“Don’t say that.”
“But I am.” I shook my head. “It never occurred to me that he was getting . . .” I stopped and bit down on my lower lip, still uncomfortable saying the words out loud.
“On-the-ground service?”
I buried my face in my hands.
“Sorry, stupid joke,” he said, grabbing a vase for the flowers. “Here’s the deal. I know you’re devastated, and understandably so. And we are going to mourn properly, because trust me, I have a no-fail plan. But before we can even attempt to get started I have to insist you get out of that uniform and take a shower, because, honey, you smell like the middle seat on a 757.”
I looked down, startled to see that I was still wearing my navy blue uniform. “Oh, God, I slept in this. I’m a total wreck,” I said, eyes welling up with tears again.
“Listen, just get in the shower, then go put on one of those silky robes Kat collects, and I’ll dig up something dapper from one of the exes. Then meet me in the den and I’ll unveil the rest of the plan.”
Wrapped in a cozy red cashmere robe and matching slippers, with my long, curly wet hair smoothed back into a ponytail, I walked into the den to find Clay lounging on the couch, with an unlit cigar dangling from his lips and an oversized smoking jacket cinched tight around his waist.
“Where’d you find that?” I laughed.
“One of the guest room closets. What do you think? Do I look butch?” He leaned against the cushions in his idea of a manly pose.
“You look like the MC in Cabaret,” I said, plopping down next to him. ‘What’s with the cigar?”
“Have you ever tried one?” he asked.
I shook my head and curled my feet up under me.
“Man, they’re so phallic.” He held it in Iront of him. “T say any straight guy that’s into these is just fooling himself.”
“Oh my God! Michael loved cigars,” I said, eyes going wide with the memory. “Especially Cubans.”
“I rest my case.” Clay nodded.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t drink this,” I said, reaching for one of the two Bloody Marys he’d made and stirring it with the celery stalk. “I should have coffee instead.”
But Clay just rolled his eyes. “Please. Do you wanna be alert? Or do you wanna feel better?” he asked.
And knowing I definitely didn’t want to be alert, I took a tentative sip, quickly followed by another. “So what’s the plan?” I asked, crunching on celery.
“Well, did you open my gift?”
Okay, if I’d needed any further evidence to prove I was losing it, I needed look no further. Not only had I lost his gift, but I’d completely forgotten about it. Giving him a guilty look I said, “Um, I’m not really sure where it is.”
“Well, you’re lucky I found it, because oddly enough it fits perfectly with the plan,” he said, retrieving a rectangular, gold-wrapped package from under a cushion.
“Where’d you find that?” I asked, taking it from him and rubbing my thumb across the shiny, slick paper.
“In the bottom of your carry-on.”
“You went through my bag?”
“You have no secrets from me, doll. So go ahead, open it.” He smiled.
I pulled on the shiny gold ribbon and ran my finger gently under the tape, removing the paper until a black-and-white picture of Audrey Hepburn holding a very long cigarette holder emerged. “Oh, I love this movie!” I said, leaning over to hug him.
“Okay, so this is the plan.” He set down his drink and gave me a serious look. “We’re gonna enjoy a Bloody Mary or two while we watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Then we’ll order up some food like Thai or Chinese. And by the time we’re finished it’ll probably be late afternoon, so we’ll celebrate that with another cocktail, and if you wanna talk, and unload, and get it all out of your system I’ll listen. And I promise I won’t interrupt or give advice unless you ask. And when that’s done, we’ll call the deli and have them deliver some essentials like ice cream and the New York Post, and then maybe, if we’re not too bloated, we’ll try on some of Kat’s old stewardess uniforms from the seventies. Then at some point I’m guessing we’ll probably sugar crash and pass out. And then on Sunday . . .” He paused, merging his eyebrows together and waving his unlit cigar in the air. “Well, I really haven’t worked out all the details yet. But by 11:45, Sunday night, we’re gonna clean it all up. And at 12:01, when it’s officially Monday, you’re going to make a new start.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I said, realizing I sounded completely pathetic. But hey, at least I was honest.
“Of course you can.” He nodded emphatically. “You’ve got to fake it till you make it,” he said, pointing his cigar at me.
“Oh, now you’re quoting Oprah?” I rolled my eyes and bit off another piece of celery stalk.
“Dr. Phil.”
“You sure?” I asked, talking with my mouth full.
“Trust me, Hailey, it’s the big guy. Look, I’m not asking you to forget, because I know that will take a lot longer than a weekend. What I’m suggesting is forty-eight hours of hard mourning, not counting what you already started last night, and then we’re just gonna clean it all up and not look back.”
“I don’t know,” I said, tearing up again.
“I know you think it sounds impossible, but you can do it. Now hand me that DVD,” he said, sliding it in and pushing PLAY.
After one and a half viewings of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, two bottles of duty-free vodka, three limes, one bottle of Dom Perignon (I hoped Kat wouldn’t mind), two pints of Ben and Jerry’s (Chunky Monkey for Clay, Cherry Garcia for me), five Styrofoam containers of take-out Thai food, one thoroughly chewed on but never lit cigar, one bottle of nearly knocked over but quickly recovered pale pink nail polish, one broken hair clip, and two and a half boxes of super-soft, aloe-infused tissues, I’d finally convinced Clay I was ready to move on.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said, hugging him in the doorway.
“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked, eyeing me carefully.
“Positive.” I nodded. “So, are you flying tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ve got that two-day San Juan layover.” He smiled.
“You always get the dream trips.” I shook my head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Six solid years of bribing scheduling with duty-free chocolate and wine. You could do it too, you know.”
I just looked at him and rolled my eyes. “I will not pander to those people.” I laughed.
“You should come with me, to Puerto Rico,” he said, eyes lighting up.
“I can’t.” I shook my head. “Besides, I don’t want to cut in on your action. I hear old San juan is quite the party town.”
“Please.” He rolled his eyes. “You have to come, and you can’t say no. I know you’re not working, and I also know you have nothing better to do.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, slumping against the door frame.
“Besides, it’s all free. The flight’s free, and since you’ll be bunking with me, even the room’s free.”
“Clay, I can’t,” I insisted.
“I’ll even buy your first four mojitos,” he promised.
“I’d love to, but really, I can’t. Kat’s expecting me to feed the kitties, and I have to start looking for a place to live. I can’t stay here forever, you know.”
He peered down the hall and shrugged. “I don’t know why not. You could go months in this place without bumping into each other.”
“True.” I smiled.
“Listen, I sign in at seven. That’s A.M. Promise me you’ll reconsider.” He looked at me.
“Just call when you get back,” I said, closing the door behind him.
The second he was gone, I realized I really did feel better. I mean, it’s not like I was so deluded I thought a couple Bloody Marys and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s were the antidote. But still, it was nice to know that if I was involuntar
ily downgrading back to my former life of being single with an uncertain future, at least I wasn’t going it alone. I had great friends to keep me company and the freedom to live my life however I chose.
It was like now that I was released from the weight of Michael’s never-ending supply of opinions, I could finally concentrate on my dreams, which, I hated to admit, had been put on indefinite hiatus so that I could live his. Maybe I could even finish that manuscript I’d started writing all those years ago, now that Michael could no longer peek over my shoulder and say things like, “Fiction is a waste of time.”
Obviously, it was all just a simple matter of perspective. I mean, being dumped didn’t have to be the end, because if you think about it, it’s really more like a new beginning.
I headed back to the den, reached into my bag, and turned on my phone, determined to deal with the onslaught of messages I assumed were already piling up, since in a base with just under fifteen hundred flight attendants sometimes New York City felt like a small town. And I knew it was just a matter of time before word got out that I’d been dumped.
Sure enough, within seconds of finding a signal, my cell started beeping and an envelope appeared on the display.
“Hailey? I heard about your breakup. If you want to talk give me a call.”
“Hailey? Oh my God! Did you really break up? I mean, where will you live? Do you have any idea how much your lifestyle is going to change?”
“Hey Hailey, it’s me. Give me a call if you wanna have dinner. You bring the wine; I’ll supply the Ramen noodles.”
And then, right in the middle of message number four, a new call beeped in. And wanting to just get it over with and face it head-on, I didn’t bother to check the display.
“Hailey! I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend.”
Oh crap. It was Michael. I mean, even though I was secretly fantasizing about him calling didn’t mean I actually wanted it to happen. I focused on the END button and considered pushing it.
“Hailey, are you okay? Where are you?” He sounded nervous.
“What do you want?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m just great. And thanks so much for calling.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head even though it was a total waste of energy since it wasn’t like he could see me.
“Listen, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But you need to know that it’s not at all what you think.”
Was he serious? Did he really have an excuse? “Oh really? Then tell me, just what exactly was it, Michael?” I said, feeling all the progress I’d made with Clay evaporate as the anger grew and blossomed inside me.
“Well, I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said in a small, tight whisper.
“Oh, well, forgive me for saying so, but you do realize that was a guy between your legs?”
“Listen, Hailey,” he said, sounding extremely agitated. “I’d really prefer you to keep this between us.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m not gay I was the one receiving, okay?”
I just sat there, not quite believing what I’d just heard. “Is that how you justify it?” I said finally.
“I’m just saying it’s not a big deal,” he whispered emphatically.
“Not a big deal? Do you think it was not a big deal for me to come home from a trip on my birthday, thinking you were about to propose, but instead finding you getting the hummer of a lifetime on our bed’? You think that was NOT A BIG DEAL?” I shrieked, on the verge of a complete and total meltdown.
“Propose?” He laughed. “Where’d you get that from?”
Oh, great. Why did I say that? WHY? “Um, I saw the Tiffany’s box,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes at myself now.
“Well, I hate to break it to ya, but I never had plans to propose. And while you were snooping through my stuff you should’ve just opened the box. You would’ve found a silver key chain I’d had engraved for your birthday, not an engagement ring.”
He got me a key chain?
For my birthday?
And I was going to marry this guy?
“I’m not even close to settling down,” he continued, in his “talking to the small child visiting the cockpit” voice. “But when I do, I assure you it’ll be with someone younger.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped, white knuckling the phone as my knees buckled and I collapsed onto the couch. He did not just say that. Did he?
“Hailey, get real. By the time I’m ready for marriage, you’ll be pushing forty,” he scoffed.
“And you’ll be pushing fifty!” I shouted.
“Look, it’s just not gonna happen. I never promised you anything. Let’s just remember that, okay?”
I threw the phone onto the Persian rug, listening to the soft thud as it made contact and rolled over. I could not believe what I had just heard. How could I have been so stupid?
“Hailey?” he yelled, over and over until I finally retrieved the phone and put it back to my ear.
“Are you finished?” I asked, my voice sounding clipped and tight.
“I’m sorry if you’re hurt. I’m just trying to give you the big picture, that’s all.”
“Oh, I got the picture,” I said, hoping I sounded strong, practical, and totally in control, despite all evidence to the contrary. “Listen, Michael, I need to stop by and pack up my things.”
“Done. Your stuff is with the front desk. You can get it anytime.”
I just sat there with the phone pressed to my ear. After four years he’d already packed me up and reclaimed his space. Just. Like. That.
“And Llailey, I’m serious about keeping this between us. These are private matters that should remain private.”
My face grew hot, and my hands began to shake as I gripped the phone even tighter and used his words against him. “Listen, Michael, I never promised you anything. Let’s just rememher that, okay?” And then I hit END.
And then I called Clay.
“No wonder the passengers are so nasty when they come on board; it’s all her fault,” Clay said, pointing at the surly gate agent who just moments before had performed an exaggerated eye roll/head shake when he asked if there was an available first-class seat for me.
“Clay, I’ll be lucky just to get on. Never mind first class,” I said, eyes pinned to the overhead monitor, watching the passenger count rise as the number of empty seats diminished.
“Well, I’d just like to take this opportunity to point out what a good friend I am. Sitting here holding your hand while I should be working,” he said, crossing his long legs, and inspecting his cuticles.
“Yeah, and I bet your fellow crew members are just thrilled about it.” I shook my head and focused back on the screen. “Oh great! Did you see that? The numbers just canceled out! That’s it! It’s over! This chair is now my final destination,” I said, dropping my head in my hands.
It was like, now that I’d made the decision to go to San Juan, I couldn’t stand the idea of not going to San Juan. I mean, I was packed and ready for two long, hot, lazy days at the pool with a mojito in one hand and my long-abandoned manuscript in the other. And now all I had to look forward to was a never-ending bus ride back to Manhattan, where I would dish out countless tins of Fancy Feast and pore through real estate ads for apartments I could never alford. “This free standby travel is a total scam,” I said, grabbing my bags and preparing to leave.
“Where you going?” Clay asked, pulling at a hangnail and refusing to budge.
“Uh, hello? Have you looked at the screen? Nothing but zeros, and that means no seat, ami go.” Jeez, his irrational optimism was so annoying.
“It ain’t over till the door closes.” He smiled lazily. “And it ain’t closing till I’m on board,” he said, patting the seat next to him.
And wouldn’t you know it, no sooner had I sat back down when an unruly passenger was escorted off the plane. And then over the FA we hea
rd, “Hailey Fane and Clay Stevens, please report to the boarding door immediately.”
I was lounging in a blue leather first-class seat, footrest extended, pillow placed snugly behind my neck while I sipped champagne and flipped through the manuscript I’d started writing over six years ago but had barely glanced at in the last four. And I was thinking, This is how it should be. Maybe my karma is starting to turn around. Maybe this moment will signal the start of an exciting, new, first-class life. I really should do this more often. I belong in this cabin. . . .
And then somebody said, “You need to move.”
I looked up to see that same surly gate agent glaring down at me. Well, obviously she was having a rough morning, so the least I could do was try to make it a little better. “Excuse me?” I said, smiling pleasantly.
“Don’t argue with me. Just get your belongings and move,” she said, her voice revealing years of nicotine abuse, as her square-cut, French-manicured, acrylic nails clutched at her bony hips. “The passenger that booked this seat has arrived, and he’s making his way down the jetway as we speak.”
“I wasn’t arguing,” I said meekly, fully aware that as a nonrevenue standby passenger I was in no position to argue with anyone, especially her. “Um, where should I sit?” I tried to sound as accommodating as possible, while the surrounding passengers eyed me warily, like I was some kind of major security threat.
“Lucky for you there was a miscount. There should be an empty seat somewhere back in coach,” she said, just as a tall, dark-haired, slightly disheveled but really cute guy ran up behind her. “Oh, Mr. Richards, here you are. We’re so sorry for the mix-up. Your seat will be available as soon as Ms. Lane here gets her belongings and heads back to the coach cabin,” the agent said, pointing a thick, white-tipped nail at me while smiling flirtatiously at him.
“No bother. Take your time,” he said, smiling as he fought to catch his breath.
“Well, actually, she needs to hurry, since we’re not allowed to close the door and push back from the gate until she’s seated,” she said, in a voice that was loud enough for the entire first-class cabin to bear witness. “But why don’t we just put your bag right here on top of hers?”