So you can see why I assumed they wouldn’t let me go. How could they when I’ve been working for them for ten years? I was as hardworking and loyal as they come.
Apparently though, that wasn’t enough.
I was deemed easily replaceable by the head of marketing for Yogalita—after all, they were more successful than we were and they were the ones that bought us out—and that was the end of that.
I was out of a job.
A job that had become my identity.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was like I didn’t even know who I was.
Yes, I had money saved up over the years, and I knew the right thing to do was start applying for other jobs. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that yet. It’s like I’ve been in mourning, even though I’ve tried desperately to not dwell on it, to try and use this as a good opportunity for change, to look at it as a blessing in disguise. I’ve always tried to see the sunny side of life.
But that sunny side is hidden by a layer of clouds I can’t seem to see through. As much as I try, I’m not seeing the light.
Adding insult to injury, I obviously then caught Chris cheating on me with my friend. Both of those relationships dissolved so fast, it made me realize how precarious and empty they were to begin with.
“Excuse me,” I say to the couple that is blocking the aisle and taking way too long to put their stuff away and get in their seats.
The guy turns to me and gives me an apologetic smile. He’s cute and he knows it, and that smile is way too friendly for someone who looks like he’s in a serious relationship with the girl currently trying to sit down.
He apologizes and steps out of the way, and I swear to god he winks at me as he does so.
Ew. Even on my best days I have disdain for guys like that, but ever since the breakup, my tolerance is at an all-time low.
I bend down and grab my suitcase, hoisting it up over my head to put it in the bin.
“Let me help you with that,” he says, moving closer, even though it’s obvious I don’t need any help at all. Working in athleisure wear has ensured I work out a lot and I’m a lot stronger than I look.
Meanwhile, I can’t help but glance at his girlfriend who is sitting down in her seat and glaring at me, as if I’m not to be trusted. I’m distracted enough that the suitcase slips out of my hands and before I can stop it, it falls and bonks the guy right in the head.
Ow.
That’s gotta hurt.
“I’m so sorry!” I cry out, awkwardly trying to regain control of the suitcase.
The guy holds onto his head where the wheel hit him, wincing in pain, trying to smile like he’s fine.
I quickly manage to shove the suitcase into the bin and apologize again, just as his girlfriend says, “That’s what you get,” to him in a smug voice.
“That’s what I get for trying to help?” he asks her, voice raised, as if that hit a nerve more than my falling suitcase did.
Oh boy.
I swiftly get in my seat by the window, shove my purse beside me, and bring out my noise-cancelling headphones. I can tell the couple is about to get into a fight and I don’t want any part of it. My own wounds are too fresh.
It’s a thirteen-hour flight across the Pacific, the longest flight I’ve ever been on. After dinner is served, and I’ve had some complimentary red wine, I’ve watched every move I want to watch, and it’s time for the Skycouch.
I take off my headphones, the cabin lights already dim, and bring out the information card that tells you how to create your bed.
I’ve only read the first sentence when I notice the row in front of me is starting to shake.
Repeatedly.
The dregs of wine in the bottom of my glass start to slosh back and forth on the tray table.
There is some turbulence, so I don’t think much of it.
But the seats don’t seem to be moving with the turbulence.
Wait…
Are they…?
And then I hear it.
A low moan.
Oh my god.
They can’t be…
“Oh god, yes,” the girl’s breathless voice comes from the seat, and through the tiny gap between the seats I can see bodies moving.
Oh my god.
They are.
They’re having sex right in front of me!
Even though I know they can’t see me, I can feel my cheeks immediately go to Tomato Zone One. I’m notorious for blushing easily, and if it gets really bad my whole face will match my dark strawberry blonde hair and all my freckles will meld together.
What do I do?
I look around, trying to see if anyone else is seeing (or hearing) this, but everyone is lying down, sound asleep. I crane my head around, hoping to spot a flight attendant, but I don’t see any. Besides, what am I going to do, rat on them?
I mean, I probably should…
“Lower, lower,” the girl says. “Yes!”
Oh hell no.
I put my headphones back on and sit back, trying to watch another movie on the seatback. But of course that keeps shaking and shaking. The turbulence has nothing on those two.
How long is this going to go on for?
I’m getting over a breakup, I’m heading across an ocean to go to a wedding all alone, can’t I catch a break?
But no, the seats continue to shake, and I swear I can hear the moans through my headphones, and they aren’t showing any signs of stopping.
This is hell.
There’s only one thing for me to do.
I undo my belt and raise the arm rests, slowly sidling out of my row.
I know I shouldn’t look at them, I know I need to just ignore them.
But either watching strangers do it on a plane is some new kink of mine, or curiosity killed the cat.
I stand at the end of their row and look down.
I can’t see anything, blankets are covering them as they go at it from the side.
And at it, and at it.
Way to rub it in.
Oh, he’s rubbing something alright.
I’m in the middle of turning around when suddenly the plane hits an air pocket, the turbulence causing the plane to drop some feet.
I lose my footing, thrown forward.
I fall right over on the couple, face down where you don’t want to be face down.
Oh. My. God.
“Hey!” the girl cries out.
“Sorry!” I say, placing my hands on their hips and other body parts, trying to push myself back up. “So sorry!”
I can’t even look at them.
“As you were,” I say.
I straighten up somehow and then, feeling panicked, head right to the galley at the back of the plane.
There are two flight attendants back there sitting down and chatting. They both look at me with weary smiles, the kind that says they’d rather not be dealing with passengers right now, especially not someone like me who must look all flushed and wild-eyed.
I’m tempted to tell them about the sexcapades in row 50, but decide they probably don’t need the extra stress.
So instead I ask for a glass of wine and if I can just hang out in the galley with them, because I am not going back to my seat.
I think they can tell I’m desperate for company or something, because they say yes.
I go through another glass of wine.
And then I start talking about my old job, and then Chris.
And they start feeling sorry for me.
The wine keeps coming.
Two
Daisy
When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things was to go on family trips to Portland, something we did just a handful of times a year. But it wasn’t the supposed glitz and glamor of the big city that made it so special (everything was glitzy and glamorous when you lived on a farm, in Oregon, in the middle of nowhere).
What I remember most fondly is the car ride back home.
We
’d leave at dusk, the city lights twinkling behind us, and then we’d be on the I-5 for hours heading south. My sister and I would bicker in the backseat for a while but it wasn’t long before I’d fall asleep. I was such a sound sleeper those days, that I wouldn’t wake up until we were in the driveway. My parents thought I looked peaceful, so they let me sleep back there until my father either carried me to my bed, or when I was older, gently shook me awake.
I’d wake up with this sense of wonderment, how it was possible for me to fall asleep somewhere and wake up somewhere else, like I was time traveling.
Well, I’m having that exact same feeling again.
Except I really have time traveled (to the future), and instead of waking up all blissful, I’ve got a raging headache and queasy stomach, and instead of my father shaking me awake, it’s a flight attendant.
“Miss?” she says gently in her strong accent, her hand on my shoulder. “We’re landing soon.”
I open my mouth to try and say thank you, but it’s so parched my words come out in this creaky groan. I open my eyes, blinking hard at the bright light coming in through the windows.
Dear god, I feel awful.
Slowly, and rather awkwardly, I sit up on the Skycouch, the fleece airplane blanket sticking to me in an aura of static cling. The world seems to swirl and my stomach flips on itself.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this hungover.
Though I can’t say it’s undeserved.
I remember one of the flight attendants giving me two mini bottles of wine and ushering me back to my seat, but only after I must have spent at least two hours talking their ears off and drinking most of their cart. Thankfully, the boinking couple were asleep by then, though it wouldn’t have mattered because I was drunk as a skunk, and must have passed out soon after that.
Speaking of, the couple are now sitting up in their seats and sipping coffee and giggling intimately, so obviously their bout of makeup sex made everything right again in their world.
Maybe it would have worked with Chris.
The thought flits through my mind as it has a million times this last week.
Had I been too hasty to break-up with Chris? I mean, I would imagine most people in my shoes would kick them to the curb and never look back. But was there something between us that would have been worth saving, something worth the sacrifice of looking the other way, of having all trust burnt to the ground?
Truth is, no. I know I did the right thing. But it’s been weighing on me anyway, like my life split into two on that day, and I had a choice to either continue on with Chris in my life, or cut him out and go out on my own.
And so here I am, out on my own.
I sigh but even that makes the knives in my head dig deeper.
Not the best way to arrive in a new country.
I slowly put the bed away and head to the lavatory to wash my face, brush my teeth, then go back to my seat and spend a good twenty-minutes doing my makeup, hoping to hide all traces of my hangover. The last thing I want is to see my family while looking like an ogre.
It’s not long before the wheels are bouncing on the tarmac, which causes my own stomach to do the same.
Oh…no.
Please, no, no, no, no.
I hate throwing up. If I had ever gotten sick or hungover in the past, I would do everything possible to keep the contents of my stomach firmly inside me where they belong.
I’m trying desperately to do that now, but as the plane bounces again, going for the worst landing ever, I know there’s no stopping it. I’m reaching for the barf bag in the seat pocket just as it’s all coming up, making a very vain attempt to hurl inside of it as quietly as possible.
No such luck.
As the noise from the plane’s brakes dim, I’m yakking so loudly I sound like a bear trying repeatedly to cough up a honking goose.
“Oh my god, gross,” the girl in front of me says, while a few other people on the plane make sounds of disgust.
I can’t even care. It just keeps coming, louder and louder. I’d laugh at how ridiculous I sound, if only this wasn’t so horrible.
Finally, the plane comes almost to a stop and the barf bag is full and I’ve never felt so gross and embarrassed in all my life. It’s one thing to throw up on a plane, it’s another to do so sounding like a bleating goat on helium. My face is so hot, I’m at Tomato Zone 2 (when my skin on my forehead matches my hair).
I just sit there, gingerly holding onto the edge of the bag, wanting so desperately to head to the lavatory and throw it out, but the minute the seatbelt sign comes on, everyone is an asshole and stands up, blocking my way to the back. I have no choice but to sit in my seat and wait until everyone passes me by.
So I sit there for literally ever, brushing my hair over the side of my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone, and wait until the plane has pretty much unloaded.
Then I rush to the lavatory and dispose of it.
When I come out, the flight attendant who got me drinks all night is looking at me with an overly sympathetic look on her face.
“I guess I should have cut you off a little earlier last night,” she says to me softly. “You’re not having the best of luck.”
That’s the understatement of the year.
I give her a meek smile and then hurry over to my seat to gather my stuff and get my suitcase, so damn grateful to get off this plane.
I’ve never been to New Zealand before. Hell, I haven’t traveled anywhere outside of North America, except to Chile once for an athletic wear convention, and most of my trips have been for work. I should be more excited than I am, but it’s kind of hard when this vacation is getting off on the wrong foot.
Somehow though, I make it through customs without any problems, though the official did seem to study me carefully, probably because I still look a little green and antsy.
I’m here for only one week, which was the most vacation days I was willing to take for this trip, you know, when I had a job. I rarely took days off at all, deciding work was more important than a jaunt to Hawaii or something. Now, with the visitor’s visa in my passport, I’m permitted to stay for up to three months. I won’t, but there’s something so strange about my newfound freedom. It doesn’t feel real yet. I still keep thinking that I have a job and a boyfriend to return to.
I’d never given New Zealand that much thought, other than it’s the place where my sister went to do her doctorate in botany. When she said she was getting married here to Richard, her long-term boyfriend she met in college, I figured I’d finally get a chance to come and see her. It’s been nearly five years since I saw her last, and my parents, who arrived here a week ago, have only been out to see her once.
It does make me wonder if perhaps all this time apart has led my sister to forget about me, because she never answered the text I sent her when I got off the plane and I’ve been standing here in the arrivals area for a good thirty minutes, scanning the crowd for her familiar face.
A feeling of dread sinks inside me and I text her again, wondering where she is. I could text my parents since they are in the country, but I don’t want to bug them.
The shitty thing is, I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go. Usually I’m so on top of things, planning it all to the finest detail, but I really dropped the ball this time. I know I’m not supposed to go to a hotel. Or wait, maybe I am supposed to go to a hotel? Or was it Richard’s cousin’s house? And what was the place called? Something with a P? It feels like every town in New Zealand starts with a P.
With my sister still not texting me back, I open up my emails and try to get some sense of a plan. I must be flipping through them for a long time, trying to get a handle of things, hoping my sister gets back to me before I really start panicking, when I hear a throat clear from behind me.
I whirl around and, hello, standing before me is probably the most ruggedly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
He’s tall, at least six foot two, which makes h
im look like a giant compared to my 5’1” frame. Factor in broad, rounded shoulders, and a chest like a wall of bricks and strongman arms, plus deeply browned skin, all shown off perfectly by a navy blue T-shirt that says Deep Blue Yacht Charters, and he seems larger than life.
And then there’s his face.
Which, as gorgeous as it is—dark mahogany eyes, furrowed brows, thick black hair and a strong jaw—looks a little ticked off. It takes me a moment to register that his eyes aren’t narrowed seductively, they’re narrowed in annoyance.
“Are you Daisy Lewis?” the man asks me with a thick New Zealand accent. Husky and rough, the kind of voice that would normally make me flush internally (voices and hands are so my thing), but I’m able to ignore it because I have no idea who this guy is, or how he knows me and why he seems mad.
“That’s me,” I tell him cautiously. “And you are?”
“Your ride,” he grumbles.
My brows raise. “My ride? Where’s Lacey?”
He stares at me for a moment, as if he’s expecting more from me, but in my hungover, queasy state I don’t have the energy to think.
“Your sister,” he says carefully, “is busy. I was busy too, but when she called, begging and pleading for me to head back down to Auckland to pick you up, it didn’t feel right saying no to the bride-to-be.”
“I don’t understand.” I balk, shaking my head. “The last email she sent she said she was happy to pick me up.”
“You’re a day early.”
I blink at him for a few moments. That doesn’t make sense. “I don’t…” I press my hands to my temples, trying to think. It’s like trying to push over a concrete wall. “I said I was arriving on the 22nd.”
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me like I’m a complete idiot. Can’t say I like that look. Makes me want to take back all the nice things I’ve thought about him, even though all those nice things pertained to his body, which unfortunately still looks hot. Especially as he folds his arms across his chest, and mama mia, those are some delicious forearms.
“Have you taken note of the date today?” he asks. “Either on your phone, or the form you filled out at customs? Taken a look at the stamp in your passport?”
Lovewrecked Page 2
