The b-word is not one air traffic control takes lightly, and it’s another half hour of frenzied communication before we’re cleared for takeoff. This isn’t a delay I’ll be explaining to Claire, though if I set the boundaries Vincent is suggesting, I won’t be talking to her much at all.
Love-bombing or not, I’m once again on the losing end of a love triangle. Only this time I’ve done it to myself.
Chapter Seventeen
Claire
Thehigher wesoar, thesmaller weappear tothose whocannot fly.
—FRIEDRICHNIETZSCHE
Today I don’t mind being alone in my crash pad. I don’t mind that I haven’t been called out yet. I wonder whether I’m going to need this extra recovery time to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling after every trip, or if it’s only because I flew with Nathan yesterday.
Angel might be right about his attraction to me. Right before our go-home leg, we shared a gaze that made me panic. I blurted out “Home, James” to send him up to the cockpit and create needed space, but now that I know the origin of the phrase, even that feels too personal.
Maybe I imagined it, but no other pilots have bought me cake and serenaded me horribly over the PA. No other pilots have looked at me as if they wanted to see inside my soul. My own boyfriend hasn’t even done that in a while.
I feel guilty for comparing the two, but if Wyatt would simply call, then I’d focus on him. And he hasn’t. Not even last night when I texted to tell him I’d made it back to my crash pad safely and that I ended up having a good birthday because the first officer bought me cake and the whole plane sang. I wonder if Wyatt would have called if he’d known I’d been flying with Nathan.
Now I’m wishing Angel were here so I could share this with her. Plus, I need to hear more about the guy she’s dating. I’m hoping she can put my mind at rest. Maybe it’s not about age gap but about sharing the same stage of life.
If Angel were here, we could also do yoga and Pilates together. She has an app on her phone that offers thirty-minute routines. I followed along in one of her workouts even though I could teach the class. I might as well do one myself since I’m here and healthy again.
I pull on some leggings and roll my yoga mat next to the wall by the fireplace so I can use it for leverage. I’m upside down with my toes on the wall and only my forearms on the floor when I hear the other bedroom door creak open. I guess I wasn’t alone after all.
Since I’m facing the wall, I can’t tell if it’s Vivienne, Brittany, Sparrow, or someone I haven’t met yet.
“Headstands strengthen your upper body, build your core, improve digestion, stimulate blood flow to oxygenate facial cells, and help release endorphins.” Sparrow evidently.
“Want to join me?” I ask my robotic roommate with the whimsical name.
“I can’t. I’m still recovering from whiplash sustained in severe turbulence on my last flight.”
Whiplash? I tuck my chin, round my spine, and roll forward to a seated position to stare in shock. But Sparrow has disappeared.
With all my concerns over germs on airplanes, I never really considered the possibility of head injuries. I guess if flying across a stageen pointeis dangerous, then so is flying at thirty-two thousand feet. I hope my roommate is covered by the company’s insurance for an on-the-job injury. Also, I clearly need to do more headstands for some of those endorphins she was talking about, because the talk of injuries gets me down.
The front door squeaks open, and since I’m sitting directly in front of it, I’m hit by a blast of cool air.
A thirtysomething Black woman with flawless cornrows looks down at me in surprise. She’s wearing a flight attendant uniform, as if she just got off a trip, but her red jacket and matching sparkly lanyard tell me shemust work for a different airline. “Who are you?” she demands, obviously forgetting she lives with nine other people.
“I’m Claire. I’m doing Pilates,” I say apologetically. “Who are you?”
“I’m hungry, that’s who I am.” She closes the door, parks her luggage in the middle of the living room, and heads toward the kitchen.
Sparrow pops her head out of her room. “Her name is Journey.” She vanishes again, and I can’t help wondering if she really sustained an on-the-job injury or just gives herself whiplash with all her disappearing acts.
The refrigerator door seal slurps open.
“Did you eat my cheese, Claire?” Journey yells. “I know you’re new here, but you’re not supposed to eat anybody else’s food.”
My eyes widen in alarm. I don’t remember eating cheese, but her accusation makes me question if I’m a sleepwalker and thus ate her cheese without remembering. My brother once moved his car in his sleep, but I feel if my subconscious were to desire food, it would be the leftover ramen Brittany had in the fridge. It made the whole apartment smell rich and savory last night.
“No.”
“Sparrow,” Journey shouts, “did you eat my cheese?”
Sparrow pokes her head from her den, and I don’t blame her this time. She’s prepared for a quick getaway. “I threw it in the garbage when I was cleaning out the refrigerator. It expired last week, and the dangers of eating spoiled cheese include nausea, diarrhea, stomach cramps, and fever.”
