I sucked in a breath, my heart immediately full of butterflies, and his mouth claimed mine with kisses, breaking down any playful resistance, cementing his feelings over my own.

When he finally let me go, I remembered what I needed to talk about tonight. What had changed in my life since we last broke up. “Wait, Jake. I have to tell you something.”

He ignored me, pressing his lips against mine again, slipping his tongue deeper into my mouth.

“No, wait...” I pulled away from him. “It’s really important.”

“Is it bad?”

I hesitated. “It depends on your definition of bad.”

“You know what bad is, Gillian.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Is it really that bad to where you have to tell me right now, or can it wait?”

“It can wait.”

“Good.” His mouth was on mine again and he pulled me into his lap before standing up with me attached to his waist. “Tonight, I just want to focus on the good, and the fact that I really do love you.”

“If you love me so much, maybe we don’t have to do so much fucking anymore...”

“We’ll always be fucking, Gillian.” He smiled, biting my lip before tossing me onto the bed. “That’s the best part of us.”

GATE B38

JAKE

New York (JFK)—-> Tokyo (NRT)

For the first time in years, I felt that everything in my life was almost right. That thrilling adrenaline rush I once lived for at every takeoff had now returned, and the fact that I finally had someone who wasn’t out to use or betray me, made me feel like I was capable of trusting again.

It’d only been a few days since I made up with Gillian, and I knew we had more work to do to get on the same page—to remain on the same page, but I was actually determined to make this work.

The second I landed in Tokyo, I called Jeff to make sure the flowers I’d ordered yesterday were still set to arrive at her place on Eastern time tomorrow.

“Yes, I placed the flower order, Mr. Weston.” Jeff laughed as he answered the phone. “All eight bouquets. That is what you’re calling about, isn’t it?”

“I called to discuss the weather.”

“I thought so.” He laughed again. “I like the way love looks on you, Mr. Weston. You’re far more tolerable this way.”

“I was tolerable before,” I said. “I’ll see you when I get back. And thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

I ended the call and stood up to leave the cockpit, bidding the departing passengers farewell for the first time in as long as I could remember. I didn’t even get annoyed when they took their precious-ass time to take selfies in the aisle with the flight attendants.

When the last one deplaned, I walked down the jet-bridge and felt my phone vibrating against my pocket. Gillian.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hey...” Her voice was faint for some reason. “I was hoping to get your voicemail.”

“Why is that?”

“I wanted to leave you an important message.”

“Are you drunk, Gillian?” I sighed. “Are you and your roommate playing some type of game tonight?”

“No...” She cleared her throat. “I need to tell you something, the same something I tried to tell you when we made up that day.”

I stopped walking as I entered the terminal, rolling my bag over to the windows. “So it is something bad?”

“No, it’s just bad timing.”

“You’re not pregnant.”

“No...” She laughed nervously. “No, I’m definitely not pregnant.”

“And you also said you didn’t fuck anyone else while we were apart.” I felt my jaw clenching. “Are you about to tell me differently?”

“No, that’s not it either. I’ve only slept with you since we’ve met.”

I tapped my fingers against the handle of my luggage, mentally rewinding the past months we’d been apart and the months prior that we’d been together. I thought about the times she’d given me her “Cliff’s Notes” of long stories, her bad days that always involved her family, and figured she was probably blowing whatever it was out of proportion.

“I take it this is going to be a long conversation?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was damn near a whisper now.

“Okay.” I walked toward the transportation dock. “I’ll call you once I check into the hotel.”

“You promise?” There was worry in her voice. “You promise to call me as soon as you check in?”

“Yes, Gillian. As soon as I check in.”

“Okay, good. I’ll be waiting.”

“Talk to you in twenty.” I ended the call, extremely confused. I walked past baggage claim and outside, catching sight of the rest of the flight crew getting onto the shuttle van.

“Excuse me, Captain?” A man walked up to me, his camera in hand. “Will you please take a picture with us?”

“With?”

He nodded, pointing at his toddler daughter who was wearing a blue and white dress. “My daughter begged me to ask. It would really make her day.”

“Sure.” I stood still and waited for his daughter to stand next to me.

He held his camera above all of us and I actually smiled for a change.

“Thank you!” He picked his daughter up to show her the picture, dropping his newspaper onto the ground.

“I’ll get it,” I said, stooping down to grab it. I started to hand it back to him, but my fingers instinctively tightened around the edges once I realized that this was yesterday’s edition of The New York Times. Once I realized that my so-called “anomaly” was on the front page.

What the fuck...

TERMINAL C:

BOY FUCKS GIRL

(Well, Vice Versa...)

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Present Day

Somewhere between the time we last broke up and the moment he showed up on my doorstep, the previous weeks of tears were long forgotten. The endless coffee runs and all-nighters that ended with crumpled Kleenex beside my laptop all faded, all went away the second he wrapped me in his arms and begged me to take him back.

And even so, when he bared his truths to me, when he told me he loved me and our sex meant more than “just sex,” I wanted to tell him that this time, during our longest break up, my life hadn’t been solely filled with crying and pain. There were days when I didn’t cry in-flight, nights when I wouldn’t let myself waste a single second thinking about him. And in those times, I’d channeled my energy into something else.

I was going to tell him.

I really was...

Write later,

**Taylor G.**

No comments posted.

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Present Day

Twenty calls to his home phone since last week.

Thirty texts to his cell since last weekend.

Twelve emails to his personal and work addresses this morning alone.

Not a single response from him, though...Not even a rude and well deserved “This text isn’t about fucking.”