New Uses For Old Boyfriends

by Beth Kendrick

  “Well, why else would he buy a diamond ring?”

  “Maybe it’s for his mom. Or his sister.” Summer scrambled for any plausible explanation. “Maybe he’s carrying it for a friend, like a drug mule for Cartier. He’s not proposing—he’s just smuggling!”

  “No way. You should have seen his face.” Kimberly clasped her hands beside her cheek. “He looked so nervous. It was adorable.” Her rapturous expression flickered for just a moment. “He made me promise not to tell you. Oops.”

  “Oh my God,” Summer rasped.

  “I know!”

  “Oh my God.” She grabbed the nearest bottle of wine and took a swig. “Don’t serve that.”

  “You know where you should go?” Kim’s eyes sparkled. “There’s a great little boutique hotel right off rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Hotel de la something. I’ll Google it. Super-swanky, super-secluded.” She shook her head. “I guess wearing thigh-highs and four-inch heels was a good call, after all.”

  Summer took another bracing sip of wine and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Me, neither!” Kim planted her hands on her hips. “We’ve all been drooling over Aaron Marchand for years, and you get to spend the rest of your life with him? Not fair. You’ve landed the unlandable bachelor.”

  “Well . . .” Summer realized, as she forced herself to release her death grip on the wine bottle, that her hands were shaking. “I haven’t landed him yet. I mean, this ring is still speculation and hearsay at this point.”

  “Pfft. I know an engagement ring when I see one.” Kim pursed her lips in a little pout. “One less tall, dark, and handsome man for the rest of us.” She sighed, then frowned at Summer. “Wait. Why are you freaking out?”

  “I’m not freaking out.” Summer straightened up and cleared her throat. “But, you know, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. He hasn’t actually asked. I haven’t said yes.”

  Kim laughed. “Come on. You wouldn’t say no to Aaron Marchand.” Her eyes widened. “Would you?”

  Summer ducked her head and let her hair fall over her eyes. “Well . . .”

  Kim wrapped her fingers around Summer’s arm again and demanded, “How old are you?”

  “Um. Thirty-two.”

  “Thirty-two,” Kim repeated. “And you’ve done your share of partying, yes?”

  Summer nodded. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. They’re all true.”

  “Okay, so you’ve had your fun. But, let’s face it, you’re not twenty-five anymore.”

  “Twenty-five is a state of mind.” Summer tried and failed to free herself from Kim’s grasp.

  “You’re never going to do better than Aaron Marchand. You know that, right?”

  Summer stared down at her shiny patent shoes.

  “What are you waiting for? Why on earth would you say no?” Kim threw up both hands in exasperation.

  Summer darted around her fellow flight attendant and escaped into the first-class cabin. “Hold that thought. I have to go do the dog and pony show.” She took her place beneath the TV monitor while the safety demonstration video played. While she pointed out the emergency exits, she scanned the sea of faces, looking for any sign of potential troublemakers.

  But tonight the passengers looked docile and weary, most of them ignoring her as the video droned on about inflatable slides and oxygen masks. An elderly couple was already sleeping in the third row, the wife resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.

  Summer found a thin navy blanket and draped it across the couple’s armrests. Then, she dashed to the bulkhead and dialed her best friend, Emily’s, number.

  When Emily’s voice mail picked up, Summer started raving into the receiver: “Hey, I know you’re in Vancouver and you probably have thirty thousand things going on right now, but I need a consult. I’m about to take off for Paris with Aaron. The pilot, remember? The one who’s all perfect and dreamy and nice? Well, he’s about to ask me to marry him. Marry him. Out of nowhere! Like an ambush! What should I say? What should I do? Call me back, Em. I’m scared.”

  She hung up, rested her forehead against the cool, curved plastic walls of the cabin, and forced herself to arrange a smile on her lips before she turned back to the passengers. As she walked through the cabin to do her final safety compliance check (“Fasten your seat belt, please. . . . Here, let me help you with that tray table”), she was waylaid by a passenger with an English accent and a red soccer jersey. He exuded entitlement and the smell of stale beer, and she guessed he was either a professional athlete or a professional musician.

  “Could you take this, doll?” He handed her a magazine that had been left in his seat pocket.

  “Of course.” When Summer took the magazine from him, he brushed his fingers against hers.

  “You’re gorgeous. Has anyone ever written a song about you?” He met her gaze, then gave her a thorough once-over. Charming, cocky, and incorrigible. A year ago, she would have been all over him.

  But she had finally outgrown bad boys. She had finally moved on to a good man. The kind of man she should marry.

  “Twice, actually.” Summer laughed at the passenger’s expression. “What, you think you’re the only musician to ever fly commercial?”

  “Anyone written a song about you that people have actually heard?” He grinned gamely. “Won Grammys? Gone platinum?”

  “Sounds like someone could use a big glass of ice water.”

  He leaned into the aisle until the side of his head grazed her hip. “What’s your name?”

  She gave his perfectly coiffed hair a pat. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What’s that?” Kim asked when Summer squeezed into the galley to dispose of the magazine.

  “Oh, 4C found it in his seat pocket.” Summer glanced at the photo on the cover: a quaint seaside village featuring golden sand dunes and gray cedar-shingled houses. The headline read: The Best Place in America to Bounce Back from Your Breakup.

  “Black Dog Bay, Delaware.” Kim peered over her shoulder. “Never heard of it.”

  “Me, neither. I don’t think they even have an airport in Delaware.”

  “Black Dog Bay. Where all the stores sell Ben & Jerry’s and Kleenex.”

  Summer laughed. “And multiple cats are mandatory.”

  “And the official uniform is sweatpants and a ratty old bathrobe.”

  “And Steel Magnolias is on TV twenty-four/seven.”

  Kim tossed the periodical in the trash. “What you need is a magazine all about awesome honeymoon destinations. Because when Aaron Marchand says, ‘Will you marry me?,’ you say, ‘Yes.’”

  “We’re number two for takeoff,” Aaron’s voice intoned. “Flight attendants, please be seated.”

  Summer buckled herself into the jump seat by the bulkhead, facing the passengers in coach. As the plane began to taxi, she automatically “bowed to the cockpit,” tilting her head in the direction of the flight deck as a precaution against whiplash.

  As always, she devoted the last moments before takeoff to conducting a mental inventory of the emergency medical equipment and glancing around the cabin for ABAs—able-bodied assistants—who could potentially help out in a crisis.

  Then they were lifting off and she was thinking about Aaron. Visualizing a diamond ring and fighting back the sour taste of bile in her throat.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She did love him, more than she’d meant to.

  But could she keep his heart without wearing his ring?

  Thump.

  She heard a loud bang and felt the plane shudder.

  “What was that?” A woman gasped. Passengers started murmuring in both English and French.

  Summer put on her best flight attendant face, striving to convey both competence and nonchalance as the passengers looked to her for guidance. Her job was
to keep everyone calm and safe. And to figure out what the hell was going on.

  The plane continued to gain altitude, but something about the alignment was off. Her stomach lurched as the cabin tilted suddenly.

  “Oh my God!” someone screamed. “Fire!”

  Summer saw the bright streak of flames out the window and knew, with sickening certainty, that an engine was on fire.

  We’re going to die.

  Every muscle in her body locked up, and for a long moment, she was frozen. Her mind went blank.

  And then years of training overrode her panic. She grabbed the gray plastic interphone next to her seat and dialed the code for the flight deck.

  She pressed the receiver to her ear and waited to hear Aaron’s voice, telling her that everything would be fine.

  The pilots didn’t pick up.

  As soon as she hung up, Kim rang from the galley: “Did you feel that? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure.” Summer was acutely aware of the panicked gazes of the passengers. “It’s possible one of the engines is damaged.” She lowered her voice. “Fire.”

  Kim sucked in her breath. “What did the pilots say?”

  “Nothing yet. I tried to reach them, and they’re not picking up.”

  Kim didn’t respond to that; she didn’t have to. They both knew what it meant.

  Summer put down the phone and concentrated on calming the passengers in coach. “Yes, I felt that, too. Yes, I see the flames. But don’t worry, the pilots have this under control. We’re all trained for this sort of thing and, you know, the plane can fly perfectly well with only one engine.”

  We’re going to die.

  She kept her hand clamped on the interphone, waiting to hear from the flight deck. But there was nothing.

  The plane stopped climbing.

  Halfway through her breezy explanation of aerospace engineering, the plane tilted sharply and plummeted downward. People started screaming again.

  After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a second or two, the plane leveled off again, and Summer started breathing.

  Still no word from the flight deck.

  The cabin lights blinked off and the screams faded into tense silence. Her memory summoned snapshots of her past, the proverbial life flashing before her eyes.

  She’d seen the northern lights in Sweden and fed baby elephants in Thailand. She’d danced at Carnival in Brazil and gone snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef. She’d traveled all over the world having once-in-a-lifetime experiences.

  But she’d never had a garden.

  She’d never learned to play the piano.

  She’d never let herself fall completely in love.

  This is the worst bucket list ever.

  If she weren’t so petrified, she’d laugh. Pianos were for singing along to and draping oneself across while wearing a sequined gown. And a garden? Really? That was crazy talk. She’d never even wanted a garden.

  As for love, well, she could try, right? She could open up and let herself be vulnerable. She could accept Aaron’s marriage proposal and settle down and live happily ever after.

  I can’t.

  She white-knuckled the vinyl seat cushion and tried to keep a smile on her face. Tried to slow her heartbeat and catch her breath and say something comforting and authoritative.

  The plane pitched sideways again and plummeted down through the darkness. The thick shoulder straps of her seat belt bit into her flesh despite the sensation of weightlessness. She heard the rush of her pulse in her ears. She felt a flood of adrenaline coursing through her limbs.

  She forced herself to keep her eyes open as she braced her body for the impact she knew was coming.

  chapter 2

  Two days later

  Before she even opened her eyes, Summer could smell roses. The floral perfume was stale and cloying, almost nauseating in the warm, dry hospital air.

  She lay motionless while she regained her bearings, mentally reviewing the few facts she’d been able to retain over the past forty-eight hours:

  My head is concussed.

  My back is burned.

  My ribs and spleen are tore up from the floor up.

  Walk it off.

  She was safe. No matter how many times she repeated that to herself, she still couldn’t quite believe it. Even though she could feel the tissue-thin cotton of the hospital gown on her shoulders and the starched bedsheets against her calves, even though the confusion of the last few days was punctuated with flashbulb memories of doctors and nurses changing her bandages and asking her questions (“Can you tell me your name?” “Can you tell me what year it is?”), she couldn’t recall anything about how she’d gotten from the plane to the hospital.

  She remembered prepping for takeoff to Paris. She remembered the bag of M&M’s and Kim teasing her about her shoes and the British passenger who smelled like a distillery. She remembered the plane’s sudden lurch and the screams in the darkness and the acrid smell of smoke. But then there was a gap, a thick and impenetrable mist clouding her memory. All she knew for sure was that she’d been in a New Jersey medical center for two days now, and a dozen red roses had arrived with Aaron’s signature on the card.

  So she understood, on a detached, intellectual level, that she was safe. Her body would mend.

  Aaron was safe, too. He’d been busy with debriefings and corporate damage control, but he’d be here as soon as he could. In the meantime, he’d sent flowers she could smell even in her sleep.

  So now she had to open her eyes, start patching reality back together, and figure out what to do next.

  Or at least try to get her hands on some good drugs.

  She took a deep breath, wincing as sharp pain shot through her rib cage, and surveyed the tiny private room. Her lips were chapped, her throat parched. There was a plastic tan water pitcher just out of arm’s reach—so close, yet so far—on a low metal table. Various electronic monitors hummed and beeped, and a flimsy shade covered the steel-framed window.

  She startled as she heard a soft rustling from across the room. Her neck ached as she turned her head to glimpse a shadowed figure seated in the vinyl recliner next to the door.

  “You’re awake,” Aaron’s voice said.

  She could hear him, but she couldn’t see him. Just like the moments before takeoff. Overwhelmed by emotions she couldn’t even name, she had to try three times before her dry throat would swallow.

  “You’re here.” Her voice came out thin and hoarse.

  “I’ve been here all afternoon.” He got to his feet, cutting a striking silhouette in the late afternoon shadows. The handsome hero, straight out of central casting.

  She had dated handsome men before. Fascinating, witty men who were long on charisma and short on integrity. They wined and dined her. They enthralled her. They left her at the first sign of trouble.

  Until Aaron.

  He was so much more than handsome; he was honest and hardworking and respectful and loyal. The kind of man that every woman hoped for.

  Summer had never seen herself as the marrying type, and in fact had strict rules in place: Never stay in one place too long. Never stay with one man too long. She knew what would happen if she broke these rules. If she needed a man more than he needed her. She had experienced the fallout firsthand.

  Kim was right. Summer should be able to do this—to grow up and settle down and form lasting attachments. Her friends were all getting married, having babies, buying houses. Being adults. Being normal. They made it look so effortless, this transition from reckless youth into stable families. As if the whole thing couldn’t unravel at any second.

  She loved Aaron; he loved her. He had literally saved her life. She should marry him.

  I can’t.

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?” She struggled to sit up straighter,
wincing and reaching for the water pitcher.

  “You need your rest.” He intercepted the pitcher and poured lukewarm water into a clear plastic cup. “Ice?”

  She shook her head again, heedless of the pain, and gulped the water. Despite the steady drip from the saline IV, her body craved fluid. She felt empty inside, almost hollow.

  He adjusted the window shade, and as golden sunlight streamed in, she saw worry and fatigue etched in the lines of his face. The sparkle in his blue eyes had gone flat, and his devil-may-care grin had given way to an expression of grim resolve. He still wore a crisp navy pilot’s blazer, but he’d unfastened the buttons of his white shirt, and she could see a patch of gauze taped to his collarbone.

  And, in that moment, both of them half-hidden and half-revealed in the shadows and sunlight, she sensed something different about him, a subtle shift in the way he looked and spoke to her.

  “Come here.” She put down the cup and stretched out her hand to him. “Are you okay? What happened to your shoulder?”

  He took a single step in her direction. “Nothing, just a scratch.”

  “That’s a pretty impressive bandage for ‘just a scratch.’”

  “It’s nothing,” he repeated. “You got banged up pretty good, though. I’ve been calling two or three times a day for updates.” He came closer and smiled down at her. “You look great.”

  She tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “You lie.”

  “It’s the truth.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek. “Not a scratch on that perfect face.”

  “Tell that to my spleen.” As she gazed up at him, she felt the same hot rush of attraction she’d experienced the first time she’d met him.

  His right hand patted his blazer pocket, then fell away. Reached again and fell away. And then she remembered: the ring.

  She picked up her cup as her throat went dry again.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here with you the whole time,” Aaron said. “But legal had to interrogate me. And then the public relations team had their turn.”

  “Public relations?”

  “Oh, yeah. They want to make sure they spin this as a victory against all odds rather than an equipment failure that justifies a lawsuit. I had to go on one of those morning shows yesterday, and tonight I’m booked for some cable news interviews. Hence, the uniform.”