I glance over, making sure it’s not a cop here to write me a ticket for loitering. But it’s just an old Cadillac.
I focus on my bigger problem—how much do I tell Vincent about Claire? He’d been my voice of wisdom through the breakup, but I’m not really interested in wisdom at the moment. “The other flight attendant is brand new.”
“Could be worse.” Vincent chuckles, probably assuming my information is based on her employee number. “If nothing else, she’ll be entertaining.”
I nod in thought. He’s referring to the time a new flight attendant called the flight deck in Emergency Mode to tell us a passenger rose to use the bathroom before we turned off the seat-belt sign. After that, Vincent would tease her whenever she called.Is the cabin on fire, or is someone dropping a deuce?
However, the entertainment I’m remembering is much more recent: the way Claire ran after me with her luggage and put up her fists, like she wanted to box. I smile to myself.
Yeah, I may find her attractive now, but since we barely know each other, that could change. It doesn’t have to mean anything. The fact that she has a boyfriend actually makes her a safe female to hang out with. I can enjoy working with her without worrying about relationship issues. Better yet, I won’t have to listen to annoying baby talk or avoid germs from the habitually sick guy.
A second beam of headlights blinds me. Another car rolls into the parking lot, meeting up with the first. I don’t want to know what shady deal is going on over there. I’m just glad I have a big dog with me.
If I’m going on this trip, I need to pick it up before I head back into the elements.
I hardly know Claire, but I do know one thing. “Yes, she’ll be entertaining,” I assure Vincent. Then I tap the link to add the trip to my schedule.
Chapter Five
Claire
Flying dreams mean that you’re doing theright thing with your life.
—ATTRIBUTED TODOUGLASCOUPLAND
My fears of potential flying disasters keep me from sleeping peacefully. More than the plane crashing, I’m afraid of accidentally tucking the back of my skirt into my nylons before standing up in front of the passengers to perform the safety demonstration. Nobody would die, but a video of me would surely end up trending on social media.
I try prayer, but it’s been a while since I called on God for help, and it’s like He isn’t answering because He doesn’t recognize my number.New phone. Who dis?
It’s after 2:00 a.m. when I drift off, only to be awakened from a nightmare where I’d been flying a couch instead of an airplane, and I didn’t know how to land. That’s almost as bad as the fear of tucking my skirt into my nylons.
My heartbeat throbs in my chest, and I’m relieved to find myself in a dark and quiet room. Well, mostly quiet. Angel’s snoring should have been expected, with as much as she burps.
I sigh with relief, allowing my pulse to slow. But then adrenaline shoots through my veins again as I panic that I slept through my alarm. Iflail an arm toward the spot between the bed frame and mattress of my top bunk, where I stashed my phone to keep it from getting knocked five feet to the floor. My fingers connect with smooth glass, and I grasp the device, pressing a side button to light up the screen.
It’s barely past four, and my alarm isn’t supposed to sound until four thirty. I relax into my pillow, but now what? There’s no way I’m going back to sleep after that.
Do I just lie here and stress? Do I climb down to pee, then climb back up, knowing full well it will probably wake Angel? Do I scroll social media to take my mind off myself?
I glance at my phone screen again to see if I missed anything while I slept. My instant messaging app displays one new message. I smile and tap on the icon. Only Wyatt would have texted after 2:00 a.m., which is when I last checked my phone.
Finally. I missed his call last night because Angel was going over my trip sheet and telling me how lucky I am to have San Luis Obispo as my very first overnight. On her first trip, she’d been sent to Fargo and got stuck there in a blizzard for two days—still better than the fear of tucking my skirt into my nylons.
Wyatt had gone to bed early, like he normally does for work. So I’d just typed out my every thought to keep him updated—including, but not limited to, my struggles with Angel’s snoring. I open the message to read his response.
I told you to take melatonin. And buy some earplugs.
I scrunch my nose. He’s right, as always. At least he’s up early for his commute, so I can get his reassurance that I’m not going to have any unruly passengers try to open an exit door while in flight or any hijackers crash our plane into the ocean.
Will melatonin help with nightmares? I dreamed I was flying a couch through a coffee shop and crashed into an espresso machine.
Dreams are weird, but that’s the best way I can sum up what jolted me awake. I’m not positive it was an espresso machine. It could have been a frozen yogurt dispenser. However, I was definitely flying a couch. Or was it a futon?
It doesn’t matter. My main takeaway is the crash.
...
The dots indicate he’s not sure how to respond, and I don’t blame him. My dream does sound a little insane. At least I can laugh about it now.
