“Is this the part where you demand an apology?” He was struggling to hide his anger. “Is that all I have to do to get you to fuck me today?”

“No,” I said, setting my book down. “This is the part where I finally walk away. For good.” I rushed past him, slipping into the terminal—letting my tears fall as I blended between travelers.

I felt my phone vibrating against my pocket, saw his name cross my screen when I finally pulled it out, but I simply turned it off.

If he could act as if we never meant anything, I could, too.

***

Several days later, I stared at my reflection in the restroom in San Francisco—failing to get my mascara to stay on my eyelashes. Each time I brought the wand up to my face, tears fell or a lump formed in my throat.

Groaning, I snapped the cap shut after the fifth attempt. I pulled out my foundation, in desperate need of color, but the tears cracked through every coat.

Ugh...

I looked at my watch—a cheap, “I Love New York” one, since I refused to wear the one Jake gave me anymore, and realized I had three full hours before I’d need to board for Paris. Only three full hours before I needed to get myself together.

Grabbing a paper towel, I froze when I saw Miss Connors walking into the restroom.

Without saying anything to me, she walked down the row of stalls, opening each door—checking to see if they were empty. Then, she took a spot next to me in the mirror, she pulled a small pack of Kleenex from her purse and handed it to me.

I mouthed, “Thank you,” and dabbed my eyes.

“I fell in love with a pilot once,” she said, pulling out a makeup compact. “I was about your age when it happened, too.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Things were slightly different then, though... It wasn’t as outright illegal as it is now, but it was frowned upon.” She put away her makeup and pulled out a brush, turning toward me and fixing my bun. “Me and my pilot shared the same trips fifty percent of the time. We purposely set it up that way. The only place he insisted on going every three weeks or so was Detroit, but since I hated it, I never did make too many of those trips with him.”

I felt more tears falling and she paused, wiping my eyes for a few seconds before re-pinning my hair.

“Anyway,” she continued. “You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t in love with this man. We were stupid and reckless, drooling, obvious idiots, just like you and Captain Weston.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror, but they weren’t full of judgment like usual. “I told all my friends I was going to marry him, that we were that much in love.”

I winced as she drove a final bobby pin a little too hard against my scalp. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She stepped back and slid her bag over her shoulder. “Except his fiancée in Detroit felt the same way about him that I did.”

I wasn’t even sure what to say.

“Took me longer to realize that hot sex, lack of communication, and crying every few weeks about secret trips were all a dead giveaway from the very beginning.” She shrugged. “Hope it won’t take you that long.”

I didn’t utter a word. I just watched her walk toward the door.”

“Oh, and Miss Taylor?” she said before leaving.

“Yes?”

“Train-wreck of a love life or not—” She looked me up and down. “When I see you three hours from now, your face better bear makeup, and it better be fixed to perfection.” She flipped her hair over her shoulders and walked away.

GATE B30

JAKE

Dallas (DAL)

Stepping off the plane in Dallas, I realized that Gillian had yet to respond to my last email. Not only that, but she hadn’t sent me a single message this week, and I wasn’t sure why I cared—or even noticed, but it made me upset for some reason.

Jake: Bathroom near the Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B.

Jake: The board says your flight landed half an hour ago, Gillian.

Jake: This arrangement works better when you actually answer.

Ten minutes passed.

Jake: Have you somehow gotten lost in the airport?

Twenty more minutes passed, and she never answered, never showed up. Frustrated, I figured she was still upset about our last conversation and sent her an email instead.

Subject: Our arrangement...

You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be, Gillian.

—Jake

Subject: Re: Our arrangement...

I’m not making anything more difficult than it needs to be. I’m done. I can’t deal with how you treat me anymore. (Also, I’m pretty sure those ellipses weren’t necessary in your subject heading.)

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

Seeing as though I don’t treat you terribly, you need a better reason than that. Feel free to tell me in the bathroom near Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B. (I’m pretty sure you should never challenge me on grammar.)

—Jake

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

You now treat me like a fuck-toy and a cum-bucket. You won’t even TALK to me about simple shit like the weather unless YOU feel like it.

I. AM. DONE.

—Gillian

PS—This is exactly why I never wanted to fuck a pilot.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

You know seventeen letter words and twenty-one letter adjectives and you choose to use the words “fuck toy” and “cum bucket”? I don’t TALK to you because we agreed not to fucking TALK and unlike you, I would like to stick to the original rules.

You are not done, you just want to play like you are, but I’m not chasing you again, Gillian.

—Jake

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

I’m counting on it.

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

I’m giving you five minutes to get to the bathroom, Gillian.

—Jake

Subject: Failed Message. Auto Response.

The recipient has blocked all further communication from this email address.

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Present Day

Fuck him.

Comments disabled.

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Present Day

My phone has ten unanswered text messages from him, far more than he’s ever sent, each one acting as if things will eventually return to normal, as if I’ll still meet him for sex.

I hoped like hell I wouldn’t have to see him for at least a month, but as luck would have it, we shared a Monday night flight from New York to Milan, but I went the entire flight without so much as giving him a second glance. No matter the two times he attempted to confront me in the galley, or give me a look that made me want to screw him on the spot, I couldn’t do it. I called for a fellow flight attendant to come over so he would walk away.

The ride on the hotel van held a tension so thick, I wondered if anyone else could feel it. And when he came to my room later that night and knocked on the door, I only stared out of the peephole and waited for him to leave.

As much as I desperately wanted to feel his hands on me again, as much as I needed to feel him inside of me again, I couldn’t let my feelings develop any further. I even called in sick today and am tempted to put him on my “no fly” list with the scheduling department. Very tempted...