Little Miss Red (9 page)

As he placed the bud back in my ear, I tipped my head down in case the flight attendant walked by. The problem was, the music was so good that it just took me over, and before I knew it, I was tapping my head against the back of my headrest with my eyes closed.

As a guitar solo filled my ears, I realized I had never felt so free in my entire life. I was a rule-breaker. Sure, it was important to not break the
really
important rules—like, say, the need to wait twenty minutes after eating to swim, because that could result in drowning—but if a plane was still on the ground, was it all that bad to have an electronic device on?

A finger poked me on the shoulder, and I opened my eyes to see a very angry flight attendant staring me down.

Okay, so maybe it was.

I took out the earbuds, but the music continued to pour through them.

“As stated over the loudspeaker, all electronic devices need to be turned off until we reach our cruising altitude and the captain announces they can be turned on again,” she snapped.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I replied with the most innocent smile I could muster. “I must have missed that part.” Omigod—I had just lied to an airline official. What was next? Walking around the cabin when the seat belt sign was on?

“It’s my fault, ma’am,” Jack said. “I was so busy talkin’
her ear off that we weren’t paying attention like we should have. I take full responsibility.” Was it my imagination, or did he suddenly sound a whole lot more Southern? He took the iPod out of my hands and shoved it in his pocket. “It won’t happen again. I promise.” With the innocent look on his face, he could’ve been Mr. April in the Boy Scouts of America calendar.

“It better not,” she snapped.

How could I
not
fall madly in love with someone who was willing to stand up for me like that? Michael never would have done that for me. I wondered then if Michael had texted me yet, but in light of what had just happened, I figured turning on my iPhone to check wasn’t such a smart idea.

The minute the flight attendant marched away, Jack turned to me and gave me another lopsided smile. “Look at you, Red. Gettin’ us into trouble before the plane has even left the ground,” he drawled.

“Sorry,” I giggled. I felt a little woozy, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the Benadryl.

“Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff,” the captain’s voice said over the loudspeaker.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes as my hat flopped down over them.

The plane had already been in the sky for about ten minutes when I looked down at my hands and realized that I wasn’t even holding on to the armrests.

Mom says communication is the most important part of a relationship, so I was relieved to discover during the flight that Jack was
really
into talking. In fact, it was almost hard to get a word in. As Harriet snored away and we made our way through the Ziplock bags of cut fruit and trail mix that Mom had made me bring (“Don’t waste any of the emergency travel money on those overpriced snacks at the airport,” she’d warned), I learned all about Jack and his exciting life.

His childhood was like something out of a movie. He was born in Texas, and when he was three, his parents got divorced and he and his mom went to go live in Arkansas with his grandparents. They weren’t dirt-poor or anything, like the Mardi Gras float maker who put the spell on Devon’s heart in
Validated by Voodoo
, but his mom was never around because she was always out dating so that Jack wouldn’t grow up without a father. In fact, she ended up getting married four times.

“Oh, Jack—I’m so sorry,” I gasped.

He shrugged. “As my grandma always says, you gotta play the cards you’re dealt, even if all you get is a measly two of a kind.” So many people in his situation would have turned to a life of crime or something, but there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in Jack’s voice. As I listened to him go on and on about his childhood, I felt like I did when my history teacher, Mr. Costello, read us an excerpt from Barack Obama’s book
The Audacity of Hope
—it was that inspiring.

After graduating from high school (“I’ll be straight with you, Red—my As were more in ‘having fun’ than in math”), he moved out to L.A. to pursue his dream of becoming a rock star. He started a band with some guys he found on Craigslist, and they called themselves Slouching Towards New Orleans. His bass player, who had gone to Yale but dropped out after freshman year, once read a poem with the line “slouching towards Bethlehem” in it and had always thought it would be a cool name for a band, but Jack was worried it was too Bible-sounding and people would think they were a Christian rock group. Because his mom and fourth stepdad weren’t happy about his career choice—they had hoped he’d go to the University of Arkansas to study accounting, even though his dyslexia made him really bad with numbers—they cut him off. Which is why, in order to pay the rent, he was currently working as a delivery guy for a Chinese restaurant.

Not only was he ambitious, but it was obvious he was a hard worker and would do anything to support his dream.

“You know where Rock ’n’ Roll Ralphs is on Sunset? I live right across the street from there,” he said as he threw back a handful of trail mix.

Not wanting to be, as my dad sometimes said about my mom, a total control freak, I stopped myself from suggesting that instead of putting himself at risk for choking, he should eat it the way
I
did: a nut first, followed by a piece of dried fruit, followed by a nut, followed by some fruit, chewing each piece thoroughly for better digestion.

He flicked away the lock of jet-black hair that kept flopping into his eye. I couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping. Something about that drove me insane with desire
and
longing.

I thought about it a second. “Near Doheny?” I asked.

“No. In
Hollywood
—at Poinsettia.”

“Ohhh…right,” I replied.

He looked at me in disbelief. “Red. Tell me you’ve been south of Ventura and over the hill.”

“Of course I have,” I said. Ventura Boulevard served as the dividing line between the San Fernando Valley and L.A. proper, and the “hill” was Laurel Canyon, which connected the Valley to hipster Hollywood. “I’ve been wanting to spend more time in Hollywood—it’s just been hard to find people to go with.” Hollywood was all about tattoo parlors and guitar stores, and the Valley was all about
Pinkberrys and malls. I may have been a Valley girl in real time, but I was a Hollywood girl at heart.

“Well, when we’re back in L.A. I’m gonna have to take you on a tour of Hollywood on my new motorcycle.”

Oh. My.
God
. He had a
motorcycle
! I knew there was a reason we had bonded so fast. I could just see us now—flying around the sharp corners of the Pacific Coast Highway as we made our way up to Big Sur for a romantic weekend getaway, my arms wrapped tightly around him in his leather jacket, the wind whipping through my hair. I couldn’t believe he was already planning things for us to do in the future—that meant he didn’t have problems with commitment!

“If you do that, I hope you both wear helmets,” Harriet piped up, now awake.

“Oh yes, ma’am,” said Jack, sitting up straight again. “Ever since my drummer’s girlfriend’s cousin slammed into a tree on his brand-new Kawasaki and suffered brain damage and became a paraplegic, I never ride without one.” So the wind
wouldn’t
whip through my hair. Even though Jack had a tattoo on his forearm of two snakes kissing, that didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible. I know that with Michael, “responsible” was one of the things that bored me, but with Jack it was a real turn-on.

Harriet nodded approvingly before going back to reading
I Hate You—Don’t Leave Me: Understanding the Borderline Personality
.

He turned to me. “That’s why I’m going to Florida—to pick up a 1970 Triumph T 120 R Bonneville 650 I scored on eBay.”

“Is that a motorcycle?” I asked.

“Not just
a
motorcycle, Red,” he replied. “It’s like the deluxe supremo version of a motorcycle.”

A wave of relief came over me. From the moment I met him I was afraid the reason for his trip was to go see a girl. I was so glad I was wrong.

“Got it for a steal too,” he added. It might take my parents a while to get past the tattoo and the lack of a college degree, but they’d love that he was budget-conscious.

Jack pushed the button on his armrest and reclined back. “I think I’m gonna try and take a little nap. I didn’t get to sleep until four last night.”

I didn’t want to think of what he had been doing. Hopefully, it didn’t involve kissing a groupie.

“You wanna listen to my iPod while I sleep?” he asked.

“Really?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, cueing it up. “Here, listen to
Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
. It’s Neil’s greatest album of all time, if you ask me.”

“Diamond?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Neil Diamond?” I couldn’t believe
he
liked Neil Diamond too! Even though he had been popular in the
seventies, my parents liked him a lot and I thought he was great.

He laughed as he gave me a little noogie on my forehead. Usually, when Jeremy did that, I hated it, but when it was a love tap like this, it felt really good—sort of like a massage. “No. Neil
Young
, Red. You know, who you were listening to a minute ago.”

“Oh,” I said, blushing.

“‘Cinnamon Girl’ is on it. You like that song?”

“Um…” I thought about lying and saying yes, but one lie would turn into two would turn into three, and before I knew it I’d be leading a total double life like the Portuguese pet store owner who had told Devon he was a diamond merchant in
Crazed with Craving
. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

He nodded with approval. “That’s what I love about you, Red—you’re a straight shooter.”

Omigod, he just said he
loved
me. Okay, well, not exactly. But still, he was obviously on his way to doing so.

“Now, some girls—they’d pretend to know it, just to seem cool and all, but you—you’re okay with not knowing a lot about classic rock and liking Neil Diamond instead.” He cocked his head and looked at me. “Is cinnamon red or brown?”

“I think it’s a reddish brown,” I replied.

“’Cause I was gonna say—Cinnamon Girl would be another great nickname for you.”

“Cinnamon Girl,” I said, smiling. “I like that.”

He smiled. “Then that’s that. From now on, you’re Cinnamon Girl. Or Red. You know, depending on the mood.”

I tried to contain my excitement. “Okay.” Three years with Michael and we never got to the nickname stage, but Jack already had
two
pet names for me!

He handed me the iPod. “Here you go, Cinnamon Girl,” he said with a wink before he closed his eyes.

Within a minute he was fast asleep. Quietly, I reached into my purse for my own earbuds and switched them with his. You could never be too careful with ear infections—I didn’t want to go deaf and miss all the sweet nothings Jack was going to whisper in my ear as we took walks on the beach at sunset on our honeymoon. Not to mention the fact that although I did it earlier, sharing earbuds
was
kind of gross. As I cracked open
Propelled by Passion,
before I knew it I was no longer on a plane on my way to Florida, but in front of a crackling fire on a cold Montana night as Devon and Dante rekindled their love. As I read, my mouth fell open.

“I know you didn’t hear from me once over the last three years,” Dante told her, “but it’s not like we were broken up or anything—I just pushed the pause button.”

I couldn’t believe it! Was that in the “Lines to Use on Girls” section of the guidebook that was given to all boys in the hospital when they were born? I had to admit, though,
coming from Dante, it didn’t sound so bad—especially since he went on to tell Devon that even while he was dating lots of actresses and restaurant hostesses while he was living out in L.A. (consulting on a major Hollywood blockbuster movie where the lead actor played a rancher),
she
was the one he was thinking about as he kissed them. And it’s not like Devon was sitting at home in her multimillion-dollar New York City penthouse apartment pining away for him. There had been five books and seven other men during that time, but she had never been able to get over Dante. In fact, the reason those seven relationships had ended (other than the one where that man had to go into the witness protection program) was because Devon
kept telling
the guys how she couldn’t get over Dante. Obviously, she hadn’t read any of those “Top 10 Things to
Not
Say to a Guy” magazine articles, because if she had, she’d know that talking about how you’re still madly in love with an ex-boyfriend is number one on the list.

As Dante threw Devon over his shoulder and hauled her into the bedroom, Jack’s head flopped against my shoulder. I waited for him to shift again, but he didn’t and his head remained
thisclose
to my cheek, which was beyond thrilling. Except for the fact that I could tell from the way that my cheek started to itch that he used gel in his hair and, because of my sensitive skin, I’d probably start breaking out any minute. I loved that he too had felt the instant bond between us and that—even in sleep—he
felt comfortable enough to be close to me. With Michael, it took six months before he’d hold my hand, aside from when we were making out in a dark room, and almost a
year
before he would hold my hand in public.

I glanced at my iPhone peeking out of my bag.
Would
the plane crash if I turned it on to sneak a quick peek and see if Michael had e-mailed me? The sight of the flight attendants making their way down the aisle with the beverage cart jarred me back to my senses.

After I whispered to the flight attendant that I’d like a Diet Coke, she pointed to Jack. “And your boyfriend? Would he like a beverage?”

When I opened my mouth to speak, nothing came out.
Boyfriend?
It was as if a virus had infected the hard drive of my brain and wiped out all the words. I just couldn’t believe a complete stranger thought
I
looked like the kind of girl that
Jack
would have as a girlfriend!