Mister Weston

“What happened to the one I had?”

“I believe you told her to, ‘Get the fuck out of my place,’ a few nights ago during one of your episodes. Do you not remember that?”

“No.”

“I figured.” He shrugged. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be downstairs awaiting your next round of problems.”

“Wait...”

“Yes?”

“I texted Gillian as few times last night and the night before. She hasn’t texted me back.”

He blinked.

“This is the part where you fill in the blanks for me, Jeff. Why the fuck hasn’t she texted me back since you seem to know everything else?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “But it has been over two months since you last spoke so I’m assuming you’re over.” He took a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote something on the back of the invoice. Then he walked out of my room and left the apartment.

I stood up and walked over to see what he’d written on the paper.

She dropped off the watch. It’s on your counter.

I GROANED AND GOT DRESSED, taking my private elevator down to the parking garage. I pulled out my phone and started to send Gillian another text, but then I looked through our history.

She hadn’t responded to me in over two weeks, and the last time she texted me—months ago, I’d never sent a reply.

Shit...

I sped out of the garage and toward her Brooklyn apartment, risking the ire of her neighbors by temporarily parking my car in the middle of the street. I rushed up the outside steps, not bothering to knock on the cheap door, and stormed up four flights.

The “Two Broke Girls” sign was no longer hanging on her door, but I knocked anyway.

No answer.

I heard a female’s voice inside so I knocked even harder, refusing to let Gillian ignore me.

The door swung open and it wasn’t Gillian or her roommate. It was an older woman holding her cat.

“Well, yes?” She smiled at me. “What can I help you with today?”

“I’m looking for Gillian Taylor.”

“Who?”

“The woman who used to live here. Black hair, green eyes, beautiful. Where is she?”

“Oh! The girl with the crazy roommate. They moved out over a month ago.

A month ago? “Where did they move to?”

“I’m not sure.” She tapped her lip. “But wherever it was, it was probably someplace really nice. The crazy girl’s dad picked them up in a limo. A limo...”

“Thank you.” I walked away and headed down the steps, returning to my car. I couldn’t believe this shit, couldn’t believe I’d let this much happen within so much time without even noticing it.

I turned my key in the ignition and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was a text message.

Gillian?

I clicked on her name and read the response.

Gillian: Um...I’m not sure who you’re trying to reach, but this phone number doesn’t belong to a ‘Gillian’. I’m Clara. That said... If you’re interested in “making up” by “eating my pussy all night until I come on your face” then, no need to text back. Give me a call :-)

GATE B36

JAKE

Atlanta (ATL) —-> Paris (CDG)

A WEEK LATER, I STOOD at Gate B4 in Atlanta’s airport and printed out the weather reports for tonight’s flights, hoping like hell whoever I flew with would be somewhat competent. The first officer I was originally due to fly out with had contracted food poisoning overnight, so scheduling was supposed to be sending a reserve pilot so we could finally get onboard.

“Mr. Weston?” A familiar, male voice said from behind. “Mr. Weston, is that you?”

I turned around and found myself face to face with Ryan. Simulator Ryan.

Get the fuck out of here...

“Looks like we’ll be flying together in the real-world now, sir.” He smiled. “Maybe you can show me that magic carpet button, right?” He laughed and waited for me to join him.

I kept him waiting.

I tore off the remainder of the weather reports and signaled to the gate agent that we were ready. And as she led us over to the door, I noticed Gillian’s supervisor, a blonde, and Gillian heading in our direction.

“You ladies on Flight 1543 with service to Paris as well?” The gate agent asked. “Let me scan your badges after the pilots step onboard, please.”

I looked back at Gillian, waiting for her eyes to meet mine, but they never did. She kept them glued to the ground, and when she did board the aircraft minutes later, I overheard her say to her supervisor, “I’ll do my best on this flight, Miss Connors, but can you please keep Captain Weston the hell away from me if he chooses to leave the cockpit?”

Miss Connors gave her an assured, “Of course,” and then she threw a scowl in my direction.

I’d planned to remain in the cockpit for the first few hours of the flight anyway—mainly because I didn’t trust Ryan alone for five seconds, and I wasn’t sure he’d been joking about that magic carpet button.