The Layover Read online

  Up ahead on my left, a parked car rumbles to life, its brake lights flaring red. Adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a shot. My fingers tighten against the padded steering wheel. This can’t be happening, but it is. I, Ava Greene, am experiencing an airport miracle.

  Since I didn’t see anyone walk up to the parked car, I can only conclude some kindhearted employee has been just sitting there, braving the cold Chicago night while waiting for me to arrive so they could gift me with their primo parking spot. It’s a going-away present. A sign. I whoop with glee and hit the gas, flicking on my blinker just as one of the lurkers rounds the corner.

  The parked car begins to back out and, to my shock, the lurker inches closer, turning on a blinker of their own. I squint in disbelief. They saw my signaled claim. There’s no way they could’ve missed it. It might still be dark out, but that would only make the light of my turn signal more prominent. This is Wild West behavior. The parking lot equivalent of a duel. Any other day, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d duck my head and drive away. A parking space is hardly worth pistol play.

  It’s not any day, though. It’s the last day I’ll ever park in the airport’s employee parking lot. It’s the first day of the last trip I’ll ever work. I need the luck this spot promises. If this trip isn’t amazing, I’ll end nine years of flying with a whimper. There’s something terribly depressing about the idea of entering such a significant era of my life with regret and leaving it the same way.

  The lurker hits their gas again, sliding forward another few feet. It puts them in shining distance of one of the streetlights that line the lot. I lean forward, squinting through the windshield. My brow furrows in response to the face behind the wheel. It’s Jack Stone, one of our own—not even, as I’d assumed, of TSA’s evil ilk. I grunt my disgust.

  He should be ashamed of himself. As a fellow flight attendant, he’s meant to be one of the helpers of the airport. We’re the ones who sneak sodas off the plane and pass them to the janitors. We save our DoubleTree cookies to give to the Ops agents. We do not rev our engines at other drivers like leather-clad hooligans playing a one-sided game of chicken.

  I can only take this as further proof of what I’ve always known: Jack Stone might have given up his seat in the cockpit when he parted ways with the Air Force, but he’s still a pilot at heart. In fact, he’s probably not even here of his own volition. I bet they kicked him out for exactly this kind of lawless behavior.

  Everyone else might think he’s so charming, but Jack’s superior officers must’ve seen beyond his perfect packaging, just like I have. I didn’t give in the last time he tried to pull one over on me, and I won’t this time either. This is my parking space. My grip on the steering wheel tightens.

  The parked car inches farther into the streetlight’s glow. My foot presses against the gas pedal, straining with impatience. Jack’s eyes lock on mine. White teeth flash from his smile. Tumbleweeds skitter across the parking lot as the soundtrack from an old Western whistles through my head.

  The parked car swings out, and I don’t stop to consider how new my own car is, or that it’s a gift from Alexander I’ve been trying to figure out how to return, or even that it’s powerful beyond my experience and way too expensive for me to ever replace. I slam on the gas and rip the steering wheel to the left. I’ve lost my mind. My stomach drops as I veer toward the line of cars. They get larger as I get closer, looming like walls as I slide in between them. I exhale a lungful of breath I hadn’t realized I’ve been holding.

  I won!

  My elation is brief. Sanity floods through, drowning it out, and my head drops to the steering wheel. Half the world hasn’t even woken up yet, and I’ve already attempted to incur my own vehicular manslaughter charges. But at least I won’t have to see Jack Stone ever again.

  As if he instinctively understands my desire for him to disappear, Jack’s car is idling behind mine as I get out. It’s dirt brown, pleasantly old and oddly shaped, the kind of vehicle that looks like it’s seen more than its share of the world. I feel a pang of loss for my cheerful old VW Bug that got replaced without my permission in Alexander’s attempt to pamper me. There are people in the world who live by the adage that new is better. To me, it’s the things that have lasted that are the most valuable. The things that have proven they can be counted on.

  Ignoring Jack, I turn toward the trunk, sending my airline-issued trench coat flying up at the bottom so cold air bites at my stocking-clad legs. Rather than drive away, Jack rolls down his window. Perfect. Now, thanks to my deep-rooted need to restore order, I’ll have to apologize for almost running him over. This innate need to smooth the waters is a quality I despise in myself.

  “Nice driving, Danica Patrick. Practicing for Daytona?” Jack grins at me from the driver’s seat. His eyes are startlingly light against his tanned skin and the darkness of his hair, which looks like he’s been riding around with the window down. Maybe he has. Maybe when a person has no soul, they’re incapable of feeling the cold.

  “If you’re asking for lessons, I’m going to have to turn you down. All potential driving students must have a basic understanding of turn signals.” As far as apologies go, it probably doesn’t rate as one of my best.

  “Did I misunderstand?” Jack’s effort at innocence is as convincing as a wolf playing puppy. “I assumed you were gesturing for me to take the spot.”

  “Right. Because I spotted a strong, able-bodied man and grew immediately concerned he might have to walk too far in his warm pants and comfortable shoes.”

  “Actually, you couldn’t have spotted my body.” His smile widens. “But it’s flattering to discover you’ve noticed it before.”

  A flush of irritation heats my skin. The very idea that he’d think he could include me among the endless members of the Jack Stone fan club makes me want to get right back in my car and steal another parking spot from him.

  “You should probably get going.” I wave one hand toward the back of the lot. “It’s going to be a long walk from your parking spot back there.”

  I spin on my heel, indicating the end of the conversation. Any warmth the trunk might have held has escaped, leaving me to paw around inside a chilly cavern. I listen for the sound of his car pulling away as I pull my roller bag out and hang the food bag on its hook before balancing a tote on top of the heap. Sadly, Jack’s car continues to idle behind me.

  “You’re not really this mad about a parking space, are you?”

  “What?” I tense before turning slowly back toward him.

  Jack has his arm draped over the door of the car like it’s a balmy eighty degrees outside. He’s the wolf again, playing puppy. Or maybe he’s not. Does he even remember me? Without knowing, I can’t answer his question. There’s no way I’m telling him our short conversation from two years ago has replayed in my mind a million times, the opening stanza to the song of my greatest heartbreak—not if his part in it ranked so low on his list of sins that he’s already forgotten it happened. He’d think I was pathetic.

  Still, what are the chances that, after all my efforts to avoid working with him and to dodge him in the lounge, Jack Stone would end up in front of me on my last trip? If I have something to say, the universe is clearly providing the opportunity. But there’s really no point, is there? Jack is who he is, just like I am who I am—which, I’d do well to remember, is not someone who fights for parking spots and flings verbal barbs.

  If this is an opportunity to get closure, maybe it’s not supposed to come in the form of confrontation. Maybe it’s better found in moving forward.

  Unfortunately, that goal feels a little out of my benevolence range for such an early hour of the morning. Apathy might be a little more achievable. I don’t care because I’m over it. All of this is about to be in my rearview mirror anyway.

  “For the record,” Jack says, alleviating my struggle to respond, “I was just joking. I never intended to take that spot.”

  “Yeah?” To my relief, I hit the note just right: casual, without an edge of accusation or disbelief.

  “I hadn’t even touched the gas pedal when you went full Mad Max on me.”

  The mental image almost makes me smile. “Whatever. You know what? Forget about it. I was probably overreacti—”

  “Brake lights! And look at that: it’s a way better spot than yours.” Jack winks at me as he swings his car into a U-turn and races toward the front of the parking lot.

  Just like that, apathy slips beyond my reach. I waste five scheduled seconds glaring after him.

  * * *

  THE PATH FROM the lot leads me underground through the lower level of a parking garage, which is somehow colder than outside. My heels make clicking noises that echo off the cement walls. They say, Last time! Last time! I veer toward the moving walkways. Each week, two of the three are broken. Not the same two, obviously. That would make too much sense. I like to play a little game called Which Will It Be? Today I guess incorrectly. In a surprise twist, all three are out of order.

  Once I’ve checked in on the phone behind the ticket counter, I glance at my watch and allow my mind to downshift from the rigidity of my schedule. I’ve got forty-six minutes until I have to be at the gate. As long as I leave a good buffer to get there promptly, the rest of the time is mine to do with as I please. I force my back to loosen and shoulders to relax.

  Taking the long way toward the special security entrance for crew, I let the brightness and bustle of my surroundings seep into me. The airport is the only place in the world where it isn’t annoying when someone wanders into your path or bumps arms with you. Everyone has blinders on, homing in on the imaginary checklist in front of them. They’re tryin
g to figure out what needs to be done next. They’re trying to remember anything they might’ve forgotten.

  Every now and then, someone looks up, their eyes widening when they see me. Most are wondering if they have a question they might need to ask me; it’s rare to spot an airport employee who doesn’t have a line of people clamoring for their attention. Others scan the length of my body with appreciative eyes. It is an embarrassing but inarguable fact that I am more attractive when I’m in uniform.

  It sounds ridiculous, I know; my dress is the color of a cartoon blueberry and is made of material so synthetic I suspect the real reason they’ve banned smoking on planes is from fear the crew would explode into blue fireballs if they ventured too close to anything lit. Facts are facts, though. Flight attendants fall into that category of careers TV and movies have decided to portray as sexy. Nurses. Cocktail waitresses. Lounge singers. In reality, I am a five-foot-tall twenty-eight-year-old who favors oversized T-shirts and often forgets to wash her face at night. But at work, I put on the issued heels and dress and suddenly have adult-length legs, pornographically large breasts, and the illusion of a waist.

  In front of me, an old woman struggles with the bags that have been perched atop her roller. A businessman breaks free of his blinders and stops to adjust them for her. My heart swells. I’m thrilled to be finally settling down, but I can’t help feeling the tiniest bit sad. I am going to miss this place and the people in it so much.

  The feeling intensifies when the TSA agent makes small talk as he scans me through. Even the sight of the line snaking out from the McDonald’s causes a hitch in my stomach. All of those people waiting for their frozen patties and spongy pancakes, with no idea the best breakfast in the world is ten feet away at LeeAnn Chin’s. It’s a secret I’m privy to because this is my domain. Only soon it won’t be. I’ll be eating my breakfast at a normal time, in a normal kitchen, with the man I love. A woman in line for McCoffee reluctantly shifts so I can get past her to go to LeeAnn’s.

  For the first time ever, there’s someone already at the counter as I walk up. The secret’s out. I’m not even gone yet, and someone’s already taken my place.

  I stand back, giving him space, but I can hear him asking what’s in the spring rolls. His voice sounds familiar, but when you’re in customer service, everyone begins to sound the same. No doubt See-Yun has heard these questions a thousand times. Anything breakfasty? Bacon? Sausage?

  Behind the counter, she shakes her head and smiles. She doesn’t point out that there are several pans of food between them that an American might consider “breakfasty.” Nor does she state the very obvious fact that the spring rolls, egg rolls, and cream cheese wontons grouped together at the end will be fantastic, regardless of the time of day.

  “Just order the Asian scramble,” I say to the man’s broad-shouldered back, referring to the scrambled eggs with the chunks of sausage, peppers, and onions mixed in. The words linger in the air, sharper than I’ve intended, likely still colored by my unfriendly encounter in the parking lot. I shake my head at myself and soften my tone, because I’m in uniform, and it’s my job to be kind, and it’s not this man’s fault I feel weirdly proprietary over a pan of eggs I had no part in making. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Good morning, Ava.” See-Yun shifts her gaze toward me as the man turns around.

  The smile I give her turns to a grimace as I register the strong jaw and ridiculously blue eyes. Is this man absolutely determined to ruin the first day of my last trip? Somehow Jack Stone has beaten me here. Probably because he didn’t care enough to stroll through the airport, soaking it all in. He took it for granted because he knows he’ll do this all again next week.

  My back stiffens with annoyance. It’s obvious why I didn’t realize it was him standing in front of me. Jack is supposed to be wearing the male version of the blueberry trench coat I have on, not his own jacket. It’s made of canvas or something (that probably provides no actual warmth) with random straps and pockets on it. It’s one of those irritating articles of clothing that manages to look so not trendy that it’s actually trendy. I dislike it intensely.

  “Hello again.” Jack’s expression is friendly, like he’s already forgotten our fight. “Aviana, right?”

  “It’s Ava.” I mentally add poor listener below wrong jacket and parking anarchist on the list of things that annoy me about him. I mean, See-Yun just said my name, did she not?

  “I’m Jack.”

  Despite the fact that we’ve now had two previous encounters, I realize this is the first time we’ve properly introduced ourselves. His smile, I can now see, is crooked. It’s baffling. The guy is probably thirty years old. How is it possible he hasn’t figured out how to correctly use his face by now?

  “Hello, Jack.” I tilt my head toward the pans of breakfast food behind the glass. “Time’s ticking. You know what they say: order or get off the pot.”

  Jack looks unfazed, undoubtedly assuming this is just the way I interact with people. See-Yun, however—like any other person who knows me would—looks taken aback. To her, I’ve always been sunshine and early-morning chatter. But she’s not a terrible person. She’s given me no reason to dislike her.

  “I’ve had the Asian scramble before,” Jack says. “It’s great, but so is the ham-and-cheese scramble. Have you tried that?”

  I shake my head.

  “You should,” he says.

  “I’m not the one trying to decide what I want.” I say the words lightly, and he laughs like I’m joking, but I’m not. How hard is it to find something good and stick with it? Why do people like him always have to keep searching for something better? Maybe it’s a pilot thing. That would explain why Jack was so willing to aid and abet his slimy pilot buddy. They’re kindred souls, bonded in their quest to sample everything . . . and everyone.

  I shake the thought away. This is not the moment for a trip through the thorns that line memory lane. It’s the last time I’ll ever go to LeeAnn’s in my uniform. It’s the last Asian scramble I’ll eat before a work trip. Jack already ruined my parking victory. I will not allow him to spoil my breakfast, too. Still, something must show on my face because Jack’s head tilts and his eyes scan my face.

  “You okay?” He leans forward, voice low, and I notice the dark stubble indicating he hasn’t shaved this morning. Just further proof of his blatant disregard for the uniform policy.

  “Actually,” I say, “I’m hungry. That would be the reason I’m standing in front of a counter full of food. And I do understand that this seems to be the most important decision you’ve ever made in your life, but maybe you can do us all a favor and just choose something.”

  To his credit, Jack doesn’t flinch. He merely steps back and waves me forward.

  “See-Yun,” he says, “the lady would like to place an order.”

  My feet stay planted against the floor. “I can wait my turn.”

  Jack’s head tilts. “Maybe it’s better for everyone if you just recognize your limitations?”

  “There are only two egg options and a few sides. Surely even you can narrow it down, if you focus really hard.”

  “But why limit myself?” Jack flashes another crooked smile at me before turning back to See-Yun. “Actually, I think I’m in the mood for a little of both. Can you give me half of the Asian scramble and half ham-and-cheese scramble?”

  Unsurprisingly, See-Yun nods and loads more than a half portion of each into the Styrofoam container. Some women can’t ever seem to resist feeding handsome men.

  “And I’ll add two of those spring rolls,” Jack says. “Maybe that’s exactly what breakfast has been missing.”

  I roll my eyes and sigh. The need for variety? A desire for excess? Jack Stone is exactly as advertised. Once a pilot, always a pilot.