I lean my arm across the couch and word vomit, as the pop of the gin bottle echoes across the room. “I got called into work today because someone reported me for a bad landing. But the flight in question? I wasn’t the one flying at the time. I was on the radio, so it couldn’t have been me. I don’t get who would do this.”
“First of all, yikes bikes. Second, you wouldneverhave a bad landing because you’re perfect and can do no wrong. Third,” hepauses, looking back at me, “explain this to me like I’m five. What do you mean you were on the radio, so it couldn’t be you?”
I snort, realizing he doesn’t know the first thing about my job. It’s sort of cute.Okay, maybe a lot cute.He walks back to the couch, handing me my drink and curling up next to me. He even made a little slice in the lime to put it on the rim of the glass.Goddammit, he’s thoughtful. My stomach flutters at this confident, caretaking side of him. I run my fingers through his hair, his body relaxing against mine, and the stress of the day finally begins to melt away.So different from that first time he was here, thinking I was going to crack his skull open with a hammer.
“So, on a crew aircraft, one pilot is flying, and the other is monitoring instrumentation and manning the radio. And we switch each leg. If you pull the recordings from air traffic control, you’ll hearmeon the radio—not Chadd. We got clearance to land, you can hear me talk to ATC and confirm.That’swhy I’m so confused. Why would someone report me when all we have to do is pull the tapes and listen? It’s like someone wanted to make me go through all this extra shit to prove it wasn’t me. It will be fine, but it’s…” I let out a defeated sigh. “This is humiliating. Why would someone do this? Even during our debrief, Chadd fucking acknowledged the landing was a little rough.”
“Can you appeal this and get it off your record or whatever?” he asks as he finds a stray curl and tucks it behind my ear.
“I did. It’s just a hassle.” I scrub my hand down my face. “I just really didn’t need this right now, you know?”
“Do you think it was Chadd McDumpsterFire?”
I snort, loving that he has a new nickname for my co-worker every time he comes up in conversation. “I have no fucking clue. I didn’t think he wasthatpissed about us dating, but who else would even know to do this?” I let out a defeated sigh,my shoulders slumping forward. “I’m just so pissed. And then I turned on the TV and this movie was on and everything came crashing down in a big, depressing, full-on crying session.”
“I’m sorry, that sucks ass. I would be pissed too. Fuck I’m pissed for you! My offer to Crazy Rich Asians buy the airline still stands.”
I lean into him as I laugh. “Thank you, but buying the airline isn’t necessary. I’ll figure this out. I just can’t work out who in the hell reported me. And why? Anyway, sorry to bombard you with this just as you came in the door. How was practice?”
He narrows his brow. “Kennedy, you didn’t bombard me with anything. We’re,” —he gestures between the two of us— “we’re friends, right? I’m here to talk about anything you want. Chadd McDipshit, work stuff, lady time troubles. Whatever it is, I’m here for it all.”
My heart flips at his sickeningly sweet nature. The fact that he’s also, apparently, not embarrassed to talk about shark week is damn cute.They must make them different in Canada.
“Buuut,” he singsongs, “we are done with the pity-party starter pack here.” He snags the remote, finding something else to watch on TV. “Now this!Thisis a much more uplifting movie to watch. Ooo! And it’s almost at the dance scene! Come on up! Off the couch.” He grabs my hand, pulling me up to join him, as I watch Jennifer Garner doing the same to Mark Ruffalo.
“Jordan. No.Hellno. I am not doing the Thriller dance from 13 Going on 30. I look like trash, and I do not dance except to sway awkwardly during songs at a Taylor Swift concert.”
“Don’t care. Come ooonnn,” he whines, “it’ll be fun! We’re doing it.”
He doesn’t seem to be phased by the laser beams of death shooting from my eyes. My stomach twists, realizing he’s not letting me out of this.
He stands beside me and counts off ‘two, three, four’ as he starts to tilt his head to the side, while stomping, making the iconic zombie-dinosaur motion back and forth across his chest, clapping his hands above his head, then sliding across the floor with an impressive shimmy. He glances over his shoulder with a smile. His infectious grin falls when he notices I’m still frozen in place. “Kennedy Kramer, come on! Dance with me!!”
I shake my head, but, for some stupid reason, my body betrays me, and I join in, surprised I remember the moves.I’m at least dressed like a zombie.As we shuffle our feet, stepping forward and tilting our heads to the side, I begrudgingly admit this is kind of fun. We dance. We laugh at how bad a dancer I am, and he promises to give me lessons, claiming to be a better instructor than I am.Doubtful.Glancing over at him, seeing his eyes light up, has the corners of my lips tipping up, effortlessly getting me out of the funk I was in earlier.
As the song ends, and the movie goes to a commercial, Jordan wraps his hands around my waist and dips me as if we’ve just ended a slow dance. He pulls me up, my face a breath away from his, with a smile that makes my lungs struggle to breathe. “Feel better?”
“I do,” I say, just the slightest bit out of breath. “Thank you. Ireallyhate to admit this, but…I needed that.”
“I know,” he says, leaning down, his eyes fixed on my lips. God, I want this man so bad. The way he makes me feel. The way he comforts me. I never thought I wanted any of this. But here I am, in the arms of someone who makes me feel as if I asked for the world, he’d give it to me in a heartbeat without question. I bite my lip, my pulse stuttering. Wanting him physically is one thing. But this? Wanting more—wanting something that matters, something real? Wanting him like this is a problem for a thousand reasons.
But right now, with the space between us shrinking, his fingers flexing against my waist, I can’t remember one of them.
We’re pulled from our thoughts as his phone vibrates in his pocket, and I hear mine chime at the same time.Weird.
“Just ignore it,” he says, pulling me in a little tighter. “It’s probably someone from the group chat.”
Maybe he’s right. But thoughts of work are still there, and my muscles tighten. “Let me make sure it’s not work after everything today.”
We both grab our phones and simultaneously read the message as we cover our mouths with our hands. My heart thrums in my ears, my entire body shaking.
What. The. Fuck.
Blocked Number
Peek-a-boo…I see you! Thought I’d start a group chat since you both seem to be ignoring me. I want to make sure you get this one. Stay the fuck away from each other. This is your last warning…or we’ll have a real Thriller on our hands.
And included with the message is a photo of us.
