to?" I ask, cocking my head. I raise one hand and rub my eye. Just because I can't sleep doesn't mean I'm not tired.

Harley slaps my hand away from my face. "Stop that. You have to look presentable today, not like you spent all night pacing," he snaps. "I rescheduled us in a new restaurant in the North End. Booked them out for the day, in fact. You'll have the whole place to yourselves."

"Fine," I say. It doesn't matter where I meet my soulmate, right? "Anything else?"

His eyes travel up and down my figure scornfully. "Clean yourself up. The plane lands in two hours." He goes up and strides away, pulling out his phone as he marches down the aisle.

I raise my eyebrows. "Fine."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The city is almost refreshing. I'm surrounded by people bustling by, not knowing or not caring who I am. A man in a suit brushes by my shoulder. A woman and her friend part to go around me, never stopping their chatter.