Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a little . . . high strung. It’s part of my charm and definitely part of what’s made me successful at work. Sales is a tough racket, and when I’ve got a good prospect, I’m like a Jack Russell Terrier on speed. Won’t take no for an answer? I won’t even let it get to a no.
But somehow, when Gordo looks at me—which isn’t very often, he’s much more of a “looking at a point two inches above your head” kind of guy, as though he’s surprised anyone else is in the room at all—something inside me stops spinning. It’s almost a relief, like I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to chill.
But this morning, I don’t need to chill. I need to get to work.
“Bailey,” Gordo says, “I’ll be there.”
And I have to trust he will.
Of course, I leave my stuff by the door. I text Gordo in a panic and ask him to bring it all with him. His reply is a complicated series of emojis that might be confirmation that he’ll do it but might also be a question as to whether or not I think he’ll get held up at customs if he brings a live (or possibly stuffed? It’s unclear.) iguana in his carry-on luggage. Gordo’s never been much of a talker, but sometimes I wish he’d use a few more words.
Work is hellacious. I can’t believe they’re sending so many of the sales team to Vegas for the weekend when conditions on the ground are this chaotic, but when I mention it to Lachlan as we collide in the kitchen—I’m on my fifth coffee of the day—he shrugs and says his plan is to drink on the company dime for as many consecutive hours as he can over the next three days.
And then Jake sends me a meeting invite—a fucking meeting invite—with the subject line “Couples Breakfast” for tomorrow. Seriously? Who puts a cozy romantic breakfast into Outlook next to “Ice Breaker 1” and “Sales of the Future: Masterclass”?
I leave it unanswered. Let him wonder if I’m actually coming.
No, I correct myself, if we’re coming.
There’s a truck rolled over on the highway, so I’m twenty minutes late to the airport. I rush through sliding doors and dodge past families with wheelie suitcases that look like they must carry everything they own. I catch sight of Gordo’s red hair, and a tiny fraction of the stress I’m carrying eases out.
“Hey buddy, are you—” My question cuts off when I take a look at the luggage around him. They’re all mine. “Where’s your stuff?”
He gives me a relaxed smile and swings to show me the ratty backpack hanging off one of his massive shoulders. “In here.”
I gape. The damn thing wouldn’t hold the shoes I’ve brought—and I’ve only packed three pairs.
“Gordo.” I take a deep breath to keep calm. He’s in his usual uniform—ninety percent jersey, none of it purchased new or in this decade—and suddenly I’m imagining him, seated across the table from Jake and his emu farmer boyfriend. Somehow, I don’t think the boyfriend will be there in his overalls.
Was this a bad idea?
“This is a corporate retreat,” I say. “Professional. Did you at least bring a suit?”
“No.” He laughs like the answer is obvious.
I close my eyes. We talked about this. I went over the entire itinerary with him and printed him off a copy so I could highlight the events he’d need to come to. And yes, Gordo’s not a details guy, but I sort of assumed he’d absorb enough information to get a sense of the dress code, even if he couldn’t tell you where we’re eating dinner every night.
A big hand comes down on my shoulder, nearly knocking me off my feet. But when I open my eyes, Gordo’s smiling merrily down at me.
“Don’t worry, Bailey.” He always has this subtext whenever he says my name that makes me think he’s hearing the words “silly human” in his head. “I’m here to make you look good, and I’m going to do it.”
I wish I could be so certain.
But he’s taken a good first step—wardrobe choices aside—because he’s already checked us into our flight, so all I have to do is drop off my bags, and we hurry down halls and over walkways until we’re in line for security.
Gordo, as it turns out, has not brought a live lizard, so that’s good. He does have a rather large unmarked Tupperware with something white and runny in his bag though.
“It’s shampoo,” he says with a smile to the security agent. “I made it myself.”
I sigh some more, as the agent asks him about volumes and Ziploc bags, and he tells her he doesn’t know how much is in the container, but would she like the recipe?
He looks pretty upset when she makes him throw his homemade shampoo away.
Honestly, I’m not real happy about it either. I’ve snuck some a few times when I’m out of my own store-bought stuff, and it leaves my hair smelling amazing.
“When was the last time you flew somewhere?” I ask. I thought everyone knew about the whole “nothing but tiny bottles” rule.
Gordo shrugs. “I don’t really like to fly. I took the train to Salt Lake City last summer.”
I trip over my feet as I try to do up my shoelaces. “When were you in Salt Lake City?”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Last summer. I just told you.”
That’s how most conversations with Gordo go. He is the king of living in the moment. I got on a wellness kick early last year where I tried to meditate every day. My best streak was three days, and when I suggested to Gordo he might do it too for moral support, he said he didn’t need to meditate, and I’m pretty sure he’s right. Whether he can attribute his “live your best life” attitude to life experience or heavy consumption of medicinals, I’ll never know.
We don’t have time to stop at the airport bar. Our gate is the very last one at the end of a concourse with fifty-seven possibilities, and as we arrive, a cheery gate agent is announcing pre-boarding for all first-class passengers.
“Come on.” Gordo grabs my hand and pulls me forward.
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not us. We have to wait for the gen-pop seating.”
I fucking hate flying. Being squashed like cattle into itty-bitty seats with itty-bittier tray tables too small to hold my laptop. I lose so many hours of productivity when I’m travelling. Between having no room on the plane and nowhere to plug in a charger while I wait at the gate, the whole process is hugely inefficient.
But meanwhile, Gordo is still tugging me toward the line of passengers boarding.
“Gordo, we’re not—this isn’t—we’re—” I glance at my ticket to confirm our zone number and squint before I realize it says very clearly, “First Class.”
Whaaaat?
I gape like a Minion as Gordo walks us up to the counter, hands the woman there our tickets and IDs, and then leads me down the jetway and onto the plane.
First class is . . .
I let Gordo stash my laptop bag in the overhead bin as I settle down into the wide leather seat that wouldn’t be out of place in front of my TV.
First class is nice.
“Gordo,” I hiss, eyeing flight attendants as they move up and down the aisles. “These aren’t our seats.”