Come Fly with Me: A Collection

by Whitney G.

I took a seat on the sofa that faced the window and mentally rewound the past few months again and again, slowly recalling a few more wandering, sleepless nights. I started to send the manager a “My apologies for the miscommunication” email, but I spotted an open crossword puzzle tucked under my seat cushion. A completely filled out, not-in-my-goddamn-handwriting, crossword puzzle.

  I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.

  I knew he was full of shit…

  I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.

  * * *

  Subject: An FCE.

  Dear Mr. Weston,

  My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.

  Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.

  An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.

  I truly hope you’ll enjoy flying for us.

  Dr. Owens

  Chief of Personnel Affairs, Elite Airways

  * * *

  I opened the attached document and only managed to read through the first paragraph.

  Son of a bitch…

  Blog Post

  Gillian

  Six years ago…

  * * *

  Oh, New York!

  New York, New York, New York!

  Everyone in my family warned me about you, this city. They said you’d lure me here with your dazzling lights and glittering billboards, with the sweet scent of success that wafts through every open window on Wall Street, and with the high hopes and dreams that flow up and down the Hudson River.

  Then they said you’d pull me deep into those waters and drown me…

  “You won’t survive a month there,” my mother said. “It’s only for the people who actually have something going for themselves.”

  “You don’t have what it takes and you never will,” my oldest sister said.

  “Just don’t get mad when we say, ‘We told you so,’ when you beg us to come back.” My father sent me those words via text message the day I left. Then he added, “You’ll definitely be back, Gillian. After a month at most.”

  Well, I’ve survived more than a month. It’s been SIX MONTHS, and I’ve proved the three of them (and everyone else in my discouraging family) wrong. Dead. Ass. Wrong.

  At only twenty-three years old, I’m living my wildest dreams. I’m staying across the street from Central Park in a fully furnished Lexington Avenue apartment, having weekly coffeehouse dates with nice guys who actually believe in chivalry and romance, and working at one of the most revered places in all of Manhattan. (Yes, I’m mainly making very lengthy coffee runs and drowning in endless hours of grunt work, but this is the place I’ve wanted to work since I was thirteen years old, so I don’t care.)

  And if that isn’t enough, just this morning, I received some amazing ‘this-can’t-be-my-life’ news that I can’t share just yet. Nonetheless, I have a feeling I’ll be writing about that soon.

  Until then, I simply wanted to start anew with a fresh blog since my previous one died from neglect. What better way to begin than by saying life couldn’t be any better right now?

  I hope this never changes.

  Write later,

  Gillian Taylor

  Gillian

  G.T.

  T.G.

  TayG

  **Taylor G.**

  * * *

  No comments posted.

  Gate A3

  Gillian

  New York (JFK)

  Present Day

  I think I hate my life…

  “Have a great day in New York City!” I smiled as the first class passengers walked past me and stepped off the plane. “Thank you so much for flying with Elite Airways! Enjoy the Big Apple!”

  “Hope you enjoyed flying with us today!” The other flight attendant onboard, Christina, joined me in the farewells. “We sure enjoyed having you!”

  One of these days, I was actually going to believe the gleeful words that came out of my mouth at landing, but today was not that day. Even though all of the passengers on this flight were quite polite, today’s trip was nothing more than a repeat of every flight I’d been assigned over the past year. It was a reminder that I wasn’t a ‘real’ flight attendant yet, that I was still on ‘reserve.’ Still trying to figure out when the promises in the monthly employee magazine would come true for me.

  Every third Sunday, like clockwork, that glossy “How We Fly” magazine arrived in my mailbox—taunting me with broken promises and pretty pictures, reminding me of all the reasons I’d first applied. It was the idea of traveling to places like London, Milan, and Tokyo within the same month. The high possibilities of traipsing across vineyards and countryside roads on my days off. And also, the slightly vain wish of walking through the airports in one of their famous blue uniform dresses and custom airline-issued Louboutin heels, looking just like the glamorous women in the commercials.

  Alas, I missed the fine print. There was only a “chance” of flying to beautiful places night after night. The only “traipsing” occurred in the five steps from the airport shuttle van to the stopover hotel. And until I was off reserve status, I would continue to receive last minute, short trips while the flight attendants with seniority picked all the best routes first.

  “Is it me, or is this the slowest group of passengers you’ve ever seen?” Christina muttered under her breath.

  “They’re definitely the slowest.” I noticed that rows fifteen through thirty had yet to open their overhead bins.

  I am definitely going to be late tonight…

  “Have the schedulers finally allowed you to bid on lines or are you still on reserve, Gillian?” she asked.

  “Reserve.”

  “Really?” It’s been a year since I last saw you and you’re still on reserve?” She looked as if she didn’t believe me. “Don’t tell me they’re still giving you that, ‘Wait until we finish all of our mergers’ excuse.”

  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 they 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.