Tough Enough

“Good God, when were you born?”

“All right, all right,” I say dropping my gaze. “I guess The Man Without a Face would be my all-time favorite.” When Rogan says nothing for several seconds, I sneak a peek up at him. He’s watching me with a sad smile.

“What’s your second favorite movie?”

I don’t hesitate. “Phenomenon.”

Rogan drops his forehead onto my hand where he still holds it inside his. “You’re killing me! Don’t you like any movies that won’t make me want to flush my head down the airplane toilet?”

I giggle. “You should’ve specified and asked what my favorite movie that you might like would be. Because in that case, I’d probably say World War Z. Rocky. Iron Man. Shall I go on?”

Rogan smiles broadly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He releases my hand to reach for a bag that rests on one of the two deep swivel chairs that face us. The plane is laid out with four captain’s chairs facing a central table and, toward the back, two small sofas on either side of the aisle. Kurt is behind us, stretched out on one of those listening to music, with his wheelchair parked beside him.

Unzipping the bag, Rogan produces nearly every movie I mentioned, except for Pretty in Pink. I wouldn’t expect a guy to have that one, but the fact that he has this many tells me there’s a spy involved. Even though I was joking about them being my absolute favorites, they are the movies that come to mind most often. Well, except for Dredd.

“You cheated,” I tell him, not the least bit angry, but rather touched instead.

“Blame Mona. That girl’s tongue is loose at both ends.”

“This was her idea?”

“No, this was my idea. She loved it, though. At least I guess she did. She acted like she was about to cry when I explained to her why I wanted to know.”

“Yep. That sounds about right.”

“So, what’ll it be?”

I notice that the bag isn’t empty. “What else do you have in there?” I ask, now curious as to what he brought that had nothing to do with me and my loud-mouthed friend.

I reach for the bag and Rogan’s hand flinches, almost as though he was going to prevent me from looking inside, but then changed his mind.

I flip through several war movies. I don’t even have to ask about those. They have Kurt written all over them. It’s the one that rests on the bottom of the pile that intrigues me.

“Who’s this for?” I ask, removing the DVD of Beastly and holding it up for him to see.

Rogan actually looks sheepish, an expression I’ve never seen him wear, which only further piques my curiosity. He clears his throat before he answers. “I, uh, I saw that one night on cable a few weeks back and thought it was a pretty decent romance. I mean, a guy needs to keep on top of shit like this, too, right?” His little grin tells me that he doesn’t expect an answer. “But then when I got to know you . . . especially when you showed me all of you, I went and bought it. I’ve watched it more times than I care to count.”

His eyes flicker to mine and dart away, flicker to mine and dart away.

I swallow hard, not knowing what to make of this association. It’s plain who the beast is in our situation, but I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I just want our last time together to be perfect, not . . . something less.

I could kick myself for being so nosey.

“Is . . . is this what you think of me?” I try to sound unconcerned, I try to be unconcerned.

Too late. My heart is already breaking.

He looks stricken. “No! God, no! I just thought it was appropriate because we’ve both struggled with our scars. We’ve both felt like the beast. Still do, sometimes. But that doesn’t mean that other people see us that way or that we can’t fall in love or be loved in return because of it. I guess this movie was just, like, proof of that or something.” He shrugs to add an air of nonchalance to his statement. Meanwhile, I’m dumbstruck, my brain circling his reference to love like bees circling a honeycomb.

I don’t know what to say, how to respond. I want to ask questions, but then again I’m afraid that the answers won’t be anywhere near the ones that are making my pulse race and my heart soar right now. Instead, I go with, “Let’s watch this one,” and I hand him Beastly.

One side of Rogan’s mouth pulls up, putting his single dimple on display. “Seriously?” His eyes are a light, happy green, a few shades darker than grass.

“Seriously,” I confirm, forcing the words past the lump of emotion clogging my throat.

I watch as Rogan walks to the front of the cabin and fiddles with some electronics in a well-concealed cabinet and then comes back to sit next to me. A flat screen descends from the ceiling just as the movie begins to play.

We recline our chairs and Rogan leans toward me. I rest my head on his shoulder and we watch Beastly together.

He plays with my fingers the whole time, stopping occasionally to kiss my palm or my wrist, but then he resumes, always touching me. It’s like he realizes how limited our time is and he wants the contact just as much as I do.

So we touch and glance and kiss and enjoy, all in an unspoken agreement to make the most out of what’s left of the “us” that was born in Enchantment and will soon die in New York City. There’s nowhere for it to go. Rogan’s life is in Texas or New York or . . . wherever his fights or his acting gigs might be. And mine is in a tiny town called Enchantment. Our paths crossed for a few magical weeks, but now our trajectories go in opposite directions. His out toward a world that adores him, mine inward, toward the only place I feel comfortable.

Just over two hours later, when we land, I have to fight back tears as Rogan leads me off the plane. I want to turn around and climb back on, to suspend time indefinitely. But I can’t. The end is coming whether I want it to or not.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Rogan

I had my agent put Kurt in a different room so that Katie and I would have the entire suite to ourselves. And I’m glad I did, because by the time we walk through the doors, all I can think about is getting her naked.

As soon as the bellhop sets our bags in the closet, I tip him and practically shove him out the door. When he’s gone, we are surrounded only by absolute quiet and the insatiable chemistry that fills the space between us.

I take her hand and softly invite, “Come look at the view.”

We walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows and I push open the sheer curtains. Spread out before us like a galaxy of twinkling stars is the city that never sleeps. Standing in front of me like a siren of unmatched beauty is the woman who never lets my mind sleep.

“It looks exactly the same, like time stood still.”