Fly Me to the Moon (7 page)

“Yeah, and who is she?” I asked as the cab came to an abrupt halt.

“Only one way to find out,” Clay said, reaching for my hand and dragging me into the restaurant.

When we walked into the room the first thing I noticed was how dim it was.
This lighting will definitely work in my favor,
I thought as the host led us past a succession of large and lively tables before taking us back outside to a beautiful, lush courtyard filled with potted palms and orchids, all of it spotlighted by the full moon shining brightly overhead.

So much for dim lighting,
I thought, keeping my eye on Michael at the front of the procession, making sure I lagged far behind, since the less contact I had with him the better.

“Will this be okay?” Our host motioned toward a beautiful table set for twelve.

It is so typical of Michael to home in on another crew’s dinner, then just totally take over,
I thought, rolling my eyes and scoping out the chairs, determined to sit as far from him as possible.

“Si, gracias.”
Michael nodded.

And hearing him say that made my knees go so weak I pulled out the nearest chair and plopped myself down. Not realizing until it was too late that it was directly across from his.

Clay gave me a not-so-subtle disapproving look immediately followed by a firm knee knock as he took the seat next to mine, and Jennifer made sure she exhaled long and loud as she sat on my other side.

I knew they were right. I’d been riding an emotional escalator, going up and down for days now. And I was well aware of how completely ridiculous I was acting. I mean, anyone who’s ever dined at Taco Bell can say the word
gracias.
It’s just, hearing him say that reminded me of all the dinners we’d shared in foreign countries, and how he always used to thank the waiter in their native tongue. And now he was still doing it, as though nothing had changed. Only everything
had
changed. And I was no longer sitting next to him. I was sitting next to Clay. And he was pinching me under the table. Hard.

“Ow,” I whispered, giving his hand a firm swat before he could pull it away.
I mean, excuse me for having a weak moment, sheesh.
I shook my head and looked down at the menu.

“Good, read your menu, but stop looking at Michael,” he hissed. “He’ll get it all wrong and think you still want him.”

I rolled my eyes, flipped my menu over, and read the back.

“You don’t still want him, do you?” he asked, eyes widening with alarm.

“Clay, please. I am
so
over him,” I said, looking up just as Michael ordered four bottles of wine for the entire table, without consulting anyone.
God, I used to think he was so good at entertaining, but now’ I can see that he’s just another control freak.
“Um, excuse me,” I said, catching the waiter just as he was about to leave. “I’m not having any wine. I’d like a mojito, please.” I glanced quickly at Michael and narrowed my eyes.
Your days of ordering my drinks are o-v-e-r,
I thought.

“Make it two,” Clay said, in a show of solidarity.

I turned to him and smiled. Other than the beagle I’d had as a kid, Clay was definitely my most loyal, successful, long-term male relationship.

“Oh, and can you tell me where the restroom is?” I asked, grabbing my purse and standing.

And just as I was about to leave I heard someone say, “Wait up! I’ll go with you.”

And I turned to see Michael’s date smiling and rising from her seat.

“Does it hurt?”

We were leaning against an intricately patterned blue-and-white tiled wall, waiting for a stall to be vacated.
Does it hurt to see her with Michael? Do I have to pee so bad it hurts?
She was looking at me, waiting for an answer, and I had no idea what she was getting at.

“Your face,” she said, pointing at my forehead with her two fingers, as though indicating an emergency exit. “It’s all red, except in the middle.”

Oh God, for a few blissful moments I’d forgotten all about my face.
I leaned toward the mirror, checking for confirmation. Sure enough, my forehead, nose, chin, and cheeks were morphing into an even deeper blazing burgundy, while the area surrounding my hazel eyes was my usual pale beige, except for the parts that Clay had colored in with heavy black liner. I leaned in even closer, tracing my finger gently down the side of my cheek. It felt hot. And I looked like a negative of a raccoon.

“Um, you can go first,” I said, motioning toward the stall that had just been vacated. I mean, even though I was barely able to hold it, I knew if I let her go first, she’d leave first, and then maybe I could have a quiet moment to myself before I had to head back out to that chaos.

But when I was finished, I found her standing right where we’d left off, waiting for me. And never one to indulge an awkward silence, I asked, “So, how long have you been based in New York?” I pumped the soap dispenser a few times, allowing my palms to fill with the thick pink liquid while consciously avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m Dallas based. But I was supposed to audition tomorrow in Manhattan, so I picked up this trip. Looks like I’m not gonna make it, though,” she said, smiling and shrugging, as though it was no big deal. Like now that she’d met Mr. Wonderful, she no longer needed to worry about little things like paying bills or chasing fame.

“What kind of audition?” I asked, scrutinizing her through the mirror while she picked at her cuticles. She was tall, thin, blond, blue-eyed, dainty-nosed, and had perfect dental work—had to be reality TV. She had that kind of pretty, accommodating, homogeneous look they specialize in. She also seemed vaguely familiar. But that could also be the whole homogeneous thing, or the fact that greeting hundreds of people a day for six years straight had made everyone start to look familiar.

“I was up for this nice part on one of the
Law and Orders,”
she said. “It was my second call back.”

Law and Order?
I love that show!
“Which one?” I asked, grabbing three crunchy brown paper towels from the dispenser and drying my hands.

“Trial by Jury.”
She shrugged.

That’s the only one I don’t like. Figures.

“So you’re an actress?” I asked, secretly wondering how old
she was. Secretly wondering how long Michael had been trying to better-deal me. Secretly wondering if Michael had told her about me.

“Yeah, I’ve done a few commercials, a few print ads, some Off Broadway. But you probably know me from the safety video,” she said, twisting the cap off her glittery pink Juicy Tubes and rolling it back and forth across her lips.

I watched as she tucked it back in her purse and ran her hands through her shiny blond hair, the fluorescent bathroom light reflecting and bouncing off it, just like in those Pantene commercials, and I thought,
She’s the girl in the safety video? The video I’ve been ignoring my entire career? The video where I’ve actually heard passengers say, “Dude, check it out, she is
so
hot,” and then make some rude comment when she shows how to manually inflate the life vest?

She’s
that
girl?

And now Michael is dating her?

“Um, I hate to tell you this, but it looks like your bottom lip is forming a blister,” she said, pointing at my mouth with two fingers and giving me a concerned look.

But no way was I checking the mirror for confirmation. It was bad enough that I was sunburned, bloated, and dateless, with worse than usual hair, while Michael was hooking up with the wet dream of safety demos. I certainly didn’t need to add my fat, bubbled lip into the mix.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m Aimee. What did you say your name was?” she asked, exiting ahead of me.

I followed behind her perfect size-two self, checking out her cute, wedge-heeled sandals. Juicy Couture sundress, and glossy mane, and I felt like a dumpy hausfrau in comparison. So excuse me for not wanting to be linked to whatever story Michael might one day tell her about his “psycho” ex girlfriend.

“I’m Monica,” I lied, following her back to the table.

The second Michael spied our approach, he immediately jumped up from his seat, pulled Aimee’s out, and remained standing until we were both seated again.

Oh, brother.
I rolled my eyes. I
remember how he did that for me back in the early days. No way will it last,
I thought watching as he wrapped his arm around Aimee’s slim but toned, tanned but not burned shoulders.

“I was about to send out a search party,” he said, looking from her to me and smiling anxiously.

Pilot humor.
I rolled my eyes again and stifled a yawn.

“Oh, Monica and I were just talking,” she purred, leaning into him and rubbing his forearm with the same two fingers she uses to point out sunburns, blisters, oxygen masks, and emergency exits, like they are permanently fused together or something.

“Monica? Who’s Monica?” Michael asked, obviously confused and looking from Aimee to me, and back again.

Oh, crap.
I guess I hadn’t really thought this all the way through, and now Aimee was giving me a strange look. But just as she started to lift her two fingers to point at me, our waiter came back to take our order.

We were just finishing dessert when Bob returned from the restroom and said, “That hurricane finally hit just west of the Keys.”

“How bad is it?” asked Jack.

“Last I heard it’d been downgraded to a category one, but that can still do some damage,” he said, then reached for his glass and polished off the rest of his wine.

“Oh, great, now I feel guilty. I’d been hoping for a storm since yesterday when I got this trip,” Jennifer said, shaking her head. “God, I hope no one gets hurt.”

Everyone chimed in, agreeing with Jennifer and expressing sudden goodwill toward the good people of Florida. But Clay and I just looked at each other and shrugged. It wasn’t like we were trying to be callous; it’s just that flight attendants were always wishing for blizzards, tornadoes, fog, driving rain, or any other kind of natural disaster that could possibly lead to a canceled flight. And in the event of a perfectly sunny day, well then we wished for malfunctions and broken airplane parts (but only on the ground, never in the air). I mean, basically, we were a group of professional travelers who never wanted to fly anywhere unless we were occupying a passenger seat and headed either a) home, or b) on vacation. Then we demanded that everything run on a firm, tight schedule.

“Speaking of hurricanes, what did the hurricane say to the palm tree?” Michael asked, looking around the table, the corners of his mouth curling up in anticipation of a punch line only he knew.

Here we go.
I cringed.
A couple glasses of wine and now he’s Letterman.
I shook my head and waited for the inevitably juvenile answer that would no doubt straddle the murky lines of Atlas’s sexual harassment policy.
God, this was how my friends must have felt all those times they joined us for dinner or drinks. Why couldn’t I see then what I can now?

“I give up! Tell me!” Aimee squealed, grabbing his hand and biting him playfully on the knuckle.

Michael paused, looking around the table, making sure he had everyone’s full attention. “Hang on to your nuts; this ain’t gonna be no ordinary blowjob!” he finally said, exploding in laughter.

Okay, not only was that not funny, but the Southern accent he’d adopted for the final punch was really pushing it. But do you think that kept anyone from laughing? Not a chance. And that’s because:

A. I he other pilots truly helieved it
was
funny.

B. The check had just been delivered, and all the flight attendants were hoping he’d pay it.

Well, I had my own Atlas AirMiles Visa card, not to mention just enough rum in my blood to look him directly in the eye and say, “I don’t get it.”

Everyone turned and stared. Some laughed, most were curious, but Michael and Clay looked alarmed.

“It’s just a stupid joke.” Michael shrugged, gazing down at the table and running his fingers along the base of his wineglass. He was starting to look really uncomfortable.

I’ll show you discomfort,
I thought, narrowing my eyes, hell-bent on revenge. I mean, if he felt confident enough to tell a blowjob joke in my presence, then maybe I’d share a blowjob joke that
happened
in my presence. And I had no doubt everyone would remember this one.

“What I meant was, well, just what is an ‘ordinary’ blowjob anyway? Huh, Michael?” I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest.
Hah, let’s see how you squirm out of that, Mr. Jet-Flying, Starlet-Dating, Wine-Ordering, Joke-Telling, Hummer-Getting Sky God!

Clay moved his left hand under the table and squeezed my leg so tight it felt like I had a tourniquet wrapped around it. And even though I was looking right at Michael, patiently waiting for a response, the heat and discomfort emanating from the rest of the table was palpable.