Mister Weston

by Whitney G.

  I gave her a depressed look and she laughed.

  “Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, at least you actually live in New York. You don’t have to share a crash pad with a bunch of other reserve attendants that you don’t know.”

  “I guess...” I said dryly, and she shot me a sympathetic smile.

  We remained at the front of the plane for what felt like forever, keeping our voices cheery and light as the hockey team at the rear continued to move like molasses.

  When the last player finally exited the plane, I grabbed my bag, said a quick goodbye to the pilot and Christina, and raced through the jet bridge. I had exactly twenty minutes to catch the next bus to Manhattan.

  Emerging into Terminal 7, I rushed past gate after gate, dodging hordes of travelers with every step. As I ran, the numerous restaurant signs, gift shop displays, and coffee stands all became a bright blur. The conversations between tourists, the arguments between gate agents, and the announcements from the speakers were all background noise. All I could hear was the sound of my heels clacking against the newly buffed floors.

  My dress inched up my thighs as I neared the no re-entry zone, but I couldn’t waste any time trying to pull it down. I continued running, bypassing the moving sidewalks until I made it to baggage claim.

  With a few minutes to spare, I slipped into a restroom and locked myself inside a stall. Unfastening my flight wing pin and nametag, I tossed them both into my purse. I pulled my navy blue dress over my head, quickly replacing it with a vintage black cocktail dress and a strand of faux white pearls.

  Leaning against the door for support, I took off my grey heels and slid into a pair of glittering red pumps.

  Frantic, I stepped out of the stall—nearly tripping over my shoes as I took my place in front of the mirrors. I blinked a few times and saw that my eyelids were still evenly coated in the “friendly light pink” that was mandated by the airline, and my lips were still stained in a dramatic, sexy red.

  It’s good enough...

  I yanked my hair out of its chignon bun and let the black curls fall past my shoulders. I ran my fingers through them a few times and rushed outside to the transportation dock.

  Pushing my way through waiting travelers, I ran as fast as I could to the bus stop. I waved my hands frantically, screaming “Please stop! Wait!” when my bus began to pull away from the curb, but it was no use. It pulled off before I could catch up.

  Ugh...

  Cursing, I pulled out my phone and ordered an Uber car. As I stepped back to wait, I spotted a group of women pointing and staring at something in the distance. They were blushing like little schoolgirls, giggling as if they were catching sight of a celebrity.

  I followed their line of vision, but all I could see was a pilot. The back of him, anyway. He was walking toward a black car while staring at his cell-phone. His fingers were tapping away on the screen, his four gold shoulder stripes gleaming and commanding attention. From the very way he walked, I could tell he was cocky as fuck—the type of man who thought the world revolved around him and him alone. The type who probably never had to ask anyone for a goddamn thing. As he slipped inside the waiting car, I strained to catch a glimpse of his face—knowing that there was no way in hell that he could be as attractive as these women were making him out to be. Pilots were typically much older, and they didn’t come in the attractive package. Only cocky, arrogant, and philandering. Mostly philandering.

  “Are you Gillian?” A man shouted at me from the open window of a red SUV. “You waiting for an Uber?”

  I nodded and he stepped out of the car, opening the back door for me.

  “233 Broadway,” he said as he returned to the driver’s seat. “You’re going to The Woolworth Building, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Alright, seatbelt.” He pulled away from the curb, right into the warm rain of New York City.

  The car’s windshield wipers squeaked as they swiped back and forth, as the crammed pack of cars outside honked at each other for control of the road.

  Knowing it’d take longer than normal to get to Manhattan, I sent a quick text to my boyfriend, Ben.

  GILLIAN: Just landed not too long ago. Caught an Uber, but slight traffic.

  Ben: An Uber? Jesus, Gillian. I don’t know why you won’t just use my family’s driver. We really wouldn’t mind.

  Gillian: Maybe next time. How’s your mom’s launch party so far?

  Ben: Great. Anyone who’s anyone is here, no nobodies anywhere, and the press can’t get enough.

  Gillian: Right...Are you still taking me to Hemingway’s after it’s over? I was serious about wanting to talk to you tonight.

  Ben: Of course, babe. Whatever you want :-)

  I DIDN’T TEXT BACK.

  “Of course, babe. Whatever you want” almost always meant, “Probably not” because Ben hated confrontation. He also hated the fact that over the past few months, I’d begun to painfully point out the numerous changes in his personality. Even though he refused to admit it, he’d transformed from the sweet, down to earth guy I fell in love with years ago into a man of appearances, a man obsessed with wealth.

  The simple dates we used to enjoy were no longer good enough for him, and since we hardly ever saw each other, the burning passion we once shared was now a flickering flame. Our conversations were now short and redundant—downgraded to “How are you?” “How was your day” and “See you soon.” We were like two lovers locked into a complacent marriage—hanging on for the sake of holding on, constantly trying to get on the same page. Problem was, we were in two completely different books.

  Sighing, I leaned my head back against the headrest. Before I could completely doze off, I felt my phone buzzing against my fingertips. A phone call from my mother.

  I debated whether I should answer it since her previous twenty calls were sent straight to voicemail, but I gave in on the final ring and answered.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hello? Gillian?” She actually sounded concerned. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for weeks now.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been really busy with work lately.”

  “You can’t be that busy.” She clucked her teeth. “I’ve even called your office phone and it just rings all day. Did your work number change or something?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I’ll have it checked out by the IT department this week, though.”

  “Good,” she said. “Anyway, now that I’m sure that you’re alive, I wanted to give you some great news you’ve missed about everyone back here at home.” She cleared her throat. “Amy and Mia are soon to be inductees in the National Health Science Hall of Fame. They’re the youngest scientists to ever be invited. Do you have any idea how proud that makes me? How good it feels when my children actually achieve something significant?”

  I bit my tongue, now wishing I’d sent this call straight to voicemail without a second thought.

  “Claire is about to be published in next month’s Scientific Journal, and your big brother Brian won his hundredth case over the weekend. How amazing is that?”

  “So amazing....”

  “Isn’t it? Don’t you wish you’d accepted that scholarship to MIT like everyone else in the family? Who knows who you could’ve turned out to be?”

  “You’re saying that like I turned out to be a drug dealer.”

  “Are you a drug dealer?”

  What the fuck... “What? No! Why would you ask me that?”

  “I can never be too sure when it comes to you.” She sounded dead-ass serious. “The way you dodge phone calls and whisper talk from time to time gives me pause, honestly. Not only that, but the fact that you’re still living in New York and never call home to ask for money is quite—”

  “Surprising?”

  “Disappointing.” She paused. “Either you’re too proud to ask us for money because you know we were right about you moving to that city, or you’re engaging in some illegal activities to stay afloat until th
ey inevitably catch up with you. When it happens, I’m sure you’ll have to call and ask us to post your bail.”

  I shook my head, unsure of how to address that comment. I simply gave her my usual, “I’m sorry for not picking up as often as I should. I’m still working fifty plus hours a week since we don’t have any new interns” excuse since it was the truth. Well, it would’ve been the truth six years ago.

  “Are you sure that’s all that’s happening?” she asked. “My motherly senses tell me that something is off.”

  “I’m sure.” I rolled my eyes. If she actually possessed any ‘motherly senses,’ they would’ve told her that something was off a long, long time ago.

  Changing the subject, she droned on and on about the “new and exciting” studies she was conducting, hardly ever stopping to catch her breath. I only halfway listened, looking outside my window as the city rain fell harder.

  “Can I still expect you at home in a couple months for the big surprise?” she asked moments later.

  “What big surprise?”

  “Brian is proposing to his girlfriend, the mayor’s daughter. He’s planned this huge party and he told me that he texted you about it months ago.”

  “Oh, right.” I remembered that, and I remembered telling him that I wasn’t coming. “I’ll try my best to be there. I’ll look up plane tickets tonight.”

  “Great! Well, I don’t want to hold you up from doing—what exactly are you doing right now?”

  “Copy-editing. Fact checking a few articles for the week.”

  “Of course. That sounds like...That sounds interesting,”

  “It is.”

  Silence.

  “Well...” She cleared her throat. “Feel free to call any time you happen to remember that you have a family, or whenever you want to talk to me.”

  “I always do. Goodbye, mother.”

  “Goodbye, Gillian. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I hung up before she could say anything else, before my heart could sustain another strain. Our phone conversations were always brief and awkward. They were harsh reminders that no matter how many years passed by, I would always be the black sheep of my family. Literally.

  At first, me being born as the only brunette in a family full of sun-kissed blondes was treated as a running joke—a “Ha! The youngest daughter came into this world making sure she stood out!” type of thing. But over time, and as the youngest of five, nothing I ever did quite measured up to those who came before me.

  My brother and all my sisters were valedictorians of their respective high school classes; I was salutatorian. Each of them handily won every single science fair they ever entered; I received honorable mentions. And all of them, just like my world-renowned neurosurgeon parents, accepted scholarships to MIT; I never considered it as an option. I agreed to an early acceptance to Boston University instead.

  Our family dinners and get-togethers throughout the years were all marked with praise for all of their endless achievements and a “Well, Gillian is...being Gillian,” when it came to me.

  I wasn’t sure why they even tried to invite me home anymore, especially since I’d done everything possible to avoid going back. If I could stay away until I was eighty years old, I was going to give it a try.

  I’m definitely not going home for that proposal...

  The car came to a sudden, jerky stop and I looked ahead through the windshield. Several police cars were flashing their blue and white lights, and an ambulance was speeding down the emergency lane.

  Since it looked as if it was going to take even longer to get to Manhattan, I leaned against the window and drifted to sleep.

  AN HOUR LATER, I WOKE up to see the car coasting its way down Broadway, still blocks away from the Woolworth Building.

  There were three new texts from Ben on my phone, all concerned with appearances, not me.

  BEN: If the Uber car you’re in isn’t a luxury car, tell him to drop you off at the back entrance so you won’t look like a caterer or something.

  Ben: The senator and his wife just arrived, so it’s settled. My girlfriend can’t be seen getting out of anything less than a luxury car.

  Ben: Please tell me you’re wearing one of the dresses your roommate bought for you. One of the designer ones.

  I ROLLED MY EYES AS the car pulled in front of the building, not caring anything about his ridiculous requests. From what I could see, the only people standing outside were valets and doormen, and the luxury cars and limousines were long abandoned.

  I handed the driver a five and stepped out, holding my umbrella over my head as I walked up the steps to two waiting doormen.

  In unison, they uttered, “Good evening,” and opened the doors, letting me inside a glittering, gold lobby. To my surprise, the grand space was completely empty.

  Before I could ask where I was supposed to go, a white-suited bellman stepped off the elevator and motioned for me to step inside.

  “You’re the girlfriend of Ben Walsh, correct?” he asked.

  “Supposedly. Depends on what day of the week it is.”

  He laughed and hit the button for the top floor. “I’d say it’s more than ‘supposedly.’ He’s asked me about your arrival six times tonight. Described you to a T.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll quote him verbatim,” he said. “Beautiful woman with long, wavy black hair and the prettiest set of emerald green eyes you’ll ever see. That’s how I knew it was you.”

  I blushed, feeling somewhat guilty for being so upset with Ben. “Thank you. I’ll tell him how sweet that is.”

  He nodded and faced the front, watching the lights above the doors flash as we passed every floor. When it reached ‘57’, the doors suddenly slid open, letting in the blinding flashes of photographers.

  “Anyone famous?” Someone yelled as the cameras clicked consistently. “Is she somebody?”

  “We’ll figure it out later. Just get the shot!”

  Holding my hand over my eyes, I moved out of their line of fire and into the ballroom’s main event, the re-launch of Cosmopolitan magazine.

  The room was drenched in beautiful silver and white decorations, and previous covers of the magazine were standing atop mini stages throughout the space. Waiters weaved through the guests with champagne trays held high, and almost all of New York’s elite were putting on perfect smiles for the press. Dressed in thousand dollar gowns and impeccably tailored suits, their astonishing wealth could be sensed from miles away. These were the type of people who looked for any occasion to show it off, the type of people who would show up to the opening of a gift bag if it meant there was a chance their face would make it into the papers.

  I smiled as I moved through the guests, saying hello to a few familiar faces as I searched for Ben. After several minutes of looking, I sent him a quick “Where are you?” text, but he never responded.

  Knowing that he was probably posing for endless pictures with local celebrities, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and walked toward the windows that faced the Brooklyn Bridge.

  I was halfway there when his parents, Mrs. Editor in Chief of Cosmopolitan and Mr. Wolf of Wall Street, stepped in front of me. As usual, his mother’s red hair was perfectly curled and coifed, her dress a slimming shade of blue that complemented her eyes. And his brooding father, with his copper-colored hair and dark brown eyes, looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of a political drama. Ben was a clear, carbon copy.

  “Good evening, Gillian.” His mother extended her perfectly manicured hand. “You look rather radiant tonight.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walsh.”

  “My pleasure. Ben was just circling the room looking for you. Have you seen him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll run into him eventually, I’m sure.” His father shook my hand. “He told me you were secretly interested in applying to work at my firm. Is that true, Gillian?”

  Hell no... “Maybe, Mr. Walsh. I’m not telling.”
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  “Ha! I knew it! Apply this week and I’ll hire you whenever you want to start. No questions asked. I’ve told Ben from the very beginning that you were a great catch. I know you love working at that nonprofit and your technology start up, but if you joined the family business, I think you’d love it a lot more.”

  “What nonprofit?” I asked.

  “What nonprofit?” He laughed. “Oh, you’re so modest, Gillian. I love that about you.” He lowered his voice. “There’s no shame working for the less fortunate. I enjoy the few pro bono consults I do every year. It puts everything in perspective...Also looks very good on my taxes.”

  “I bet.” I forced a smile, wondering why the hell Ben had fed his father so many lies about me and my jobs.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” His mother grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray. “That’s the pop culture editor from The Wall Street Journal. I need to make sure she gets a few lines directly from me.” She gave me one last smile. “Enjoy the party, Gillian. Make sure you join us for the official toast in an hour.” She and Mr. Walsh walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  I checked my phone to see if Ben had finally texted me back, and when I saw that he hadn’t, I was more than determined to find him and insist we step out of this party to talk. Now.

  Circling the room, I checked every cocktail table, every champagne fountain, and every cheese and wine station. I even checked the bathrooms. I was almost tempted to have the DJ call for him over the music, but out the corner of my eye I spotted him standing in the corner by the windows. With another woman.

  I stepped closer, hoping my eyes were playing a trick on me, but with every step, his distinctive features came into clearer focus, and the same hands that touched me were caressing the ass of a brunette in a way-too-short grey dress. He was whispering into her ear as she leaned against his shoulder, as her bony fingers combed through his hair.