Mister Weston

I rolled my eyes. “Be serious, Gillian.”

“Well, for one, there’s a couple next door to me having sex.”

“Put on some headphones.”

“Two, my supervisor wrote me up for serving the wine and cheese too slow.” She frowned. “She embarrassed me in front of the entire crew, so I’m still trying to get over that. And three...”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have a feeling you’d talk to anyone right now if they’d let you.” I shook my head, but decided I could use a little conversation right now. “How many boyfriends have you had?”

“What?”

“How many boyfriends have you had?” I repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” she said. “I’m just shocked you’re asking me something that’s not about sex.”

“This is temporary. I’ll ask you to show me how wet your pussy is later.”

She laughed. “I’ve had one serious boyfriend and three casual ones. Are you going to ask me if I still think about them?”

“You’re fucking me, so you have no reason to. Why did you break up with the serious one?”

“He cheated on me.” She lay back on the bed, holding the phone above her face. “With like ten other women.”

“I take it that’s where your ‘only one’ demand came from?”

She nodded, blushing. “Since you don’t do girlfriends, how many women have you slept with?”

“I’ve never kept count.” I admitted. “None of them ever meant anything.”

“Right.” She forced a smile. “Makes sense. Have you ever dated anyone seriously?”

“Not since my ex-wife,” I said. “Piloting doesn’t allow for any serious relationships.”

She nodded again, giving me that fake smile. “In your non-serious relationships, not including me, have you always had incessant sex in airports and on planes?”

“Gillian, the reason we fuck in airports is because you’re the only woman I’ve been incapable of waiting to have sex with. I’ve never fucked anyone else in an airport—doubt I ever will, and I haven’t fucked you on a plane yet, but I’ll keep that in mind as that’s something I’d definitely want to do with you. So, that would be a no. Happy?”

“No.” Her real smile gave way, and I turned off the car’s hazard lights.

“Glad we could clear that up.”

“Me, too...Oh, and Jake?” Her cheeks reddened, as if she was about to laugh. “You called me tonight.”

“I’m aware.”

“Well, this counts as a late night phone call.”

“And?” I dared her to hang up on me.

“And I actually wouldn’t mind if you did it again...”

“I won’t.” I took her off video chat and switched the call to my phone’s speakers. “You have to be at the airport in twelve hours, correct?”

“No, nine hours.”

“Did the flight time just change?”

“No.” She let out a breath. “My supervisor makes me show up to everything two to three hours early whenever possible.”

“That’s pointless.” I switched lanes, heading back toward New York. “What do you do with all the free time?”

“Book hop. I start reading a book in one bookstore and then I walk to the next bookstore to read the next few until it’s time to go. Or if you’re in town...Well, I meet you.”

“Interesting.” I turned up the volume on her soft and sexy voice, unable to end this call for some reason. “What’s the last book you read?”

Her tone changed and she became completely animated. For two hours she and I talked about favorite novels as I drove through traffic, and before I knew it, I was crossing the bridge into Newark, not New York.

Jesus...

I turned off my car after parking in front of the Doubletree, with her still talking in my ear.

“Are you at home yet?” she asked, yawning.

“No, I’m outside your hotel...What’s your room number?

GATE B24

GILLIAN

New Orleans (MSY)—> San Francisco (SFO)—> New York (JFK)

I HIT “POST” ON MY thirtieth blog post of the week, logging off before I could see a comment from my personal troll. I was sitting on the fire escape by my window, letting New York’s familiar soft rains pelt against my skin.

With two days off, I’d planned to finally address my mail, to finally open the numerous envelopes that littered the corners in my apartment, but I couldn’t do it. For one, I still thought that if I avoided them, they would eventually go away, and two, I was getting slightly paranoid about the fact that Jake had yet to respond to my latest email, even though I knew he was here in New York.

I scrolled through my emails again, double checking to be sure my “Hey...You got a minute?” text had gone through yesterday. I tapped the screen as the word “sent” appeared and tapped my fingers against the window sill.

I didn’t want to make too much of this, but there was definitely a pattern. Every third week of the month, like he’d said from the beginning, he was practically unreachable. No texts, no emails, no phone calls. But the second the weekend ended, he would pick up right where we left off, as if the messages I’d sent prior had never happened.