A woman seated behind us made an exaggerated sigh.
“Great,” she muttered. “A crying kid.”
Fiona was not actually crying yet.
Her lower lip was trembling.
I felt the old reflex immediately.
Apologize.
Make yourself smaller.
Fix the discomfort before someone decides you caused it.
“I’m sorry,” I started.
The man beside me spoke first.
“She’s doing fine.”
His voice was calm.
The woman leaned forward. “I’m just saying, some of us were hoping to work.”
He turned slightly in his seat.
“The child didn’t choose the flight. The rest of us can manage.”
He did not sound aggressive.
That almost made it more effective.
The woman blinked, leaned back, and said nothing else.
I looked at him.
He was probably in his late thirties. Dark hair. Neatly trimmed beard. Navy jacket over a white shirt with the top button open. No tie.
He looked like someone accustomed to expensive clothes but too tired to care whether anyone noticed them.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem.”
He held out his hand.
“Luca.”
“Blaire.”
Fiona studied him suspiciously.
He looked at her rabbit.
“Does your friend have a name?”
“Mr. Buttons.”
“That is an excellent rabbit name.”
Fiona considered this.
Apparently he had passed the test.
For the next hour, Luca did something I had almost forgotten men were capable of doing.
He was helpful without making a performance of being helpful.
When Fiona dropped a crayon, he picked it up.
When I struggled to open the tray table while balancing her juice, he held the cup.
When the flight attendant asked whether we needed anything, he waited for me to answer rather than speaking for me.
He did not ask why I was traveling alone.
He did not ask whether I was married.
He did not tell me his life story.
He certainly did not flirt.
That made me trust him more than charm would have.
About forty minutes after takeoff, I began noticing the looks.
At first, I assumed I was imagining them.
A young man across the aisle had glanced toward Luca several times.
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