When I get to the top of the escalators, I’m greeted by a newspaper stand and an image of Alexander staring back at me from the front page. It’s the same picture I selected from theMen’s Healthshoot. Underneath the photo are four simple words:Is Alexander Morgan Gay?
I fight for breath, the force of seeing the image crushing my chest, and debate whether or not to pick up a copy of the paper in the time it takes me to blink.
I grab a copy and shove it under my arm before turning and heading to the gate. The last few people are lining up by the desk, handing over their boarding passes.
I suddenly feel a shooting pain from my bladder, desperate to be relieved, but I take a deep breath and ignore it. I just want to get on the plane. Get back to Los Angeles and get ahold of Alexander.
“Ticket please,” the man at the desk asks when I get there.
I reach into the pocket of my sweatpants to retrieve my passport, but it’s not there. My other pocket, holding my wallet and the earbuds that Alexander gave me, doesn’t contain my passport either.
The earbuds.
The fucking earbuds!
Did he give them to me knowing they would stop me from hearing him leave?
“One moment,” I say, stepping aside.
Be calm. Think.You had it at the lounge, and you also had it when you left for the gate. It can’t have gone far.
“Looking for this?”
I turn to see Connie holding my passport up in her hand.
She wears the same look of disdain on her face as when I called her Bonnie.
“Thank you,” I say, stretching out my hand to take it as she hands it over. “Are you on this flight too?”
“I am,” she says, motioning me forward to the desk.
My shoulders relax at her two-word response. Finally, someone who can help fill in the blanks. She may not have the answers to all my questions, but at least she’ll know the answers to most.
I hand my ticket over to the man at the desk, who quickly tears off the stub, hands it back and points me to the bridge to board the plane.
“Where are you sitting?” I ask, turning back to Connie as we walk down.
“I’m in 12A,” she says sharply.
“That’s next to me,” I say as we get to the airplane door. The stewardess greets us with a warm smile, checking my ticket and pointing me to the left.
“I know.” Her tone is darker now, causing my muscles to tighten.
How does she know? And come to think of it, how come she’s on this flight and not with Alexander and the rest of his team?
I empty the flight essentials from my bag onto my seat, charger, sleeping mask, ibuprofen, and stow my bag in thecompartment above my head. Connie does the same, offloading her laptop, reading glasses, headphones, and a folder. The same color folder as the one Paul used for the MNDA.
“Could I offer you a glass of champagne, sir?” a steward asks, tapping me on the shoulder.
“You don’t happen to have a Bloody Mary, do you?” The effects of the previous one and the two ibuprofen are quickly wearing off.
“Certainly, and for you, ma’am?” He turns his attention to Connie.
“I’m good, thanks.”
The steward walks away as the rest of the passengers settle into their seats, and I turn to Connie. There’s a plethora of questions running through my head.
I want to ask the most burning question, but I’m mindful of prying ears and opt to speak in code, going for a low-hanging fruit.
