“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 hand. “Will 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 a 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…)
Blog Post
Gillian
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.
Blog Post
Gillian
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.
“Please listen to me,” I said. “Please, let me explain.”
He didn’t. He held up his hand and forced a smile. “I don’t take photos with passengers, Miss,” he said. “I’m sure any of the other pilots here would be happy to help you. Have a good day.”
Then he walked away.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
Write later somewhere else,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: So…Do I still need to comment on these posts now that we’ve met up in person? Let me know!
Gate C39
Gillian
Eight Weeks Earlier…
I stared at my blank screen and held back tears. Time wasn’t healing anything between me and Jake, and every second without him was only making things worse.
It was taking everything in me not to call and reach out to him, and I knew I was being foolish by picking the lines with the absolute worst routes so we wouldn’t cross paths, but I couldn’t bear to see him in person right now.
Our last argument still left me feeling raw and allowed me to see that we’d finally reached the end of our relationship. There was nowhere else for us to go, and we needed to stay the hell away from each other before we ended up being even more messed up than we already were.
Unable to write a long blog post, I simply wrote, “I think this really was the end for us,” and hit publish. Before I could shut down my laptop, there was a soft pinging sound. An immediate comment from my personal troll.
(KayTROLL)—I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about you just as much as you’re thinking about him. Just my two cents. If I were you, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.
I’d never responded to his troll-ish comments before, but with Meredith out of town and no one else to vent to, I typed a response.
(Taylor G.)—No, I think this was finally the end for us. It feels different this time.
(KayTROLL) You always say that. Then two days later, you go right back. (I’m not holding my breath on this one. Sorry.)
I groaned, typing. “Well, CLEARLY this time is different because it’s been more than two days. It’s been damn near TWO MONTHS to be exact, so quite honestly? Fuck you and your “two cents.” Since you clearly don’t have a life, go find yourself another random and obscure blog to bother on a daily basis, please. I don’t have anything else for you.”
There was one more reply before I logged off. A brief, “LOL. Still a hothead, I see. :-)”.
I couldn’t think of a decent biting rebuttal, so I slammed the laptop shut altogether and fell back against my sheets. I needed to figure out a way to be re-assigned to a different home-base city as soon as possible.
As I was thinking of the best possible excuse for a transfer, my phone rang. My mom. I immediately silenced her call. I didn’t need any additional doses of negativity right now.
It rang once more minutes later, but my finger hovered over the silent button. It wasn’t my Mom attempting a second call. It was a number I hadn’t seen in forever. One I’d avoided and loathed for years.
“Kennedy B”…
Her full name was Kennedy Bronson, and she was once my literary agent.
She scooped me up fresh out of graduate school—admiring my talent, promising me what every aspiring author secretly wanted: A book deal.
She swooned over my words with her infectious personality, and pitched my ideas to publishers while I interned under an esteemed editor at The New York Times.