“It’s not my problem, but you’re my responsibility.”
“Still?” I sculpt a bubble mountain in my lap, averting my eyes. I’m half-grateful and half-humiliated. I’m an adult. I ought to be able to take care of myself. I don’t want Rey to be some helicopter parent still doing my homework when I’m fifty. Dear god, someday I’m going to be fifty. That’s a freak-out for another night.
Rey’s elegant fingers grip my chin and turn my head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Always. Do you understand me? It’s a given. Unconditional. You need me, you call, I come. That’s the deal we made, and I will honor it until the day I die.”
My throat tightens in response to his words. He’s said this or some iteration of it before, more often during our Princeton days when we were getting to know each other, but I occasionally need a booster of Rey. Today is one of those days, and like the wonderful, generous man he is, he’s here to remind me. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
We spend a few hours trying both serious and silly efforts to make me feel better about going to Chicago tomorrow. It’s easier to fall asleep with Rey’s furnace of a body surrounding me, his long fingers toying with my hair, reassurances crooned low in my ear. If I were alone, I’d stare at the ceiling, tossing and turning until my alarm went off too early in the morning.
As it is, I wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and Rey’s T-shirted form propped on an elbow next to me.
“Good morning, starshine.”
He helps me get ready, his chatter about innocuous things interspersed with touches he knows will calm me the most: gripping above my elbow; a firm pass of his fingers over the nape of my neck; holding me to him, my ear flush to his chest where I can take comfort from the steady beat of his heart. Immutable, immovable, unchanging, forever. This is the promise Rey made me so long ago and the only promise I believe in because it’s the only promise that’s been kept.
He drives me to the airport in my car and parks without a word. I don’t bother to argue, but let him steer me through the garage, into the terminal, and to security. This is where we have to part ways.
He lays his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “This is going to be fine, India. You’re going to get on that plane and fall asleep. When you wake up, you’ll be on Windy City soil. And you know what? No one’s going to care, nothing’s going to happen. It’s going to be fine.”
“No SWAT teams?”
He shakes his head, his dark eyes earnest on mine. “No. And you’re going to call me when you get there. When you get back, I’ll be here to pick you up. I’m going to take you out and bust your balls about how scared you were this morning. Got it?”
I swallow hard, but nod. My heart’s like a Circle Jerks fan in a mosh pit, throwing itself against my ribcage so hard it’s painful.
“India.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on then. I’ll see you in a few days, little one. Go knock ’em dead.”
He nudges me toward the security line—short because it’s early and quick because it’s business travelers used to the ins and outs of removing and replacing shoes and laptops. I turn after sliding my feet back into my sensible heels, and Rey’s waiting where I left him. He makes a shooing motion, and I blow him a kiss that he catches and presses to his heart.
Until now, I’ve been doing okay, but when Rey’s handsome face disappears, the anxiety comes back with a vengeance. With every rational piece of my being I know—I know—nothing bad is going to happen. My parents are not the NSA. They don’t have access to the TSA database, and even if I want to carry my delusional fantasies that far, what the hell are they going to do about it? They can’t have me arrested. They can’t take my money back. I suppose they could have me killed, but that seems extreme, even for Samantha Burke. Be that as it may, no matter how many times I repeat these mantras to myself, I’m still scared shitless.
*
I bounce my heel, waiting in the uncomfortable airport seats until someone touches my shoulder.
“Ms. Burke?”
I stifle the squeal of surprise that rises in my throat. It’s just Evans. He’s dressed in his going-to-see-clients best: a dark grey suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue-and-orange striped tie. Christ. I’m wearing a dark grey skirt-suit with my kicking-ass-and-taking-names orange top, the one I wore when I ended my contract with Hunter. What are we, the fucking Bobbsey twins?
“Please tell me you have a different tie with you.”
“What?”
“Evans. Tie. Change it. Now.”
He looks down with a puzzled expression and picks up his tie, eying it as if he’s never seen it before. It’s early, dude, but come on, get your shit together. Realization dawns like the slowly rising sun.
“Oh, yeah, of course. Yeah, absolutely, Ms. Burke. I’m sorry. I should’ve called you.”
“Are you shitting me? You call me to check what I’m wearing to the dance, and I’ll tell Amy Sue in study hall you have a crush on her. Got it?”
Evans shuts his mouth and busies himself extracting a non-matching tie from his carry-on. I turn my attention—what little of it I can gather—back to the document on my screen. What the hell is this anyway? I sigh and close my laptop. I’m fucking useless. But the empty space leaves time for musings, and the terror wends its way up from my toes.
“I’m going to the ladies’.”
Evans stutters something after me, but I can’t hear him for the blood pounding in my ears. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? I have to turn tail and call Jack. Tell him I can’t go. Keep the promotion, the money, the extra vacation, all of it. He can fire me if he wants, but I’m not getting on that plane.
The restroom is empty, and I go to a stall at the back. They’re usually the cleanest, and this one is no exception. I wedge myself into the corner between the wall and the toilet and sink to the ground, my mind erupting in chaos, no longer troubled by things like rationality and prudence. Who needs that when you’ve got the crazy?
Besides, I’m not sure equanimity is my friend here. If I put aside all of my irrational fears, what I’m left with are even scarier ones: I took the photos with me when I stormed out of Dr. Glazer’s office that day, but I can’t be sure those were the only copies. What if my parents decide it’s worth it to go for the nuclear option to get rid of me for good? I’m enough of a public figure that it would make damn good press. Even if Jack kept me on, I’d have to deal with the notoriety for the rest of my career, and the thought curdles my stomach.
I huddle against the tile, listening to the uneven rhythms of an early morning in an airport lavatory. Water rushing down sink drains, toilets flushing, a woman puking in a stall a few doors down. Morning sickness, hungover, or food poisoning? Whatever it is, I pray she’s not sitting next to me on the flight. I check my watch. We’ll be boarding any second. I should get up and begin the ridiculous process of angling for overhead space for my bag. But I can’t. I’m frozen.
This stall is so nice. Cozy. Why would I ever leave? And for somewhere I’m fairly certain there’ll be long-range snipers waiting for me?
I rock back and forth on the floor, not able to move, trapped between logic and absurdity. I wish Rey was here. I wish Crispin was here. But they’re not. It’s just me, cowering against the slick tiles and rough grout. I’m a terrified child, unable to peel myself off the floor. The sound of my personal cell cuts the silence.
“They’re calling your flight, India. Are you in line?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In the bathroom.”
“You’re washing up, right? Almost done?”
“No.”
“Are you stuck, little one?”
Tears well in my eyes. I want to say, No, silly, of course not, but that would be a big ol’ lie.
“Yes.” The lone word stumbles over my desperation.
“Is there anyone here with you? Anyone you’re traveling with?”
“Evans.�
�
“Give me his number.”
“Why?”
“He’s going to help you.”
“Evans couldn’t help himself out of a wet paper bag.”
“And yet he’s going to get you out of that bathroom and onto a plane. I’m a miracle worker. Now give me his number, Helen Keller.”
Reluctantly, I fish out my Blackberry and recite the ten digits.
*
It’s been two minutes since I hung up with Rey, and everything is situation normal. I’m sitting on an airport bathroom floor in Chanel. What the fuck else would I be doing on a Tuesday?
I’m starting to compose my resignation speech to Jack when Evans’ hesitant voice echoes through the empty stalls.
“Ms. B—I mean, India? India, are you in here?”
“Yes.”
His shiny black dress shoes and off-the-rack slacks come toward me, stopping in front of my stall.
“Open the door, India.”
The authority in his voice has multiplied by about a hundred, and the way he says my name… Goddammit Rey, you’re a fucking genius. I don’t know what you’ve said to the spaniel, but you’ve turned him from a lap dog into a Puerto Rican street mutt.
“…Please.”
I roll my eyes—we’ve still got some work to do—but I lean forward enough to undo the lock before sinking back into my corner. The door opens to reveal an Evans who somehow looks more substantial and kind of handsome in a black tie.
“Get up, India. We need to get on the plane.”
I shake my head, tears blurring my vision and chin trembling. Please, no. He mutters something into his phone before muffling it against his shoulder and holding out a hand.
“Take my hand, India. Do it now.” My arm moves of its own accord, offering shaking digits. He takes them in a strong grip and hoists me up, grabbing my bag, too.
“C’mon, we’ve got to go. It’s going to be okay.” He tugs me out of the stall and through the swinging door into the terminal, earning an appalled glance from an elderly woman coming in. No doubt she thinks we had a quickie. If only. That would be so much less humiliating than what took place.
I follow him like a cow to slaughter, having to be coaxed the whole way. To his credit, he doesn’t let go until we’re on the plane and he puts our bags overhead. He urges me to the window seat and makes excuses to another road warrior whose seat I’m in. I sit there, near to catatonic because my battle is being fought on the inside, and he fastens the belt low and tight over my hips as the flight attendants have instructed us to. When he’s through, he lays a hand over mine, which is white-knuckling the armrest.
“Are you afraid of flying?”
“No.”
I’ve always liked flying. Looking down from on high, the marvel of shooting through space in a tin can… I can see how it could be terrifying, but for me it’s a regular part of life.
“Didn’t think so. You travel alone all the time.”
“Yes.”
“You were annoyed Jack was sending me, weren’t you?”
His blunt question takes me aback. Evans has always struck me as rather obsequious, particularly with me, so I’m not sure where he’s found the nerve to ask. I give him an honest answer because: A) I’m me; B) I’m too distracted trying not to run screaming through the aisle to get it up to lie; and C) he’s asked for it.
“Yes.”
“Are you still?”
I bark a short laugh that gets me a one-eyed glare from our row mate on the aisle who’s trying to sleep.
“Um, no. I’d still be cowering in the bathroom if it weren’t for you, so you’ve earned your keep. For this trip.”
“Why are you always such a bitch?”
More laughing, more glaring. This Q&A is distracting me from the impending meltdown, and I shoot Evans half a smile, more than he’s ever gotten from me.
“What did Rey do to you? I mean, he’s a talent for sure, but this is miraculous. I’m actually starting to like you, Evans.”
My fingers loosen on the armrest, and Evans stares at his thumb stroking across my knuckles. If he tried to touch me in the office, I’d deck him—no two ways about it—but this is fine. Welcome, even. I sigh and close my eyes.
“He said…he said you respond to boldness.”
I roll my eyes under my lids. That’s one way to put it.
“Who is that guy anyway?”
“A friend of mine.”
“You have friends?”
I open my eyes to glare at him. “Watch it, Skippy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Rey’s been my friend for a long time. He knows me better than I know myself.”
“So if it’s not fear of flying…”
“Do you really think this is any of your business?”
“I went into a women’s bathroom. I pulled you off the floor. I saved you from getting reamed out and possibly fired. So, yeah, little bit.”
He makes a fair point. I don’t feel like I owe him anything, but I could make a gesture. How to put this?
“I moved to the West Coast because of some issues with my family. I haven’t been back East since I left.”
“Chicago’s the Midwest.”
“I don’t need a fucking geography lesson, Evans.” His thumb stops its soothing motion across my skin, and I’m sorry. Why am I always such a bitch? Let’s try this again. “Did I mention they were issues with a capital I? The idea of crossing the Mississippi is enough to make me nervous.”
Nervous is an understatement. Nauseated would be more accurate.
“Seriously?”
“Why would I lie about that?” It’s mortifying.
“I didn’t think you were lying. But it’s hard for me to imagine you being nervous about anything.”
A flush of pride spreads through my chest. Damn right it is. “That’s because you know work-India.”
“That’s not the only India? When is there time for anything else? You work like… I don’t even know. You’re never not working.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Huh.”
He sits in silence, his thumb having recommenced its comforting movement. I need to keep talking or the panic is going to seize me again.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Do I—uh…”
“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m trying to make conversation. You and I?” I peel my hand off the far armrest to gesture between us. “That’s never gonna happen.”
He smiles sheepishly, a blush rising in his cheeks. “No, of course not. I, you’re so, no—”
“This is part of why. You’re a good-looking guy and not dumb. You just need to stop being so…” I wrinkle my nose. Evans-y isn’t a word. “Trust me, a girl would be lucky to have you, but you need to believe that. And you need to believe that you deserve her, too.”
We talk for most of the flight. Evans has a decent sense of humor when he’s not terrified or fawning over me. When the captain comes over the speaker to tell us we’re crossing the Mississippi, Evans’ hand clamps down on mine as my heart goes into overdrive. The peanuts I ate earlier have been squeezed into my throat and risk making an appearance on my tray.
“It’s all right, India. Hey, stay with me, okay? I can’t do this myself. You’ve got a job to do. We’re going to be a team down there, right? I’ll make you a deal. You kick ass, and I’ll take names.”
A frantic giggle escapes as I picture myself in a Wonder Woman outfit, complete with coiled gold whip, standing atop a pile of vanquished bureaucrats while Evans stands by with his clipboard, checking ID badges.
“Oh shit.”
Evans’s face has dropped into alarm and it’s catching. He’s staring out the window and he looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“What? What’s the matter?” I turn my panic toward the window, expecting to see a stealth fighter coming up alongside us with Samantha Burke in the cockpit or painted on the side like one of those pin-up girls from World War II
. But I see nothing except your standard blue sky and wisps of cotton candy clouds. I train my gaze back on Evans, who’s grinning.
“Nothing. Thought I saw a flying monkey.”
I blink at him once, but then I’m in on his joke. I reward him with a punch he takes like a man. Until he rubs the sore spot with a muttered, “Ow.”
We spend the rest of the flight pretending to see increasingly ridiculous things out the window, pissing the hell out of the guy on the aisle and probably everyone else on the plane. Evans doesn’t let go of me the whole time, and when I start to panic and go silent, he squeezes my fingers and points to a cloud. “Doesn’t that look like a giant boner?”
“Cocknado!”
“Death by wang cloud!”
My shrieking hysteria gets me on the ground without having a complete and utter meltdown, but when we pull into the gate, I wedge myself against the wall of the plane. Our rowmate makes a break for it as soon as possible, uttering not-very-nice things under his breath as he beats a hasty retreat, but he needn’t have worried. I’m not going anywhere. Evans waits, watching everyone else filter off the plane. When the last passengers—frazzled parents with twin toddlers in tow—pass us, he circles my wrist with his hand.
“It’s time to go, India. I’ll get our bags, and then we’re going to walk off this plane. Don’t make me call Rey.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I won’t if you come with me right now. Otherwise…”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat.
“Don’t!” I swipe at him and stand up. “I’ll do it. Tattle-tale.”
When we reach the end of the jetway, he holds up a hand and I stop. “What?”
“Checking to make sure we aren’t surrounded by Navy SEALs or anything.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“You like me better when I’m an asshole.”
He tugs me into the terminal and doesn’t let go until we’ve made it through the crowded halls and all the way into a cab. Driving through the city, I keep my eyes peeled, irrationally expecting to be ambushed. When we pull up to the building—your typical squat, grey stone government edifice—Evans helps me out of the cab. He gives me one last squeeze before prodding me through the doors.
Intimate Geography Page 8
