shower.
Twenty-Six
“This isn’t how I pictured this.” This in a low voice as he smeared medication all over her arms.
“You’re blind to the erotic qualities of calamine lotion, Dr. Baker?”
He snorted. True to his word, he’d returned within the hour in time to hand her a robe, politely look away as she dropped the towel to slip into it, then got her to sit down and briskly rubbed her hair with another towel. After she’d gone to the bathroom to comb out the mess he made, he politely hectored her into downing a couple of Benadryl, gave her sugared ginger to chew on
(Where the hell did he find that? And where has it been all my life? It’s roughly a zillion times better than Pepto!)
and then got out the calamine lotion.
He cleared his throat as he dabbed more lotion until she looked like someone with vitiligo. And not someone beautifully cool, like Winnie Harlow. More like Michael Jackson just before the autopsy. “I … think about you all the time.”
“Yeah? Well, I definitely haven’t thought of you more than several times an hour for the last few days, so don’t get your hopes up.”
He smiled and dabbed.
“Like what?” she persisted. “When you think of me?”
“I think about the night we met.” Dab. “And about what it might have been like…” Dab-dab. Dab. “… if you’d invited me up that first night.”
She could feel her face getting warm, because she’d be lying if she claimed the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, either. “Well. It wouldn’t be like this. I’m pretty sure. Is the calamine doing anything for you?”
“Not really,” he confessed, and they both giggled.
Twenty-Seven
THE LIST
Check-in MSP
More calamine lotion
Brand new moisturizer THANKS TO THE PSYCHO WHO HAUNTS MY NIGHTMARES AND ALSO MY LOTION
Never come back
Ever
The door had no sooner closed behind her than someone came from somewhere and flung his arms around her.
“G.B.?” She was so startled she nearly dropped her tea. “Oh. We’re doing … whatever this is.”
“It’s so good to have you back, though you were technically only off the boards for a day or so,” he declared into her shoulder. He smelled like coffee and oranges and (faintly) sarcasm. “Are you okay?”
“Thank you, G.B. And yeah.” She reached up and patted the back of his arm. “Uh. How long are we doing this?”
“Just shut up and let me comfort you.”
“No problem,” she replied, stealing a glance at the clock over his shoulder. Plenty of time to put up with whatever-this-was before check-in. And she was feeling immeasurably better than last night, so she didn’t have to worry about barfing all over his crisp uniformed shirt front. Or back. “Take your time. But not really.”
“Fine, I’m done.” He drew back and squinted at her. “Well. You look great, for what it’s worth. Hardly traumatized at all.”
“You should have seen me yesterday.” For a few seconds, she wondered if G.B. could be her saboteur and then realized that until the psycho was caught, she could look forward to doubting absolutely everyone in her life. Not that she’d let many people in after Danielle. But still, it hurt to wonder about G.B.’s motives. “Doesn’t matter,” she added. “I mean—it’s good. To be back! At work. Very good to be back. Y’know, at work.”
“The mind of a poet, the speech of a concussed cheerleader.”
“Hey! Leave cheerleaders alone.”
By now other crew members had come up to them and were offering congratulations. The new attendant, Becka Miller, looked particularly curious. For a “private” drug test, a shocking number of people knew all about it. She made a mental note to discuss the matter with her union rep and resisted the urge to blast a whistle to force instant dispersal. “Thanks, everyone, but I’m fine and I just want to get back to work.”
“What work?” G.B. asked, smirking. “Admit it: your biggest challenge is to stay awake while the autopilot does ninety percent of the work.”
“Don’t talk about Captain Bellyflopper that way,” India mock scolded, gently plowing through the forest of crew members that had sprung up around her. Cripes, she hadn’t even hung up her suit jacket.
“Oh, shut up. Both of you.” Pause. “Well, G.B. might have a point. If it’s a really long run. Regardless, I’m ready to work.”
“We could tell,” India said. “What with how you’re back to work and all. No way you’re here unless you want to be, not with all the hours you’ve got in your bank.”
“Exactly. Nice to be flying with you again, India.”
“Well, I am terrific. Seriously, how are you?”
“Seriously, let’s get to work.”
Ava freshened her tea, scored a croissant—her stomach was audibly goinging and boinging at the sight of it; apparently her bout of whatever-it-was was over—and counted her blessings. For many airlines, it was rare for the same pilot to keep flying with the same crew, but Northeastern Southwest paid big bucks for studies that showed familiar crews worked better together.
Duh, G.B. had scoffed at the time. Can you imagine office drones who had to work for a new boss every day?
“Drones” seems unnecessarily mean, she’d pointed out.
He’d ignored her, as was his wont. You go to your cubicle or whatever and the HR rep is new every day, the company president is new, and the receptionist is new. And they’re all different each day. Can you imagine? The world would be in flames, Ava. FLAMES.
So she wasn’t at all surprised to see the familiar faces, which in this case
“Forget about my wife’s cousin,” India said as he handed over her paperwork. “My wife’s other cousin is a cop, and now he’s dying to meet you.”
was a mixed blessing.
“All of you stop bugging me and go straight to hell,” she commanded. “Not you, Becka. You’re fine. What’s our load, India?”
“Full flight, eight oversold. Weather’s good, should be a straight shot to Logan. And no live animals this trip, thank God.” To Becka, who had been a flight attendant less than a month: “Much less stressful. For everyone, really. Especially now they’re cracking down on fake service animals.”
“It’s why we can’t have nice things,” G.B. added. “Also, how dumb do the geese* think we are?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. The answer: extremely dumb. “Who ever heard of a service boa constrictor? What the hell would a service snake even do?” To India: “Make one Snakes on a Plane joke. See what happens.”
India, wise for his years, raised his hands and took a step back.
“To be fair, it was little. Barely three feet long,” Ava pointed out while G.B. shuddered so hard it looked like a brief seizure. “And it didn’t bite anyone. Just wanted to keep under the guy’s sleeve. I think it was cold.”
“That checks out,” Becka announced, looking up from her phone. “Also, there’s no such thing as a snake service animal.”