
Lizzie Hopkins was cursed. Not literally. Probably. To the best of her knowledge, no witch had muttered magical words of doom over an effigy of Lizzie Hopkins, but she wouldn’t rule out the possibility. Life as a pharmaceutical rep meant she saw the inside of various airports more than she saw the inside of her own apartment. Milwaukee to Tacoma. Tacoma to Billings. Billings to Toledo, Lizzie traveled a lot.
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure why she bothered with paying for her tiny apartment in Brooklyn. She was so rarely home to enjoy all 448 square feet of it. It was probably cheaper to rent a storage unit for what few earthly possessions she’d managed to abscond with in the wake of her brutal and bloody divorce. She was twenty-eight years old and still had a palette holding up her mattress and a folding card table for a dining table but at least they were hers. And there was something intrinsically important about having a “home” to return to in the rare windows she wasn’t in an airport or hotel.
Too small apartments she didn’t see enough of weren’t Lizzie Hopkins’ curse, however. Being a bystander to her own happiness was her curse. If, five years ago, you’d asked Lizzie Hopkins what her favorite part of her job was, she would have confidently replied “The people watching.” It was fulfilling to stand as the bridge between the pharmaceutical company she worked for and the medical providers doling out the drugs her company created, but that wasn’t her favorite part. Traveling so much meant that she was privy to almost every human condition that could exist in an airport. And she’d loved it. Harried parents rushing gaggles of children from gate to gate, all-together business folk who glided through the terminals effortlessly, swarms of forty-somethings on girl’s trips, tittering and screeching with plastic glasses of tepid mimosas in their hands, confused and overstimulated teenaged sports teams going to their national championship matches; Lizzie had seen it all. And once upon a time, she’d soaked it all in.
The airport was the perfect place to capture a snapshot of humanity at its best and worst. Travel stresses people out but it is also coated in expectation and wonder. Lizzie had lived for long layovers where she could, just for a moment, ignore the pings and dings of her laptop and just watch as her fellow human beings marched through the food courts and tried to make sense of the perfectly illogical terminal layout. Part of her still liked it, but it was beginning to feel like the universe was targeting her.
It started a few years ago. Lizzie would find someone who looked particularly intriguing, and, with her best eavesdropping skills honed from years in boardrooms and sidling up to closed doors to hear tidbits of conversations that might help her close a sale, tune in to that moment in their life. It felt harmless but karma apparently disagreed. Because karma started giving Lizzie moments that could have been her future but very much weren’t. Snippets of conversation started stoking a deep longing in the pit of her stomach.
The first time that pang of jealousy hit Lizzie Hopkins was when she’d spied a suspiciously perfect-looking, lumber-jack type. This wall of a man even went so far as to wear red flannel, painted on jeans, timberland boots, and had the sort of beard that would make most facial-hair aficionados pant for its perfection. Gorgeous was an understatement but looks weren’t everything, Lizzie knew. Her ex, George, had also been gorgeous. Still was. Didn’t make him any less of a steaming pile of elephant dung. But as Lizzie listened in on the conversation Lord Lumberjack was having with another woman, she didn’t exactly smell excrement.
“I know it’s pretentious but French press coffee is superior to drip-brew. It isn’t bitter. It’s better.” The stranger had proclaimed with a quiet confidence that made Lizzie’s insides feel fuzzy. Lizzie almost nodded in perfect agreement then but kept her head still. The woman said something simpering in response and Lizzie had wanted to interject right then. If this man, among God’s favorites, wanted to discuss the finer points of coffee brewing, Lizzie would happily volunteer. She had strong opinions on this and was dying to discover if her opinions fitted Lord Lumberjack as well as his jeans. People-watching was far less fun when she would have preferred to people-participate. Just as she was working up the courage to finesse her way into the conversation, the gate agent slammed the window of opportunity shut by announcing that boarding was beginning. The throng of people began jostling for position along the stanchions and Lizzie’s Lord Lumberjack disappeared into the crowd. For the briefest of moments, Lizzie had imagined a life with Lord Lumberjack, waking up on cold, snowy mornings to share a cup of steaming, perfectly steeped, freshly pressed coffee and discussing the finer points of flannel. It was a fantasy but it was a nice one.
Up until that point Lizzie had never longed to actually connect with the people she watched. But from Lord Lumberjack on, it happened more and more often. There was an absolute bombshell of a woman in Little Rock who’d sat chatting with a companion about how classist and elitist school attendance policies were and Lizzie’s tongue itched to agree with her. The woman, with her cherry cola lips and victory rolls coiling her rich black velvet hair into gravity defying loops on top of her head, was clearly one of those “Maximum effort” types who spared no effort even if she was spending the day on an airplane. Lizzie had taken stock of her standard “comfort and function over fashion and form” athleisure attire and chickened out of engaging with the woman. But, again, just for a moment, Lizzie had entertained a fantasy of coiling up on a couch with Bombshell Betty and having deep conversations about classism and socio-economics. That fantasy may or may not have included a brief trip around those cherry cola lips as well. Lizzie Hopkins was lonely and desperately trying to pretend otherwise.
In the air, somewhere between San Diego and Atlanta, Lizzie nearly had her heart stolen and broken in one flight. Lizzie had spotted the man shuffling past her as they boarded. He was a solid man with a stoic face but bright eyes. Those eyes, a alluring cinnamon shade, had briefly connected with hers as he passed and he did that curt single nod of greeting thing, a smile teasing the corners of his perfectly full lips. Lizzie had needed to bite her tongue to prevent a blush from warming her cheeks. But he broke that moment of eye contact just before sliding into the row right behind her. Lizzie felt like a pre-pubescent girl as butterflies awoke in her stomach and started trying to flutter up her throat. There was a cute boy sitting right behind her and the urge to squeal about that was almost overwhelming.
Lizzie sat, dutifully buckled in and wondered if she should ask to switch seats with the gentleman sitting next to him. It was a long shot but what was the risk? A few hours of stilted, awkward conversation only to then be able to go their separate ways once in Georgia? That would be the worst. The best could be that Spicy Eyes was, in fact, her soul mate and true love and they would have the most adorable story to tell their grandchildren. Worth it. Lizzie reached for her seatbelt to spin around and ask the middle-aged man in a suit if he’d be willing to swap seats when the woman next to her, a poodle-like brunette, emphatically unlatched her own lap belt and beat Lizzie Hopkins to the punch.
“I’m sorry and this is weird but sir, would you mind terribly if we switched seats? I thought I wanted to sit in the emergency exit row for the leg room but the pressure is just too much. I don’t want to freeze in the face of an emergency,” she sing-songed. Lizzie was impressed at how smooth that had been. It had put Lizzie's ‘the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ idea to shame. They were sitting in an exit row and that was perfect reason to want to switch. Naturally, the business man had agreed and with a bit of shuffling and mumbled sorries, the deed was done. Exit Strategy was now sitting next to Spicy Eyes and the business man who was wearing entirely too much cologne that was doing nothing to mask the strong aroma of vodka, was plopped down next to Lizzie, the manspread already encroaching on Lizzie’s exit row bonus legroom. Another connection opportunity flew by Lizzie Hopkins.
Lizzie was then required to sit and listen to the entirety of the conversation as Exit Strategy and Spicy Eyes proceeded to describe Lizzie’s literal perfect life. Spicy Eyes was a carpenter; an honest to god, whittling, lathing, sculpting, carving carpenter who owned a custom cabinet and furniture-making business. When Spicy Eyes described his most favorite commission, a lovely hand-carved rocking baby bassinet, Lizzie could hear the hitch in his voice. Exit Strategy asked if he had any children to carve bassinets for and Spicy Eyes had replied,
“Not yet but by the grace of god, I will one day. I want kids but I want a wife worth raising them with first.” Okay, it was cliche and tired but dammit if it hadn’t worked its magic on Lizzie. She also wanted kids but only after finding a relationship that didn’t feel unsafe to bring them into.
Spicy Eyes, it turns out, was also into jazz renditions of classical music, a strange and niche interest that had never occurred to Lizzie Hopkins but was likely to be the first thing she looked up when she returned to a regular and reliable internet connection. He loved animals and routinely dedicated time to fixing pens and fences to his local animal rescue. Lizzie fought the need to physically swoon. He’d taken care of his mom for years while she’d battled breast cancer and Lizzie almost teared up as Spicy Eyes described watching her ring that bell after being declared cancer free. Exit Strategy actually sniffled and Lizzie couldn’t blame her.
Hours and hours of landscape soared by below while Spicy Eyes became the focus of every single one of Lizzie’s fantasies. First comes love (Spicy Eyes still believed in courting a woman. ‘A woman’s mind is the sexiest thing about her,’ Spicy Eyes’ rich baritone had crooned while intimate parts of Lizzie went molten), then comes marriage, (It would be a small, intimate ceremony in the woods as they both loved the forest and hated overwrought weddings), then comes baby in a baby carriage (that Spicy Eyes would have lovingly carved with scenes from Ted Lasso, as both he and Lizzie were apparently huge fans. Yes, it was admittedly an odd choice of decor for a baby carriage but babies can’t read so what’s the harm?)
Lizzie Hopkins was shaken from her reverie but the sudden noise of commotion. They’d landed, taxied and, at the gate now, her fellow passengers were clambering off the plane. She’d been so lost to her imagination she’d not noticed more than half the plane had already debarked, including Spicy Eyes and his new, too-slick-for-her-own-good best friend, Exit Strategy. An entire life lived and lost over the flyover states. Lizzie felt sick. She knew it was her own doing, indulging in her overactive imagination like that, but she was so tired of feeling unwanted. Lizzie Hopkins knew she was wantable, that was no question. The strings of men drooling over her at karaoke bars and hotel liquor lines were a clear indication that she was wantable.
But Lizzie Hopkins didn’t want to be wanted like that. She wanted to be wanted by Spicy Eyes with his cradle-making or Lord Lumberjack with his French Press or Bombshell Betty with her kissable lips and liberal thinking. She wanted to be wanted by someone she wanted and the spiral was starting to make her dizzy. Her slim and perfectly packed carry-on retrieved from the overhead bin, Lizzie made her way off the plane. As she stepped into the terminal from the taxiway, she halted, causing the man behind her to almost crash into her. He grumbled some curse words and she didn’t bother to apologize as Spicy Eyes was standing at the gate agent desk looking hopeful. Exit Strategy was nowhere to be seen.
“It seems I’ve missed my connection. I knew it was tight when I booked it but I was hopeful. But that bird flew the coop and that’s on me. I’m still hopeful you can help though.” Oh sweet mercies, he’s even kind to airline staff, Lizzie thought. She stepped to the side so the remaining passengers could get past and watched unabashedly, though she wasn’t sure why or what she would do. A few clicks and nods and a too sweet smile and the gate agent reached under the desk to retrieve a boarding pass. Handing it too him, Spicy Eyes unleashed the full glorious power of his smile and Lizzie bit back the urge to meet-cute kiss him right there. That would be assault and while what she was about to do might backfire on her fantastically, at least it wouldn’t get her arrested. Spicy Eyes backed away and headed off to his next gate at a light trot. Tearing her eyes away from his carved and rippling thighs, Lizzie Hopkins also approached the gate agent.
“Hi. Can I help you?” Lizzie noticed there was less smiling for her than had been for Spicy Eyes. Lizzie Hopkins wasn’t mad about it though. She understood entirely.
“Would you believe it, he and I were headed for the same place but my flight isn’t til tomorrow. Is there any chance the flight you just rebooked him on has another seat available?”
“Oh, Detroit is popular today! Yes, in fact, I can put you in a seat right next to his if you’d prefer?”
“Absolutely perfect,” Lizzie Hopkins replied, pulling out her American Express Platinum. “Absolutely perfect.”
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I love you, and your content. Keep up the good work because you're amazing!!!!! Hugs!!!