Mister Weston

“I just texted you an hour ago, Gillian.” He kept his voice low. “Yet, once again, you’ve chosen to ignore where I told you to meet me so we can argue for no reason.”

A woman suddenly darted between us, quickly grabbing a book from the shelf before moving away.

“You like me, Jake,” I said. “As much as you want to deny that fact, you like me and regardless of whatever the hell has happened to you, I deserve to be treated better than this.”

“Is this the part where you demand an apology?” He was struggling to hide his anger. “Is that all I have to do to get you to fuck me today?”

“No,” I said, setting my book down. “This is the part where I finally walk away. For good.” I rushed past him, slipping into the terminal—letting my tears fall as I blended between travelers.

I felt my phone vibrating against my pocket, saw his name cross my screen when I finally pulled it out, but I simply turned it off.

If he could act as if we never meant anything, I could, too.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, I stared at my reflection in the restroom in San Francisco—failing to get my mascara to stay on my eye lashes. Each time I brought the wand up to my face, tears fell or a lump formed in my throat.

Groaning, I snapped the cap shut after the fifth attempt. I pulled out my foundation, in desperate need of color, but the tears cracked through every coat.

Ugh...

I looked at my watch—a cheap, “I Love New York” one since I refused to wear the one Jake gave me anymore, and realized I had three full hours before I’d need to board for Paris. Only three full hours before I needed to get myself together.

Grabbing a paper towel, I froze when I saw Miss Connors walking into the restroom.

Without saying anything to me, she walked down the row of stalls, opening each door—checking to see if they were empty. Then, she took a spot next to me in the mirror, she pulled a small pack of Kleenex from her purse and handed it to me.

I mouthed, “Thank you,” and dabbed my eyes.

“I fell in love with a pilot once,” she said, pulling out a makeup compact. “I was about your age when it happened, too.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Things were slightly different then, though... It wasn’t as outright illegal as it now, but it was frowned upon.” She put away her makeup and pulled out a brush, turning toward me and fixing my bun. “Me and my pilot shared the same trips fifty percent of the time. We purposely set it up that way. The only place he insisted on going every three weeks or so was Detroit, but since I hated it, I never did make too many of those trips with him.”

I felt more tears falling and she paused, wiping my eyes for a few seconds before re-pinning my hair.

“Anyway,” she continued. “You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t in love with this man. We were stupid and reckless, drooling, obvious idiots, just like you and Captain Weston.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror, but they weren’t full of judgment like usual. “I told all my friends I was going to marry him, that we were that much in love.”

I winced as she drove a final bobby pin a little too hard against my scalp. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She stepped back and slid her bag over her shoulder. “Except his fiancée in Detroit felt the same way about him that I did.”

I wasn’t even sure what to say.

“Took me longer to realize that hot sex, lack of communication, and crying every few weeks about secret trips were all a dead giveaway from the very beginning.” She shrugged. “Hope it won’t take you that long.”

I didn’t utter a word. I just watched her walk toward the door.”

“Oh and Miss Taylor?” she said before leaving.

“Yes?”

“Train-wreck of a love life or not—” She looked me up and down. “When I see you three hours from now, your face better bear makeup, and it better be fixed to perfection.” She flipped her hair over her shoulders and walked away.

GATE B30

JAKE

Dallas (DAL)

STEPPING OFF THE PLANE in Dallas, I realized that Gillian had yet to respond to my last email. Not only that, but she hadn’t sent me a single message this week, and I wasn’t sure why I cared—or even noticed, but it made me upset for some reason.

JAKE: Bathroom near the Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B.

Jake: The board says your flight landed half an hour ago, Gillian.

Jake: This arrangement works better when you actually answer.

TEN MINUTES PASSED.

JAKE: Have you somehow gotten lost in the airport?

TWENTY MORE MINUTES passed, and she never answered, never showed up. Frustrated, I figured she was still upset about our last conversation and sent her an email instead.