I click on Nathan’s pictures. I’m in the first pic that pops up. It’s posted with the caption, “I always love overnights in San Antonio.” Nothing about me, which is a relief. The commenters look to be mostly flight attendants who make their assumptions based on past airline lore, but as Wyatt said, Nathan hasn’t responded.
It doesn’t seem like he’s on here much. The last photo of him is with Joey herself.
With black hair and blue eyes, she looks like her last name should be Fox. “Whoa mama.”
“You found his ex?”
I blow out a breath. “Okay, now youknowyou have nothing to worry about with him.” Because if Joey is Nathan’s type, I’m not even in the same league. I’m simply the crazy flight attendant who dances into elevators, buys silly sunglasses, and pours orange juice on people. Laughing, I drop back into my pillows. “Hey, I haven’t told you yet about the lady I poured orange juice on.”
“Please say you’re kidding.”
I tell Wyatt the whole thing, acting as if the bomb he dropped with Nathan had never detonated, but I’m definitely feeling the aftermath. It’s not until after we hang up that I realize I preferred Nathan’s response to my orange juice story better. He’d said, “I’m sure she had it coming.” It was a joke, but it makes Wyatt’s response almost sound contemptuous.
I shake my head. I shouldn’t be comparing my boyfriend to others. Especially when it makes him come up lacking.
Chapter Twelve
Nathan
Every takeoff isoptional.
Every landing is mandatory.
—UNKNOWN
It’s go-home day,” I announce without my usual enthusiasm.
“To go-home day.” Vincent clinks his coffee mug with my thermos in the dark before starting the plane and switching on the lights.
Go-home day means we’re going to fly fast. It also means something will probably go wrong to prevent us from getting home on time. For once, I might actually welcome a delay to spend more time with a certain member of our flight crew.
As if on cue, Claire leans into the cockpit to hand us water bottles and a garbage bag. Today is the first time she’s thought to give us these items without us asking, but it’s also the first time she doesn’t do so with a saucy grin. In fact, she’s avoiding my gaze. Or is that a premature sense of loss I’m feeling?
She’s obviously not experiencing the same loss. She’s more likely excited to go home to her boyfriend this weekend.
While yesterday’s hike had brought us closer together in the moment, our lives are ultimately heading in different directions. I only hope that we are better people because of our time together. I believe I am.
I’ve found some peace with my past. I’m hopeful about the future.
“Door check,” Vincent says with the kind of brusqueness that indicates he’s more ready to get home than I am.
Sometimes the forward flight attendant will do this preflight part of the inspection for us. It requires the cockpit door to be locked before checking the function of a secret button in the galley, which has to be held down for three seconds to unlock the door in event of an emergency. It’s a safety feature in case both of us at the controls ever become incapacitated. Should someone nefarious try to use the button to gain access without our approval, pilots have the power to prevent the mechanism from working and to keep our door locked. The most it’ll probably ever be used on one of my flights is as an excuse for me to hang out in the galley with Claire this morning.
I climb from my seat, exit the flight deck, close the door, and wait to hear the click of the lock. So much for getting a few extra moments with Claire. She’s leaning halfway into the coat closet, organizing all the equipment stored in the deep space. All I can see are her navy-blue skirt, black tights, and Mary Janes. I look away out of respect.
“Ready,” Vincent calls.
I thumb the button and hold it down. A little red light flashes the seconds, giving Vincent time to stop this process if necessary.
My gaze wanders back to Claire. Is she avoiding me, or is she as unaware of my presence as I am hyperaware of hers? I can’t ask her that, so I say, “Did you enjoy your first trip as much as I enjoyed it?”
She doesn’t answer right away but turns to look at me. It’s concentrated, as if she’d been saving up all our missed connections from the morning. On the shuttle she’d closed her eyes with the excuse of being sleepy, then on our parade through the tiny airport, she’d ducked into a bathroom.
The lock mechanism clicks. The flight deck door swings open. I need to go back in there to finish my inspection, but I’m not yet sure the forward flight attendant is fit to fly. Even if she didn’t just give herself a concussion, she might be mentally exhausted from the stress of her first trip.
“You okay?” I repeat.
She nods.
