Mister Weston

“I was tolerable before,” I said. “I’ll see you when I get back. And thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

I ended the call and stood up to leave the cockpit, greeting the departing passengers farewell for the first time in as long as I could remember. I didn’t even get annoyed when they took their precious-ass time to take selfies in the aisle with the flight attendants.

When the last one deplaned, I walked down the jet-bridge and felt my phone vibrating against my pocket. Gillian.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hey...” Her voice was faint for some reason. “I was hoping to get your voicemail.”

“Why is that?”

“I wanted to leave you an important message.”

“Are you drunk, Gillian?” I sighed. “Are you and your roommate playing some type of game tonight?”

“No...” She cleared her throat. “I need to tell you something, the same something I tried to tell you when we made up that day.”

I stopped walking as I entered the terminal, rolling my bag over to the windows. “So it is something bad?”

“No, it’s just bad timing.”

“You’re not pregnant.”

“No...” She laughed nervously. “No, I’m definitely not pregnant.”

“And you also said you didn’t fuck anyone else while we were apart.” I felt my jaw clenching. “Are you about to tell me differently?”

“No, that’s not it either. I’ve only slept with you since we’ve met.”

I tapped my fingers against the handle of my luggage, mentally rewinding the past months we’d been apart and the months prior that we’d been together. I thought about the times she’d given me her “Cliff’s notes” of long stories, her bad days that always involved her family, and figured she was probably blowing whatever it was out of proportion.

“I take it this is going to be a long conversation?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was damn near a whisper now.

“Okay.” I walked toward the transportation dock. “I’ll call you once I check into the hotel.”

“You promise?” There was worry in her voice. “You promise to call me as soon as you check in?”

“Yes, Gillian. As soon as I check in.”

“Okay, good. I’ll be waiting.”

“Talk to you in twenty.” I ended the call, extremely confused. I walked past baggage claim and outside, catching sight of the rest of the flight crew getting onto the shuttle van.

“Excuse me, Captain?” A man walked up to me, his camera in tow. “Can you please take a picture with us?”

“With?”

He nodded, pointing at his toddler daughter who was wearing a blue and white dress. “My daughter begged me to ask. It would really make her day.”

“Sure.” I stood still and waited for his daughter to stand next to me.

He held his camera above all of us and I actually smiled for change.

“Thank you!” He picked his daughter up to show her the picture, dropping his newspaper onto the ground.

“I’ll get it,” I said, stooping down to grab it. I started to hand it back to him, but my fingers instinctively tightened around the edges once I realized that this was yesterday’s edition of The New York Times. Once I realized that my so-called “anomaly” was on the front page.

What the fuck...

TERMINAL C:

BOY FUCKS GIRL

(Well, Vice Versa...)

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

PRESENT DAY

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE time we last broke up and the moment he showed up on my doorstep, the previous weeks of tears were long forgotten. The endless coffee runs and all-nighters that ended with crumpled Kleenex beside my laptop all faded, all went away the second he wrapped me in his arms and begged me to take him back.

And even so, when he bared his truths to me, when he told me he loved me and our sex meant more than “just sex,” I wanted to tell him that this time, during our longest break up, my life hadn’t been solely filled with crying and pain. There were days when I didn’t cry in-flight, nights when I wouldn’t let myself waste a single second thinking about him. And in those times, I’d channeled my energy into something else.

I was going to tell him.

I really was...

WRITE LATER,

**Taylor G.**

No comments posted.

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

PRESENT DAY

TWENTY CALLS TO HIS home phone since last week.

Thirty texts to his cell since last weekend.

Twelve emails to his personal and work addresses this morning alone.

Not a single response from him, though...Not even a rude and well deserved “This text isn’t about fucking.”

I EVEN CAUGHT HIM IN the airport today, an hour after I formally submitted my two weeks’ notice.

I was taking one final glance of the newest runway, when I spotted him walking through the terminal. Still turning heads with his every step, still making damn near every woman blush as his cockiness radiated off him in waves, his eyes met mine and my entire world stopped.

I rushed over to him, anxious to explain myself, but he looked right through me and continued walking. I even ran after him—calling his name, but he glared at me with eyes that held hurt and betrayal. Eyes that once held nothing but overwhelming, chaotic love for me.