|
I notice his attractiveness before I realize who he is. His boyish dark hair, his sturdy jaw line and his twinkling eyes tease me from across the gate at the Monterey Airport. Dressed in a navy blue v-necked sweater and exquisitely-fitting jeans, he is practically perfect in every way. It takes me a moment for the recognition to hit. He isn’t just practically perfect; he is perfect -- he’s Patrick Dempsey. At my gate. On my flight back to LAX.
I look away quickly, but know instantly that he has sensed the probe of my star-gazed eyes. I immediately curse myself for not making more of an effort that morning. My stained J. Crew hoodie, make-up less face and unwashed jeans are the antithesis of chic. Patrick will be loathe to strike up a conversation with me when we are serendipitously seated next to each other on the small 30-person jet. A silly smile stretches across my face as I pretend to focus on my book, Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns. It’s a useless venture – I’m already nose-deep in my own plotline – the story of Patrick and my encounter 35,000 feet in the sky… * * * I settle into my cramped window seat, tuck my fierce Tano carry-on bag underneath the seat in front of mine, and then see Patrick, blazing down the aisle toward my row. My heart catches as he begins to sit down next to me, but I make no outward indication of my excitement. He smiles shyly, makes a joke about the tight quarters and lack of leg-room, and proceeds to engage me in convivial airplane small talk. “Is that good?” He asks, nodding toward my book. “Not as good as Kite Runner, but I’m enjoying it. As much as one can enjoy reading about the oppression of Afghan women.” I respond with a hint of irony. He laughs, then pauses a moment, his brow furrowed as he contemplates my au natural face. “You look familiar… are you the girl I talked to at Easton Gym three years ago?” “Why, yes, I am!” I close my book and focus in on him as though he’s a close friend rather than the man who makes Meredith Grey weak in the knees on “Grey’s Anatomy.” “I was filling out my new member form at reception and you interrupted me.” “I’m sorry about that.” “Oh that’s okay, Patrick. You apologized and then joked that I should have joined ‘Crunch instead.’” I grin fondly at the memory. “That’s right!” He returns my grin. “Do you still go to Easton?” “A few times a week.” “It shows – you are in great shape. Are you an actress?” He asks warmly, happy to be seated next to someone so cute (in spite of my travel-weary appearance), interesting and not psychotic. “Nope! Though I did make a fantastic Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire in my ‘Introduction to Acting’ course in college.” I say modestly. “I bet you did! You have that star quality.” I shrug sheepishly, blushing at his compliment. “Oh Patrick, stop. You probably say that to all the girls you sit next to on airplanes.” “No, I’m serious.” Patrick insists, his face suddenly flush with inspiration. “In fact… we may be in the need of a new tall blonde on ‘Grey’s’ soon…” “Oh dear… so the rumors are true?” I ask, feigning sincere concern that the voluptuous Katherine Heigl may be leaving the show. “Afraid so.” Patrick shakes his head sadly. “But there’s always room for a new hot shot doc…” “You think?” “It’s Hollywood, babe.” He winks. “Let me get your information – I’ll be sure to pass it along to Shonda when we get back to LA.” I beam at him. He beams back. McBlondie, here I come, I think, and sit back to enjoy the rest of the turbulent-free flight to LAX. * * * The harsh buzz of the intercom cuts through my fantasy like a butcher knife. “Ladies and Gentleman, I regret to inform you that your flight to Los Angeles has been delayed. Our new arrival time will be 12:34 pm. I apologize for the inconvenience.” I groan along with the other disgruntled passengers and turn back to my book. Patrick has disappeared, and I take advantage of the moment to text everyone on my cell phone to let them know I am at the airport with Dr. McDreamy. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be texting them about our new friendship and professional relationship, I think happily. An hour later, we board the plane, and I nestle into my seat, awash with giddy anticipation about the impending flight. As each passenger passes by the empty seat next to mine, I become increasingly certain that Patrick will sit there. I smooth down my wrinkled jeans and concentrate on the words swimming across the pages of my book. I am the picture of the relaxed flier – the ideal seatmate! Patrick is going to be so glad he gets to fly the friendly skies with me, I think. Plus, we go to the same gym! It’s clearly meant to… A young man sits down next to me, giving me curt nod as he crams his Concours D’Elegance car show poster under the seat. I watch with horror as Patrick keeps walking.down the aisle past me. My hopes and dreams officially dashed, I start reading my book. Actually reading it. Before I know it, I’m engrossed in another fantasy world. An oppressive one. With Afghan women and burqas and things that are much more unpleasant than the fantastical McDreamy montage I had created in my head. There’ll be no Hollywood ending for me on the flight, I think with regret. Unless the reasonably cute bloke seated next to me posts a “Missed Connections” message on Craigslist tomorrow, and we fall madly in love in the subsequent months of our courtship. I smile to myself. I can picture it now…
|
 - large.jpg)
