Mister Weston

If you’re not here within the next ten seconds, I’ll make sure to say “Gillian’s pussy.” Try me.

—Jake

SUBJECT: MONTREAL

Hello. How are you.

Tim Horton’s. Arrival Zone.

—Jake.

SUBJECT: RE: MONTREAL

Fuck you, Jake.

—Gillian

SUBJECT: RE: RE: MONTREAL

Looking forward to it in three hours.

—Jake

I LEANED AGAINST A chair, scrolling through Jake’s latest text messages—unsure whether I could wait another week to have him again. For the first time in my life, I felt like I needed sex. In the past, when the sex was with my previous boyfriends, it’d felt good—sweet, even, but this was different. It was raw, no-holds-barred, and primal, and I was beginning to believe him when he claimed I was just as insatiable as he was.

“What’s up with that goofy grin on your face, Miss Taylor?” Miss Connors sat across from me at the gate.

“Nothing.” I tucked my phone into my blazer pocket. “Just checking up on recent events.”

“Oh really? Because I thought for sure the reason you were looking like an idiot was because ever since you went to the bathroom a couple hours ago, you’ve been walking around with your dress inside out.”

What? I looked down and sure enough, the white seams of my dress were face up, something I’d neglected to check when I redressed earlier.

“Go fix it, Miss Taylor.” She waved me away. “Now.”

As I walked past her, I heard her mumble, “I swear they get dumber every year...I don’t get paid enough for this...”

I slipped inside the closest restroom and quickly flipped my dress inside out. I made sure my hair was still sleek and in place, and then—still on cloud nine after today’s sex, I called Meredith.

No answer. An immediate text from her appeared instead.

MEREDITH: Hey, Gill. Been weeks since we caught up! Are you okay? I’m at a crucial run-through right now, so I can’t talk. Can I call you later tonight?

Gillian: Of course! And I’m more than okay :-)

THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE I could call right now, but since I wanted to get this off my chest, I logged into my abandoned blog from years ago and started a new post.

~BLOG POST~

OH NEW YORK, NEW YORK, New York...

I finally found the cure for getting over you: Flying...and—

Write later,

Gillian

No, wait...

**Taylor G.**

I HEARD MISS CONNORS calling my name and posted the blog without finishing. But as I stepped out of the restroom, I realized it took all of five seconds for my only follower to comment, as if no time had passed at all.

KAYTROLL: Welcome back. This should be interesting...Or not. Your writing seems even worse than before. Now, after all these years, you can’t complete simple ass SENTENCES???! O_o #sadddddd.

GATE B15

JAKE

Seattle (SEA)—> Minneapolis (MSP)—> New York (JFK)

I WAS BEGINNING TO think that sex with Gillian was the cure for a good night’s sleep, the perfect distraction from the nights of breaking shit that came every so often. And despite the fact that she drove me up a wall with her need to talk, her demands of unnecessary ‘Hellos’ and ‘How are yous,’ I couldn’t get enough of her. Each time we had sex was far more explosive than the last, and no matter how loudly she screamed, or how deeply she dug her nails into my skin as she came, I always looked forward to the next time.

The only downside to our arrangement was the small things she was beginning to do here or there, subtle things that seemed as if she was attempting to seep further into my life and break one of our rules. Whenever we met at certain airports, she always insisted that we stop inside a magazine shop or a bookstore together and talk. She would pick up a new book, insist on having a short conversation about either, “I wonder if this will be good,” “Maybe this will last me on my next flight,” or “I saw lots of passengers reading this one, but it’s kind of expensive.” And it would take me all of three minutes to take the book from her, pay for it, and escort her to whatever secluded place we were really supposed to be.

When we finished fucking (if we didn’t go back for a third or a fourth time), she would stare at me with her big green eyes in silence for several minutes. Sometimes she’d stare at me so long that I would be forced to help her quickly get dressed so we wouldn’t get caught. In those moments, she would ask about my flights, about my day, and simply say, “I’m just asking to be asking. I don’t really care.” I always answered her questions then, hoping she was telling the truth.

Thinking about the way she’d rode my cock in the Charlotte parking garage the other day, I smiled and finished reading the latest pompous news articles about the upcoming Elite gala and the “Amazing Era and Ambitious CEO of Elite” on my phone.