All the rules make me feel I’m going back to college. And in a way, I am. I’m being educated in this new career. I recite what I remember: “No guests can stay overnight, and men aren’t allowed to visit at all.” I roll my eyes. “Of course, with ten of us in a two-bedroom, I can’t imagine there would be room for anyone else.”
She punches in her code. “I know it sounds crazy, but I often have the place to myself when I’m here. Everyone is usually off flying.”
She swings the door wide, revealing an interior much cleaner than the facade. Barnwood floors appear to be new or recently refinished, eggshell-white paint smells fresh, and a redbrick fireplace suggests warmth. I’m so relieved that I almost want to make snow angels on the furry rug in front of the leather sectional.
“Welcome home.” Angel ushers me in, her block heels tapping the floor as she strides to a whiteboard, which lists ten names next to phone numbers. She slides a plain round magnet next to each of our names. I’m number ten. “The magnets mean we’re in town and staying here. Ihope we have some days off together, because I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
I roll both of my suitcases inside and close the door, hoping to chase away the chill. “I look forward to hanging out with you, but Iamdating someone.”
“I knew it.”
I turn in a circle, scanning the travel décor on the walls, the alcove with a round dinette, and an arched doorway to a small kitchen. It’s homey. Like having a friend let me stay in their Airbnb. “You knew what?”
“I knew you were dating that guy.” She motions for me to follow her down a hallway, past a bathroom, and into a bedroom on the left.
Furnishings include two bunk beds and one lone twin. The bottom bunks have curtains for privacy, and each is labeled with a number sticker—the kind you see on mailboxes. I assume mine is number ten to correlate with my number on the whiteboard. “I’m the top bunk in the corner?”
“Yep. We got lucky. We have the room with a private bath.”
I nod in acceptance. Maybe approval. It’s not the private hotel room I’ll get when I’m flying, but if it’s just the two of us having a slumber party, doing wall Pilates, and talking about guys ...
“Wait, what guy?” I turn my head toward her. She said she knew I was datingthat guy.
She covers her mouth, as if that can muffle the shockingly loud belch that erupts from her small person. “Sorry. I have digestive issues.”
As shocked as I am at the unexpected sound, I can’t imagine how airplane passengers might feel to hear that come from their server. How does she make PA announcements? I’m afraid to ask, since we’re still getting to know each other and this could be an embarrassing subject. But the realization that she’s not as perfect as she appears makes me feel more comfortable with her. I have trigger toe and she deals with reflux. She’s relatable.
Could her digestive issues be why she’s still single? I wave away her apology and repeat my question. “What guy?”
She laughs, a light sound that doesn’t seem as if it should come fromthe same person who’d just burped. “The pilot on the shuttle who couldn’t take his eyes off you. Y’all are dating, right?”
I huff at the misunderstanding. Thinking of Nathan just makes me smile. With embarrassment. And maybe a little whimsy. “For all I know, he’s married with children.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Not with the way he was looking at you.”
She’s as trusting as I am suspicious. Married men with children have been known to cheat before. And, you know, be serial killers.
Though not Nathan. He really was a nice guy. Our interaction was authentic. Natural. Spontaneous.
I mean, he may be married with children, but he’s not a serial killer. And he wasn’t hitting on me. Just being helpful on my first day.
“He didn’t ask me out.” I shake my head. “He was trying to get away because I caused him”—okay, now I’m laughing—“trouble.”
“Uh-huh.”
My heart hitches. If she thinks there was something between us, I’m afraid he might have as well.
Could I have unintentionally led Nathan on? I did run to catch up with him. Then I let him wrap an arm around my neck when demonstrating a choke hold. But it had all been purposeful. Innocent.
Wait. I clap once at a memory that fills me with relief. “I mentioned my boyfriend to him.”
There. I’d set a boundary before knowing I needed to. Not another failure after all.
“Well, you haven’t told me about your boyfriend yet.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I jump guiltily. But the only thing I’m guilty of is reaching my apartment without calling Wyatt like I said I would. “That’s probably him now.”
I retrieve my cell. The screen reads,Crew Scheduling.
