Fly Me to the Moon (4 page)

“Thanks,” I’d said, tearing up again.

“Don’t mention it,” she’d said.

And now, grasping my pounding head with both hands, I climbed out of bed and wandered into the kitchen, determined to find Kat and apologize for all the nonstop crying, binge drinking, and going on and on about Michael I’d subjected her to until
I
finally, mercifully, passed out.

But instead, I found a note, anchored by a pyramid of cat food tins, giving detailed instructions on the care and feeding of “the kids,” with a PS at the bottom that she’d gone to visit a friend in Athens for a few days.

Wondering whom she knew in Greece, I was spooning three
different types of kitty chow into three different crystal bowls when Clay walked into the kitchen with a fistful of tulips and a loud, “Mornin’, doll,” that nearly gave me a heart attack.

“How’d you get in here?” I shrieked, clutching the edge of the counter and fighting to restore my breath.

“Kat gave me an alert call this morning—said I needed to check on you. So we met at Grand Central and she slipped me the keys. Are you okay?” he asked, dropping the tulips and giving me a hug that got me crying all over again. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

I wiped my swollen eyes and picked up the tulips, bringing them to my nose even though they had no discernible scent. “Did she tell you
everything?”
I asked, peering at him from over the soft red petals.

“Yeah.” Clay shrugged, looking down at the travertine floor, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh, God,” I said, collapsing onto a chair. “I’m such a loser.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But I am.” I shook my head. “It never occurred to me that he was getting . . .” I stopped and bit down on my lower lip, still uncomfortable saying the words out loud.

“On-the-ground service?”

I buried my face in my hands.

“Sorry, stupid joke,” he said, grabbing a vase for the flowers. “Here’s the deal. I know you’re devastated, and understandably so. And we are going to mourn properly, because trust me, I have a no-fail plan. But before we can even attempt to get started I have to insist you get out of that uniform and take a shower, because, honey, you smell like the middle seat on a 757.”

I looked down, startled to see that I was still wearing my navy blue uniform. “Oh, God, I slept in this. I’m a total wreck,” I said, eyes welling up with tears again.

“Listen, just get in the shower, then go put on one of those silky robes Kat collects, and I’ll dig up something dapper from one of
the exes. Then meet me in the den and I’ll unveil the rest of the plan.”

Wrapped in a cozy red cashmere robe and matching slippers, with my long, curly wet hair smoothed back into a ponytail, I walked into the den to find Clay lounging on the couch, with an unlit cigar dangling from his lips and an oversized smoking jacket cinched tight around his waist.

“Where’d you find that?” I laughed.

“One of the guest room closets. What do you think? Do I look butch?” He leaned against the cushions in his idea of a manly pose.

“You look like the MC in
Cabaret,”
I said, plopping down next to him. ‘What’s with the cigar?”

“Have you ever tried one?” he asked.

I shook my head and curled my feet up under me.

“Man, they’re so phallic.” He held it in Iront of him. “T say any straight guy that’s into these is just fooling himself.”

“Oh my God! Michael
loved
cigars,” I said, eyes going wide with the memory. “Especially Cubans.”

“I rest my case.” Clay nodded.

“You know, I probably shouldn’t drink this,” I said, reaching for one of the two Bloody Marys he’d made and stirring it with the celery stalk. “I should have coffee instead.”

But Clay just rolled his eyes. “Please. Do you wanna be alert? Or do you wanna feel better?” he asked.

And knowing I definitely didn’t want to be alert, I took a tentative sip, quickly followed by another. “So what’s the plan?” I asked, crunching on celery.

“Well, did you open my gift?”

Okay, if I’d needed any further evidence to prove I was losing it, I needed look no further. Not only had I lost his gift, but I’d completely forgotten about it. Giving him a guilty look I said, “Um, I’m not really sure where it is.”

“Well, you’re lucky I found it, because oddly enough it fits perfectly
with the plan,” he said, retrieving a rectangular, gold-wrapped package from under a cushion.

“Where’d you find that?” I asked, taking it from him and rubbing my thumb across the shiny, slick paper.

“In the bottom of your carry-on.”

“You went through my bag?”

“You have no secrets from me, doll. So go ahead, open it.” He smiled.

I pulled on the shiny gold ribbon and ran my finger gently under the tape, removing the paper until a black-and-white picture of Audrey Hepburn holding a very long cigarette holder emerged. “Oh, I love this movie!” I said, leaning over to hug him.

“Okay, so this is the plan.” He set down his drink and gave me a serious look. “We’re gonna enjoy a Bloody Mary or two while we watch
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Then we’ll order up some food like Thai or Chinese. And by the time we’re finished it’ll probably be late afternoon, so we’ll celebrate
that
with another cocktail, and if you wanna talk, and unload, and get it all out of your system I’ll listen. And I promise I won’t interrupt or give advice unless you ask. And when that’s done, we’ll call the deli and have them deliver some essentials like ice cream and the
New York Post,
and then maybe, if we’re not too bloated, we’ll try on some of Kat’s old stewardess uniforms from the seventies. Then at some point I’m guessing we’ll probably sugar crash and pass out. And then on Sunday . . .” He paused, merging his eyebrows together and waving his unlit cigar in the air. “Well, I really haven’t worked out all the details yet. But by 11:45, Sunday night, we’re gonna clean it all up. And at 12:01, when it’s officially Monday, you’re going to make a new start.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” I said, realizing I sounded completely pathetic. But hey, at least I was honest.

“Of course you can.” He nodded emphatically. “You’ve got to fake it till you make it,” he said, pointing his cigar at me.

“Oh, now you’re quoting Oprah?” I rolled my eyes and bit off another piece of celery stalk.

“Dr. Phil.”

“You sure?” I asked, talking with my mouth full.

“Trust me, Hailey, it’s the big guy. Look, I’m not asking you to forget, because I know that will take a lot longer than a weekend. What I’m suggesting is forty-eight hours of hard mourning, not counting what you already started last night, and then we’re just gonna clean it all up and not look back.”

“I don’t know,” I said, tearing up again.

“I know you think it sounds impossible, but you can do it. Now hand me that DVD,” he said, sliding it in and pushing PLAY.

After one and a half viewings of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
two bottles of duty-free vodka, three limes, one bottle of Dom Perignon (I hoped Kat wouldn’t mind), two pints of Ben and Jerry’s (Chunky Monkey for Clay, Cherry Garcia for me), five Styrofoam containers of take-out Thai food, one thoroughly chewed on but never lit cigar, one bottle of nearly knocked over but quickly recovered pale pink nail polish, one broken hair clip, and two and a half boxes of super-soft, aloe-infused tissues, I’d finally convinced Clay I was ready to move on.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said, hugging him in the doorway.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked, eyeing me carefully.

“Positive.” I nodded. “So, are you flying tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ve got that two-day San Juan layover.” He smiled.

“You always get the dream trips.” I shook my head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Six solid years of bribing scheduling with duty-free chocolate and wine. You could do it too, you know.”

I just looked at him and rolled my eyes. “I will not pander to those people.” I laughed.

“You should come with me, to Puerto Rico,” he said, eyes lighting up.

“I can’t.” I shook my head. “Besides, I don’t want to cut in on your action. I hear old San juan is quite the party town.”

“Please.” He rolled his eyes. “You have to come, and you can’t say no. I know you’re not working, and I also know you have nothing better to do.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, slumping against the door frame.

“Besides, it’s all free. The flight’s free, and since you’ll be bunking with me, even the room’s free.”

“Clay, I can’t,” I insisted.

“I’ll even buy your first four mojitos,” he promised.

“I’d love to, but really, I can’t. Kat’s expecting me to feed the kitties, and I have to start looking for a place to live. I can’t stay here forever, you know.”

He peered down the hall and shrugged. “I don’t know why not. You could go months in this place without bumping into each other.”

“True.” I smiled.

“Listen, I sign in at seven. That’s
A.M
. Promise me you’ll reconsider.” He looked at me.

“Just call when you get back,” I said, closing the door behind him.

The second he was gone, I realized I really did feel better. I mean, it’s not like I was so deluded I thought a couple Bloody Marys and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s were the antidote. But still, it was nice to know that if I was involuntarily downgrading back to my former life of being single with an uncertain future, at least I wasn’t going it alone. I had great friends to keep me company and the freedom to live my life however I chose.

It was like now that I was released from the weight of Michael’s never-ending supply of
opinions,
I could finally concentrate on
my
dreams, which, I hated to admit, had been put on indefinite hiatus so that I could live his. Maybe I could even finish that manuscript I’d started writing all those years ago, now that Michael could no longer peek over my shoulder and say things like, “Fiction is a waste of time.”

Obviously, it was all just a simple matter of perspective. I mean, being dumped didn’t have to be the end, because if you think about it, it’s really more like a new beginning.

I headed back to the den, reached into my bag, and turned on my phone, determined to deal with the onslaught of messages I assumed were already piling up, since in a base with just under fifteen hundred flight attendants sometimes New York City felt like a small town. And I knew it was just a matter of time before word got out that I’d been dumped.

Sure enough, within seconds of finding a signal, my cell started beeping and an envelope appeared on the display.

“Hailey? I heard about your breakup. If you want to talk give me a call.”

“Hailey? Oh my God! Did you really break up? I mean, where will you live? Do you have any idea how much your lifestyle is going to change?”

“Hey Hailey, it’s me. Give me a call if you wanna have dinner. You bring the wine; I’ll supply the Ramen noodles.”

And then, right in the middle of message number four, a new call beeped in. And wanting to just get it over with and face it head-on, I didn’t bother to check the display.

“Hailey! I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend.”

Oh crap. It was Michael. I mean, even though I was secretly fantasizing about him calling didn’t mean I actually wanted it to happen. I focused on the END button and considered pushing it.

“Hailey, are you okay? Where are you?” He sounded nervous.

“What do you want?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“I just want to know if you’re okay.”

“Well, I’m just
great.
And
thanks so much
for calling.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head even though it was a total waste of energy since it wasn’t like he could see me.

“Listen, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But you need to know that it’s not at all what you think.”

Was he serious? Did he really have an excuse? “Oh really? Then tell me, just what exactly was it, Michael?” I said, feeling all the progress I’d made with Clay evaporate as the anger grew and blossomed inside me.

“Well, I’m not
gay,
if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said in a small, tight whisper.

“Oh, well, forgive me for saying so, but you do realize that was a
guy
between your legs?”

“Listen, Hailey,” he said, sounding extremely agitated. “I’d really prefer you to keep this between us.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m
not gay\
I was the one
receiving,
okay?”

I just sat there, not quite believing what I’d just heard. “Is that how you justify it?” I said finally.

“I’m just saying it’s not a big deal,” he whispered emphatically.

“Not a big deal?
Do you think it was
not a big deal
for me to come home from a trip on my
birthday,
thinking you were about to propose, but instead finding you getting the hummer of a lifetime on
our bed’?
You think that was
NOT A BIG DEAL?”
I shrieked, on the verge of a complete and total meltdown.