Escaping Reality

Denver?” And
    darn it, there is a tiny quaver to my voice I hope he doesn’t hear.
    “So that’s how it is, is it?”
    My brow furrows and I set my fork down. “What does that mean?”
    “You give what you get,” he replies, and there is no mistaking the
    challenge etching his words.
    No, I think. That’s not how it is. That’s not ever how it has been. Not
    in my world.
    “Wouldn’t life be better if that’s how it truly was?” Another quaver
    ripples in the depths of my question. I really need to stop talking.
    This time he sets his fork down, turning to face me more fully. “You
    do know that for a ‘give what you get’ philosophy to work, that someone
    still has to give first, right?” And there is something as intimately
    inappropriate to the way he looks at me, and how he says the words, as
    there has been when he’s touched me.
    “And you want that to be me,” I state, intentionally leaving off the
    question mark. I try to leave out the breathless quality of my voice, too, and
    I fail. I don’t like that I fail. It’s another sign I have no control over myself.
    Worse. I think I might like it if this virtual stranger had control over me,
    which tells me how emotionally on edge I really am.
    “I’m in discussions to be part of a downtown Denver building
    project,” he surprises me by saying. Giving before he “gets”.
    “What kind of building project?”
    He just looks at me. So much for being done with friendly banter, I
    think as I cave to his silent demand I “give” a part of me. “I was laid off and
    my old boss got me a new job in Denver.
    And before you ask, it’s nothing exciting. It’s administrative.”
    He tilts his head slightly. “So you’ll be staying in Denver.”
    “For a while,” I say, and the satisfaction I see in his eyes surprises and
    pleases me far more than it should. I ask the obvious question, telling
    myself it’s simply because it’s expected.
    “How long will you be in Denver?”
    “It all depends on whether I take on the project.” The flight attendant
    proves she has brilliant timing again by picking right then to take away our
    plates, leaving me with an incomplete answer I want completely. By the
    time we’ve been offered coffee and dessert that we both decline, I have no
    idea if he would have said more, or how to get things back on topic without
    seeming too interested. And I am too interested. He’s a risk. He could be a
    mere stranger or he could be an enemy. Worse. I’m too risky for anyone to
    befriend. I put them at risk, and with that blistering thought, I know there is
    nothing more to ask him. Nothing more to say but “have a nice life”. I
    cannot ever be close to anyone. No one. Ever.
    I snuggle under a blanket the flight attendant has left me, and
    surprising me, Liam reaches into the seat pocket in front of mine and
    removes what looks like a sketchpad, which I hadn’t noticed until now. He
    pauses halfway between my seat and his own, glancing at me, and he is
    close, his mouth within leaning distance. It’s a great mouth, sensual and
    full, and I wonder what it would feel like on mine.
    “If you want to sleep,” he says, “I promise to keep Godzilla at bay for
    you.”
    He couldn’t have said anything more perfect and I know right then
    what it is about Liam that makes him so irresistible. Men have been scarce
    in my life, namely because of my fear of getting close to anyone. The few
    times I’ve broken that rule have not turned out well, and I admit that in a
    few lonely, weak moments, I’ve indulged in my share of Cinderella fantasies
    where my Prince Charming swoops in and makes life better. Liam is good
    looking, confident—he radiates control in a way my fantasy Prince
    Charming would. But more so, I believe Liam would fight Godzilla if he had
    to. Maybe not for me, but for someone he cares about.
    “I’ll hold you to that,” I finally say, unable to find even a thread of jest
    to lace the words.
    I watch his eyes flicker, the color diluting to a soft blue then
    darkening again, and I am not sure how to read the meaning when he is
    otherwise guarded, as much a mystery as who I am running from. “Good,”
    he replies simply before he leans back fully into his seat.
    I let my head drop to the cushion, and for a few minutes I indulge in a
    fantasy about Liam to keep the monsters of my past at bay. But as the hum
    of the engine starts working me over again, flickering images of the past
    begin to slip