by Whitney G.
When I was finished, he clasped my hand and walked me out of the hotel and into a waiting taxi cab. Pulling me into his lap, he ran his fingers through my hair as the car careened across the cobble-stoned streets.
“Where are we going?” I asked softly.
“Somewhere I think you might like.”
Within minutes, the cab pulled in front of Hatchard’s, the oldest book store in London.
I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face as he helped me out of the car. He led me inside, past the famous café and displays and toward a sign and room that read “Signing Event Today!”
“You brought me to a book signing?” I looked up at him, unable to contain my excitement. “Is it John Grisham?”
“Unfortunately not.” He laughed.
“Then who is it?”
“That type of thing matters at a signing?” he asked genuinely, looking as if he was really trying to make an impression today.
“No.” I smiled. “Not this time.”
He pulled out a chair for me at one of the room’s tables. “I’ll get you some coffee. Three sugars, hazelnut shots, right?”
“You remembered?”
“Not at all.” He kissed my forehead before stepping away.
All of a sudden a loud applause filled the room and I joined in, standing with the rest of the room as a woman in a red dress took the short stage at the front of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “Thank you so much for joining us today at Hatchard’s! We’re honored to bring our guest of the month here. Please welcome, World-renowned and bestselling author of Mile High Club Unveiled and New York, New York, Brooke Clarkson!”
My hands immediately stopped clapping and my heart sank ten levels as my past collided with my present.
The author, dressed in a beautiful black dress with her famous million-dollar smile, waved at the audience as she took her seat.
“Hi!” She said, still looking as perfect as she did years ago, when my “run-in” with her got me fired. “It’s so nice to be here today!”
The audience giggled and said “Squee!” like little schoolgirls while my previous career played in front of me, while all the pain and anger that landed me in my current life ran on repeat.
“I want to start with a question and answer session before I start today,” she said, and I slowly stood up, ready to get the hell out of here.
I rushed out of the room, nearly running into Jake and he followed me toward the doors—grabbing my wrist before I could leave. Noticing the look on my face, he pulled me toward the back of the store and pressed me against a bookcase.
“What’s wrong with you, Gillian?” He held my face, looking concerned.
I shook my head.
“Another long story?”
“Yes, but...I don’t want to tell this one.”
“Then don’t.” He set my coffee on the shelf. “But we’re not wasting the rest of this date.”
“This is a date?” I smiled. “I thought you didn’t do those.”
“I thought I didn’t either.” He pushed me against the bookshelf and pressed his mouth against mine, making me quickly forget everything else. But only for a few hours...
Four hours later, in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of his voice on the balcony. He was shouting at someone, throwing glass onto the floor.
“You wait until now to tell me this shit?” He snarled. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been—” He threw another glass. “Fuck you. Fuck. You. I’m on my way.”
I sat up in the bed, watching him open the sliding doors. He stormed into the room, glanced at me and shook his head. He tossed back one of the half-full shots from last night and grabbed his pants.
“We need to go,” he said.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“Together?”
“No.” He dialed a number on his phone and held it up to his ear. “Yes. I need a first class ticket to New York for someone. No, the airline doesn’t matter, but departure is today, within the next three hours preferably. I prefer JFK over LaGuardia airport. Yes...Yes, thank you.”
MY PHONE SUDDENLY VIBRATED with an email.
SUBJECT: FLIGHT CONFIRMATION.
Thank you for flying with Delta Airways. We look forward to serving you aboard our first class cabin. Please click the attachment to view your itinerary.
[pdf.]
I WATCHED AS JAKE REDRESSED without another word, as he gestured for me to do the same. He didn’t speak to me as we left the hotel together, didn’t even look my way as he registered for a cheap rental car and drove us to the airport.
“You got my hopes up again, Jake,” I said softly. “You got my fucking hopes up again and you just stomped all over them for no reason. No explanation.”
“I can’t give you an explanation right now, Gillian,” he said. “I honestly can’t. We’re not there yet.”
“Then I don’t think we ever will be...” I didn’t say anything else for the remainder of the drive.
When he pulled in front of the Delta departure stop, he simply held the door open for me and only said, “Have a safe flight.”
“I thought you were going to tell me what was going on with you. Does it have something to do with why you’re acting this way right now?”
“Get out of the car, Gillian.”
Shaking my head, I grabbed my bag and stepped out—ignoring the agonizing ache in my chest.
“Thank you for not fighting with me on this,” he said, leaning forward to kiss my forehead but I stepped back.
“You know how you previously said that you would need a real reason for us to come to an end?”
“Don’t do this right now, Gillian. You have no idea what’s going on.”
“I know,” I stepped onto the sidewalk. “That’s the point. This is the end for me, Jake. Goodbye.”
I walked away for the final time.
GATE B34
JAKE
London (HTW)—>Newark (EWR)
I DIDN’T HAVE TIME to think about Gillian’s feelings right now. I only received these phone calls or voicemails every so often and I needed to act quickly each time they came.
The second I landed in Newark, I took a cab straight to a secluded black cove in the middle of the suburbs. Rushing inside the lone building that sat in the center of the cove, I signed my name at the desk and hoped I wasn’t too late this time.
I walked down the hall, to room number eight, and slowly ran my fingers across the nameplate: Sarah Irene Weston.
I walked into the room and the woman in bed immediately sat up.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you here for Sarah? She pointed to the empty bed next to her.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m here for Sarah. Do you know where she is?”
“She’ll be back in an hour or so.” She patted the edge of her bed. “You’ll keep me company until she gets back?”
I nodded and walked over, sitting on her bed.
She was silent for a few minutes—looking as if she was waiting for Sarah, too, but then she began to speak.
“They don’t keep it warm enough here,” she said. “I always have to ask for blankets.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I noticed she was buried under four of them, that there was a stack of them in the corner.
“It’s okay. They joke with me every time I ask for a new one. Apparently, I’ve asked for so many, that some anonymous donor sends me brand new ones whenever I want. All I have to do is call some place called Blanket Manufacturing when I’m running low and they come like clockwork.”
“That’s very nice.” I looked toward the door to see if a nurse was nearby.
“Isn’t it?” She smiled. “I hate the food here as well, so another anonymous donor sends me catered food every day. What’s your name, son?”
“Jake.”
“Jake?” Her eyes lit up. “I have a son named Jake! Jake Weston is his name. He’s a pilot, y
ou know.”
“Is he now?”
“Yes.” She looked proud. “He sends me trinkets from every city he flies to, every single one so I can feel like I’ve traveled the world, too.”
“That’s very nice of him.”
“He is nice.” She nodded. “He’s just stubborn. Things always have to be his way or no way.”
“Not always...”
“Oh, trust me.” She laughed. “I know my Jake. It’s always, especially since he’s in his twenties now.” She pointed toward the stack of blankets in the corner, so I grabbed one and lay it on top of her, tucking her tightly underneath.
“Do you have any children, Jake?” she asked.
“No.”
“No? Why not? You look like you’re in your prime, like you’re ready to settle down and have a few.”
“I don’t have the time.”
“The time?” She laughed. “Oh, now you sound exactly like my Jake! He always says that! I’ll have to tell him about you. I’ll have to let him know that there’s another Jake in the world who doesn’t want to have any kids.” She looked toward the door. “Since Sarah’s taking a long time, can we talk a little more? Can I tell you more about my Jake?”
I nodded, the ache in my chest becoming damn near unbearable.
“Well, you know how they say a mother never has a favorite child?” She waited until I nodded. “Between you and me, Jake is my favorite—always has been. When my father passed away, and left me this monstrosity of a condo in Manhattan, I gave it to Jake. Only Jake. I gave my other son something just as nice—it was nicer actually. But it was located in the suburbs because he once told me he wanted a family...” She paused. “But then he sold it, for half of what it was worth.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be! I did the same thing with my father’s watches,” she said. “I’m not sure why he left them to me, but Jake always appreciated them, so he deserved to have them.” She leaned over her bed and opened a drawer, pulling out my high school yearbook picture and showing it to me with a smile.
I nodded at the image, wishing I’d gotten here faster.
“I don’t get visitors too often, Jake,” she said. “Since we’re still waiting on Sarah, you have to stay for at least an hour, okay? I can tell you stories if you want...”
With no prompting, she told me endless stories from my childhood, stories I’d heard a million times before and lived through first hand. She embellished details here or there, making me sound slightly more mischievous like she always did.
In the middle of her telling me about the time she caught “Jake” sneaking out of the house at night, she grabbed the glass on her night stand and slowly sipped her water. Then she set it down and stared at me, her eyes widening with every second that passed by.
“Why are you...Why are you sitting on my bed?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m sorry.” I stood up. “My apologies, Miss. I must be in the wrong room.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. Are you here for Sarah?”
I sat down again, letting her tell me the same stories over and over—watching her remember and forget me within the same five-minute span. And the more she talked, the more I wondered if she knew she was technically dead. That her name and likeness were already transfixed to a plane, for a flight she’d never taken, a fake story she’d never hear.
Every now and then she’d come to and remember random, recent things, saying, “I’d always tell Jake about my husband, I’d say, He lied to you...He lied to all of us...He used that accident for his advantage...”
And although she could easily slip into another happy refrain and forget all about it, all I could see was my father—fucking lying, always lying. Using any opportunity possible to bolster his image, shunning me and anyone else who dared to stand in his way. Using the timing of my mother’s brain disease diagnosis and short life expectancy in conjunction with a plane crash to garner sympathy and funding.
All for the love of greed and worthless adulation. All for nothing.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fully function for the next few weeks, that I was going to fuck up more shit in my apartment like always. That seeing her like this, seeing her getting worse without having someone else trustworthy enough to talk about it with, was going to have a lasting effect on me.
Maybe it was good that Gillian left after all.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
THIS IS THE LAST TIME I will say this to myself.
The very last time.
My heart can’t take another sequence of angry arguments, another round in this dangerous game of “Will we make it? Should we make it?” or another spin on this never-ending carousel of highs and lows.
Yes, the way this man fucks me is incomparable and leaves me craving more the second he pulls out of me. And yes, the way he pleasures my pussy with his mouth and makes me come for hours on end will forever be unparalleled. But the way we fit (rather, don’t fit) has finally reached its climax.
I will not go back.
I will not go back.
I. Will. Not. Go. Back.
If he calls me, I won’t answer.
If he texts me, I won’t respond.
If he emails me, I won’t open the message.
I’m done.
I. Am. Done.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: I’ve heard this before...Let’s see how long you last...O_o
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
TWO WEEKS DOWN.
No messages from him, no calls.
Although, we did share a short, repositioning flight from Charlotte to Houston, and he did sign off on a form to confirm that a male passenger was being overly rude and offensive to me during the deplaning process. But, that was it.
He barely looked at me after signing the form, and we each went our separate ways to separate flights in the terminal.
He barely even looked at me...
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: I’ll reserve judgment until you make it to 8 weeks...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
FOUR WEEKS.
Nothing.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
NO COMMENTS POSTED.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
SIX WEEKS.
Still nothing...
Just a heavy heart and a sad realization that I really did love him, but I meant nothing to him.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
NO COMMENTS POSTED.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~
PRESENT DAY
HE FINALLY TEXTED ME today, nearly eight weeks after I walked away, and it wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even a hello.
It was a: I need to fuck your pussy. Call me when you get this.
I hope I never see him again. I’m moving on.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 COMMENT POSTED:
KayTROLL: You **are** moving on...
GATE B35
JAKE
New York (JFK)
I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of low voices outside my bedroom, heard them talking about me as if I wasn’t here.
“Why does this tenant keep getting this TV replaced?” One voice said. “I feel like he breaks it every week.”
“It’s one of his many hobbies,” Jeff’s distinctive voice floated through the halls. “He enjoys it.”
“Yeah, well. You should probably tell him that there are hobbies out there that cost less than a thousand dollars a week.”
“I’ll be sure he knows,” Jeff said. “Thank you once again for coming by.”
“Anytime. Literally.”
; The sound of my front door closing and Jeff’s signature hard-bottom shoes walking across the floor were the next things I heard. His steps were getting closer and closer to my bedroom door, and without knocking, he stepped into my space.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weston,” he said, placing a paper invoice onto my dresser. “You’re also welcome, in advance, for finding a new botanist to take care of your plants.”
“What happened to the one I had?”
“I believe you told her to, ‘Get the fuck out of my place,’ a few nights ago during one of your episodes. Do you not remember that?”
“No.”
“I figured.” He shrugged. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be downstairs awaiting your next round of problems.”
“Wait...”
“Yes?”
“I texted Gillian as few times last night and the night before. She hasn’t texted me back.”
He blinked.
“This is the part where you fill in the blanks for me, Jeff. Why the fuck hasn’t she texted me back since you seem to know everything else?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “But it has been over two months since you last spoke so I’m assuming you’re over.” He took a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote something on the back of the invoice. Then he walked out of my room and left the apartment.
I stood up and walked over to see what he’d written on the paper.
She dropped off the watch. It’s on your counter.
