by Aven Ellis
I’m floating on air.
And much to my dismay, we reach my building way, way, too quickly.
“I’ll walk you up to your door,” he says.
Oh God. I swallow nervously as I pause on the steps. Do I invite him in? Or does that send a bad message? Will Deke kiss me at the door? If he does kiss me, does that mean it’s okay to invite him in?
“I’d just feel better seeing you go inside,” Deke says, as if he’s reading the torment going on inside my head.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
We enter my building and head up the first flight of stairs. Just as we reach the landing, his cell phone rings.
“That’s probably Zach,” he says, stopping in the hallway. “Excuse me.”
I watch as he retrieves his phone. And the second he glances at the number, his brow furrows and an uncomfortable look flickers over his handsome face.
And I instinctively know it’s Isabel.
I swallow hard as the phone rings again. My wonderful, 1950’s romantic movie has abruptly ended, as I’m sternly reminded that Deke is dating Isabel, not me.
“You . . . you can talk to her,” I say quietly.
He jerks his head up. “No, no, it’s all right.”
But as he shuts off his phone and slips it back into his jeans pocket, we both know the evening is over.
I clear my throat and take out my keys. I avoid looking at him as I walk to my door. I quickly put the key into the lock, and then with all the bravery in the world I have, I turn to him and force a smile on my face.
“Thank you for escorting me home,” I say softly. “And for the dance. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Avery—”
“Goodnight,” I whisper. Then I turn and enter my apartment, shutting the door behind me. I lean against it, my heart frozen painfully inside my chest, my ears straining to hear his footsteps.
He doesn’t move for a few seconds. Then I hear him retreat down the stairs. I rush over to the window, hiding behind the sheers in the darkness, and glance down at the street below.
And Deke is standing on the sidewalk, staring up at my apartment window as the streetlamp shines down on him. My heart comes alive again, beating furiously inside my chest.
But then he turns and leaves, heading back down the street.
I exhale sharply, emotions swirling wildly inside of me. I push the curtain aside, watching him walk away, pain lingering in my heart. Yes, I know we’re friends now. I’m certain of that fact.
But was there something more out there tonight? Didn’t Deke feel what I was feeling? Could he really dance like that with anyone else?
Or am I a good girl friend, while exotic, Spanish, Isabel is in line to be his next girlfriend?
I swallow back tears that have unexpectedly risen in my throat. Deke isn’t mine. Not in the way I want him to be.
Somehow I’ll have to find a way to come to terms with the fact that Isabel is his romantic interest, not me.
And as I watch him disappear out of my view, I know it’s going to be very hard to erase these feelings that have formed in my heart.
Two weeks later, I’m getting ready to go into Craig Potanski’s office to pitch the spa basket idea.
And in two weeks, so much has changed—and at the same time, things have remained exactly the same.
What’s changed? Well, Deke now drives me to work on the days that he’s shooting. We ride in together, go to lunch, and then he drives me home. I feel like I know everything about him, and he knows everything about me. Because with the awful traffic during rush hour, we’ve had lots of time in the car to talk and continue to get to know each other.
During the commute, we listen to music or flip on the radio to check the final score in the Cubs game if they’re at home. We debate the advice columns in the Vibe and Chicago Tribune. We talk about people I work with—making fun of Rebecca and Creepy Spence—and he tells me about people at the First Class Travel Channel. I’ve also been giving him the progress reports on my proposal to Craig Potanski.
Yet in all this time spent together, one word never escapes either of our lips.
Isabel.
And that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. Deke has made no physical move toward me since that night we danced together. Even if I accidentally touch him, he gets jumpy, as if I’ve burned him or something. It has to be because he knows I have a crush on him, and it makes him feel weird because he’s with Isabel.
It’s not that he’s actually said that, of course, but there are some things a girl just knows.
But now I need to be focused on Craig Potanski, whom I’m going to pitch to in just mere minutes. I glance down at my watch, nervous butterflies shifting in my stomach.
I swallow hard as I wait outside of Craig’s office. Deke is in there fitting Craig with a mic, as this meeting is a very big part of my story on Arrivals & Departures. The whole world will watch me pitch my idea and see if it succeeds—or if I fall flat on my face.
I breathe deeply, finding comfort in knowing he’ll be in there with me. It’s funny how important both my career and Deke have become to me in the past month. I wasn’t supposed to care about either of them.
I wasn’t supposed to want a real career.
I wasn’t supposed to fall for my videographer.
And I care so much about both of them that it scares me.
At least the career thing can still happen, though.
“Avery?”
I turn my head and see Deke heading toward me, carrying his camera.
“Is Craig ready?” I ask nervously. God, can I do this? Suddenly doubt rattles my core. What if I sound like an idiot? I’m going to be sick. I’m going to throw—
“Avery, you’re going to go in there and lock it down, okay?” he says firmly, standing in front of me. “You’re going to lock it down.”
I can breathe again. As usual, Deke has peered straight into my eyes and read the ramblings going through my head.
“Right,” I say, taking a breath of air. “Lock it down.”
I bend down and pick up my Neiman Marcus shopping bag. I square my shoulders, stand tall in my brand new French Connection print dress—and yes, I had to charge it with the emergency MasterCard, but honestly, this is an investment in my future—and make myself walk confidently toward Craig’s office. Deke hoists the camera onto his shoulder and turns the light on. He shoots me while walking backward, so he can capture me going into Craig’s office to change airline toiletries history.
Or make a total ass out of myself, depending on what Craig thinks of my idea.
I stride into Craig’s office and smile confidently at him, despite the fact that I’m starting to tremble in my heels.
“Good morning, Craig,” I say brightly.
“Avery, have a seat,” Craig says, getting up to shut the door. Then he comes back around and sinks into his sleek, modern desk chair. “I understand you have a proposal that you want me to hear.”
I watch as he casually picks up his Premier Airlines coffee mug and takes a sip. Then his brown eyes focus intently on mine, waiting for me to speak.
Now I really feel like running out the door in terror. God, this man is still scary to me.
“Yes,” I say, zoning out the camera, Deke, the shining models of Premier Airlines jets that are neatly arranged in Craig’s bookcase behind his desk. All that matters is the pitch. I’m only aware of what I’m about to say.
“I was very inspired by the Spa Service that we want to launch next year,” I say carefully, getting directly to the point. “And despite the initial reaction of the marketing team, I think the spa basket toiletries kit can be a viable part of this new service.”
I wait for Craig to respond. He stares straight at me, his face re
vealing nothing. I almost wait for him to scream at me for wasting his time with this moronic idea.
But he doesn’t.
“And why do you think that?” he asks.
“I’ve done research,” I say, ready to start reeling off the facts and figures I’ve spent the past week memorizing. “About the spa industry and their consumers. As well as the other amenities other airlines are offering on overseas flights. And I think we have the opportunity to do something really different, if Premier Airlines is willing to take the chance.”
And then I launch into what I’ve learned. I give Craig statistics. I explain to him how we can partner with exclusive spas to offer their products in-flight and create cross-promotional opportunities. I show Craig the sample basket I put together, proving to him how much thought I put into each item I chose.
Craig says nothing the entire time. I keep speaking, filling the silence, until I’ve run through the entire presentation. By this point, my palms are sweating and my stomach is upside down in fear.
Craig folds his hands on his desk, on top of what appears to be an important stack of papers. His eyes focus directly into mine, making me want to throw up.
“So you believe in this idea, Avery?” he finally asks.
“Very much so,” I say honestly.
“Do you believe in it enough to present it to the national marketing team in San Francisco in July?”
“What?” I gasp, stunned.
“We have our annual marketing retreat in July in a few weeks,” Craig says slowly. “Normally assistants are not included in these meetings. But because you believe so firmly in this idea, I was thinking you could do a PowerPoint presentation on the spa baskets during our retreat and see how the national team responds to it. If you’re willing to take the chance, that is.”
I don’t respond for a moment. I’m so shocked that I don’t even know what to say. Craig wants me to present this idea—in San Francisco. This is huge. Really, really, huge!
Oh shit. My elation lands in my stomach with a huge thud. Because this also means flying for hours in an airplane to get to San Francisco.
“Avery?” Craig asks, raising an eyebrow at me.
I push aside my fear of flying for a moment. “Craig, I’d be delighted if I could present my idea to the group. Thank you for the opportunity. I promise you I’ll make the most of it.”
“I have no doubt that you will,” Craig says, standing up. “I’ll be sure to have Janelle put it on the agenda.”
Then he glances at Deke. “I think we’re done here. I have another meeting I have to go to in fifteen minutes.”
“No problem,” Deke says, shutting off the camera light.
“Thank you again for giving me your time this morning.” I say to Craig, nodding at him.
“Anytime, Avery,” he says.
I carefully pick up my spa basket and set it back inside the shopping bag. Then I leave the room, tingling with excitement from head to toe.
Oh my God. I’m going to do a presentation for the entire marketing team! My idea might actually see the light of day on board Premier Airlines flights. Adrenaline flows through me. My head is whirling with ideas. And the entire time I’m heading back to my cubicle, a sense of both accomplishment and challenge fills me.
And it feels good. I had no idea working could be so rewarding to my soul.
Then I remember the teeny, tiny, little problem about having to fly to San Francisco to make my career dreams come true.
I sit down in my cubicle and take a breath of air, as my stomach clenches at the thought of getting back on an airplane. There has to be a book or self-help app I can get to help me get over this irrational fear of flying. After Deke takes me home tonight, I’ll go get in my car and get one. It’s just a little phobia, that’s all.
“Avery.”
I turn and see Deke walking toward me, a huge grin on his face.
I stand up, as I’m excited to hear what he thinks.
“You did it,” he says excitedly. “Congratulations, Fashionista. You went in there and locked it down.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I say. “I can’t believe this. I was never supposed to do anything like this.”
“But you did. And now we’re going to San Francisco.”
I pause for a moment, taking in his words. “We?”
“Well, yeah. I go where you go, remember? And this is going to be the biggest part of your story on Arrivals & Departures. I can’t wait to shoot this presentation, Avery. You’re going to blow them away.”
My head is spinning as I realize what Deke is saying to me. Deke is going to be there with me. In San Francisco, one of the most romantic cities in the world. He’ll be there as I give a presentation that will change the course of my future.
And I just hope that San Francisco will not only change the course of my career, but my relationship with Deke as well.
Now all I have to do is get over my fear of flying.
Chapter 15
I’m nearing my death.
So that’s a bit melodramatic, but as I sit on this train, the one making its way toward O’Hare International Airport on Saturday afternoon, I’m on the verge of a complete meltdown.
I grip the handle of my wheeled luggage bag in terror as I see a sign for O’Hare. Oh God. I really should have read that fear of flying self-help book I bought two weeks ago. But every time I tried to read it, a sense of impending doom and anxiety overwhelmed me. I put the book at the bottom of my stack of magazines, willing this trip to go away. A paralyzing fear of dealing with the flight made me set it aside whenever I tried to read Chapter One.
That, and a big feeling of failure, too.
I wish I could be normal like everyone else going to the airport tonight. Why can’t I be like Bree? She flies all the time and never bats an eyelash at it.
Of course, the night before a flight, I bet Bree doesn’t watch back-to-back episodes of Seconds From Disaster on TV, either.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath of air, as directed by the “You CAN Conquer Your Fear of Flying!” self-help tips my dad e-mailed me this week. I’m not to obsess about my fears when I get to the airport, according to tip number three.
Suddenly my cell phone rings. I fish it out of my purse and see that it’s Bree.
“Hello?”
“Hey, how are you?” Bree asks. “Still breathing?”
I nod. Bree, along with my parents, understand how big of a deal taking this flight to San Francisco is for me.
“I am,” I say, my stomach knotting up as O’Hare looms nearer.
“I still could have traded shifts and taken you to the airport,” Bree says. “I wanted to be there for you, Avery.”
“No, absolutely not,” I say. “This is your first week at the Bradley Scott. I know you need every shift you can get.”
Bree has just taken a cocktailing job at the Bradley Scott Hotel downtown, her temporary job until she finds a career in advertising. And I can’t let her lose money out of her pocket because I have an irrational phobia.
Besides, unless Bree can magically find a way to get me to San Francisco tonight without taking a flight, she really can’t help me.
No one can.
“I wish you would have let Deke give you a ride,” Bree says. “I don’t like the idea of you entering the airport alone.”
“You know why I couldn’t ride with him,” I say sadly. “He wanted to shoot me, thinking he’d get exciting footage of a rah-rah airline employee heading off for a major presentation. I can’t let Deke see this. He’ll know I’m a complete fraud. I mean, how would Craig Potanski feel if he knew one of the stars of the Arrivals & Departures documentary is afraid to fly?”
I take another deep breath of air, as my chest is getting tighter. I ble
w Deke off with excuses, telling him I had a million last-minute things to do, and I know he was irritated with me for not letting him shoot my arrival at O’Hare. But I can’t have that camera on me now. I can’t. And it will take every freaking acting skill I have to appear semi-normal when he shoots me in the gate area, as I agreed to do in return for him not shooting me earlier today.
“Avery, it’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine,” Bree says firmly, refusing to let me be defeated.
“Uh-huh,” I murmur as the train pulls into the airport.
“You’ll be okay,” Bree assures me. “Hey, I’m at the hotel so I’ve got to go. But think of the end result: you get to make a presentation that could totally change the course of your career. And when it’s all done, you will get to explore one of the most amazing cities in the world. It will be worth the flight, I promise.”
Dear God. How can I even think about San Francisco when I’m traumatized by the mere idea of getting in line at the Sky Cap?
“Right,” I say. “Bye, Bree.”
I hang up and remain frozen in my seat as other passengers get up to disembark for the terminal. I scan all of their faces. They aren’t worried that these could be their last moments alive. They aren’t thinking the plane is going to go into a death spiral somewhere over the United States.
No, of course they aren’t. I have enough irrational fears and trauma for everyone in the concourse this evening, so why should they care?
I force myself to get up. I drag my bag behind me, hearing the wheels roll against the pavement as I leave the train. Nausea rises in me. I hate that wheeled bag sound. Suddenly I’m aware of it everywhere, the wheels spinning and clacking as people drag their suitcases behind them. That sound = airport to me.
Then I hear the most dreaded sound of all.
A jet roaring overhead on take-off.
My heart explodes inside my chest. My palms are starting to sweat. The smell of jet fuel lingers in the air, and I resist the urge to throw up. I make my way to the Premier Airlines terminal, becoming more of a basket case as I near the Sky Cap check-in.
