Him by Carey Heywood (best book reader TXT) 📗

sixth grade English. It had been the first day of middle school, the blending of four local elementary schools into one cluster of a tween hell. My third period English class had been near my previous class. I was the first person in the room, besides the teacher, and randomly sat in the desk closest to the bookshelves. There was a print book out on each desk, and I was reading it as all my other classmates hurried in before the bell. Just as it rang, he walked in the door.

He was tall, his backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. He had thick brown hair and striking blue eyes, and he was walking straight towards me. I looked around. It felt as though time had slowed, and it was clear that he was having a similar effect on all of the girls in our class. Why was he walking towards me? And then I saw it. The last empty desk in our class was right next to mine. As he sat, he nodded in my direction. I can't be sure, but I think I may have been shaking. His backpack was now in his lap as he pulled out a composition notebook. Laying it on his desk, I stared at his hands and noticed the freckle on his right hand for the first time.

The plane jolts forward as we take flight. I am so distracted by the man sitting in front of me, I hardly notice. It just feels so impossible to think that maybe it could be… No, that would be crazy. The possibility makes my mind race. I had left so quickly. There had been so much unsaid. As much as it hurts, there will always be a part of me that wonders where I would be right now if things had turned out differently. Would I be the workaholic I am today? Would I not be single but instead with him? I thought we were so happy. I shake the memory away, still riveted by the person sitting in front of me. He just can’t be. I mean, what are the odds? As if he can feel my gaze, he slowly turns his head back to look at me. My mouth falls open. It’s him. The goddamned reason I have not been home in seven years just happens to be on my plane. The last time I had seen him was that night. His eyes meet mine, and I watch the recognition pass over them.

"No way. Sarah? Sarah Miller?"

He looks the exactly same but older, bigger. Oh god.

My heart stops. I nod, smiling at him as I lose all ability to speak. You can do this, I think to myself. You can act normal for the next two hours and not like your heart is breaking all over again just looking at him. My tongue feels dry, my gum now a flavorless mass of cement in my mouth. He unbuckles his belt and stands, there? What is he doing? He seems larger than life. Seriously, how had I missed him when I was boarding? He leans over the woman sitting in the aisle seat next to mine.

"Excuse me, ma'am. The young lady next to you happens to be an old friend of mine. Any chance I could I trade seats with you?"

He still has that lazy southern drawl that makes my toes curl. She is older, but he has not lost his effect on women over the years. Her face takes on a dreamy look as she unbuckles her belt and rises. The gentleman next to her in 21B looks at us, then offers to trade with me so we can have seats right next to each other instead of being separated by the aisle. I nod in agreement, already reaching for my purse, still unable to form words. Suddenly, I am in the middle seat I usually dread, but this time, this time I can hardly breathe. The kid sitting in 21A is already asleep, his head leaning up against the window. My purse is still in my lap as he sits. I have to lean towards him as I place it under the seat in front of me.

I can just smell his cologne. To say he smells good is an understatement. I have a physical reaction to his nearness. My stomach flips. Yes, it could be because I am on an airplane, but I know it is him. As I straighten, I blush, some of my hair escapes my clip and is in my eyes. I raise my hand to brush it aside, but his fingers beat mine, and he delicately tucks the errant strand behind my ear. His fingertip just grazes my earlobe. When he lowers his hand, it burns in the absence of his touch. He positions his arm on the aisle rest and rests his head on it, tilting it toward me. I can handle this. This is just a short flight, and then I can go back to pretending Will Price doesn’t exist. Who am I kidding? It's been seven years, and I still read his horoscope every day. I can't stop myself from feeling relief when I see he isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

He clears his throat and grins at me. "So how have you been, Sarah?"

His smile is infectious.

I gulp. "I've been good. Busy, but good. What about you?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm teaching now."

"No way." I could not imagine concentrating with a teacher as hot as him. "What do you teach?"

"Intro to Art." He pauses. "Guess where?" His grin seems impish now, like he is teasing me.

I can play this game. "Back home?"

He nods.

"Let me guess. Renfroe or Decatur?"

"Renfroe. No high school kids for me. Just good ole Carl G. Renfroe Middle School."

The place where it all started. How can someone look so different but exactly the same? Is that even possible? I catch myself staring at his mouth, at the lips that at one time owned me. My