1

I’m so nervous that my hands are shaking. To stop others from noticing, I’ve been keeping them buried in my lap or play absentmindedly with my seat belt buckle, snapping it open and closed. We’re almost there. It’s not long to go now. At last …

“Miss, you need to keep your seat belt fastened. We’ve started our descent.” The flight attendant, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, is tall, blond, tanned, and incredibly thin. She points at the illuminated sign on the console above our heads. I nod quickly and reinsert the metal latch. She doesn’t notice my apology, but smiles briefly at the man sitting next to me in the window seat. He looks up from his newspaper and—as he does whenever she comes by—beams warmly at her. Then she goes on her way. The man watches her go. When he notices that I’m looking at him, he frowns reproachfully and gives me an angry look, as if it were a crime to annoy the flight attendant, before immersing himself in his newspaper again. I think it’s the first time since we took off from Chicago that he’s really noticed me at all.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, since I don’t really care whether he finds me attractive or not. It’s just frustrating somehow, because even if I did find him attractive, I wouldn’t stand a chance against the tall blond—as usual. I’m the exact opposite of her—short and pale. Well, actually, I’m blond too—but a strawberry blond, more of a redhead than a blond, with the emphasis on the red. That’s actually the only striking thing about me. But I have that kind of redhead coloration that makes me go as red as a lobster in the sun and never really tan. So frankly, it’s a distinguishing feature I wish I didn’t have after all.

My sister, Hope, always tries to see the bright side of things by saying I look like an English rose. But she’s probably just trying to make me feel better because she herself is one of those golden-haired, tanned beauties who make a much stronger impression than I do on men—just like the one in the seat next to me. I’m watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye. Actually, he’s rather good-looking—dark hair, nicely groomed, with a well-tailored suit. He took his jacket off at the beginning of the flight and, when he lifts his arms up, I can smell