“Come on. Hold right there. That’s a good girl.”
Hell. I’m in freaking hornyhell.
George was trying to land a plane in an emergency situation, but now my vagina just wants him to talk dirty between my legs. Despite my conviction to get over my infatuation immediately, thebothersome flutters in my stomach hung around even after the police arrived and gave me a ride back to the airport.
What’s wrong with me? The guy treats me like a jury duty summons. Annoyed resignation is not hot.
At least now I think I know what happened. After a night of zero sleep and many tangled sheets, I came to an obvious conclusion.
This is an adrenaline crush.
My brain confused fear chemicals with damn-that-guy-is-a-hottie chemicals, and now my lower belly clenches whenever I think about George’s close-cropped hair and how I want to drag my nails over his skull as he groans my name.
Solution: time.
My body is still recovering from the stressful situation, and George Bunsen will be off my mind once I’m steady again. Then we can go back to mutually avoiding each other’s existences.
“But what happened? Did the engine catch on fire?” Mrs.McGuire searches my face, no doubt looking for terrifying scars on my skin.
“No, and I don’t know yet. But I’m sure the newspapers will find out.” I’ve already been called by three, all leaving messages asking for an interview. If I had picked up any of the unrecognizable numbers, today’s papers would’ve been full of quotes because I have the hardest time getting off the phone with people. I learned my lesson about ignoring unknown callers after too many drawn-out conversations with telemarketers. Luckily, I have enough self-restraint not to buy what they’re selling, but that doesn’t stop me from listening to the entire sales pitch.
Needless to say, I don’t plan on calling the newspaper contacts back.
From the way Mrs.McGuire starts to open her mouth again, I can tell she’d rather consume gossip than her lunch. If I don’t get out now, I’ll be stuck here for the rest of my shift.
“I’ll come around with coffee. Enjoy your meal!” Trying not to look like I’m running away, I escape the table.
All morning it’s been like this. The locals that frequent the Cornfield Diner are making a point to come in and gawp at me.
Come one, come all! See the waitress who landed in the middle of the highway and survived!
If I could step out of this spotlight, that would be great.
On the other hand, I do appreciate the influx in tips. In the past two hours I’ve earned double what I usually make during my entire shift. If every day were like this, I might not dread the impending deadline of my loan coming due.
I owe my brother money. A lot of money.
And he, the poor trusting soul, still thinks I’ll be able to pay him back easily.
Shawn has yet to discover that I am a terrible sister, but in a few months, he will. There will be no hiding the fact that I took money from him under false pretenses.
Guilt and anxiety twist together in my gut whenever I imagine the fast-approaching confrontation.
I’ll get another job.
It’s the only solution. Even if it means working eighty hours a week, I’ll pay Shawn back while covering my portion of the mortgage and household bills. Mentally, I prepare for a diet of peanut butter sandwiches for the next ten years or so.
And maybe in another decade, I can circle back to my dream of earning my private pilot’s license. When I have time to fly and money to pay for sessions with an instructor. A point far in the future when I can work in the sky rather than in this diner.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the people here at Cornfield’s, and this is a good job to have. But it’s not what I’ve longed for since the moment I went up in a plane for the first time. That day when I sat in theseat of a small jet and felt myself pressed backward as we rocketed down the runway. When I realized I was above the clouds instead of underneath them, I was euphoric.
The pilot dream was born.
When I was old enough to get a job at Cornfield’s, I worked and saved, then I graduated high school and kept on waitressing and researching how to pursue a pilot’s license. Was the cost of classes and flight time with an instructor daunting? Hell yeah. Did the fact that every contact I found was a man over forty intimidate me? Totally. Could I do without the head of the local flight club calling me “Sweetheart” when I called to ask about membership? Most definitely.
But I took the money and misogyny into account and made a plan. I was determined to live the life I’d fantasized for myself. One in which I spent as much time in the sky as I did on the ground.
But then Mom got sick. Everything changed after that.
