Chapter 2
Chapter
Dear Beth,
What you went through yesterday must have been terrifying. I’m so glad you’re okay. This close call really got me thinking about the future. The future of us. Why don’t we get dinner soon? Pick the place and the time, and tell me to meet you there.
Sincerely,
Billy
PS: Please don’t mention this note. I’m shy.
I reread the handwritten message that was stuck under the plate of eggs for booth five and try not to laugh. This is both horrible and entirely too good.
Exactly what I needed today.
After stuffing the letter in my pocket, I serve lunch to the table in the back corner with a smile that comes easier now that I have something to laugh about.
As a waitress, I know the importance of maintaining a constant cheery face.
No matter what. No matter if my new shoes have rubbed a stinging blister on the back of my heel, or if I’m having demon cramps because my satanic uterus is once again mad that I didn’t put a baby in it, or if I survived a near-death experience less than twenty-four hours ago.
No smile means no tips, so paste on your happy face until your cheeks hurt.
“Oh, Beth dear. How are you?” Mrs. McGuire stares up at me with round eyes behind her bejeweled glasses.
“Are you traumatized? I saw the report about the crash on the evening news. I can’t believe you didn’t die!
” She gasps out the last line even as her eyes give off a delighted sparkle.
I suspect Mrs. McGuire would have found a perverse joy in my death if only it meant the gossip was juicier.
“I’m glad I lived through it, too, but it wasn’t a crash.” My pleasant expression stays firmly in place. “The pilot was able to land the plane.”
And damn, did he do that with a level of calm and skill I still cannot fathom.
My mind replays the final few moments of the flight on a nonstop loop in my head.
The unwavering stern note of George’s voice. The steady grip of his hands on the controls.
The way he spoke to the plane…
“Come on. Hold right there. That’s a good girl.”
Hell. I’m in freaking horny hell.
George was trying to land a plane in an emergency situation, but now my vagina just wants him to talk dirty between my legs.
Despite my conviction to get over my infatuation immediately, the bothersome flutters in my stomach hung around even after the police arrived and gave me a ride back to the airport.
What’s wrong with me? The guy treats me like a jury duty summons. Annoyed resignation is not hot.
At least now I think I know what happened. After a night of zero sleep and many tangled sheets, I came to an obvious conclusion.
This is an adrenaline crush.
My brain confused fear chemicals with damn-that-guy-is-a-hottie chemicals, and now my lower belly clenches whenever I think about George’s close-cropped hair and how I want to drag my nails over his skull as he groans my name.
Solution: time.
My body is still recovering from the stressful situation, and George Bunsen will be off my mind once I’m steady again. Then we can go back to mutually avoiding each other’s existences.
“But what happened? Did the engine catch on fire?” Mrs. McGuire searches my face, no doubt looking for terrifying scars on my skin.
“No, and I don’t know yet. But I’m sure the newspapers will find out.
” I’ve already been called by three, all leaving messages asking for an interview.
If I had picked up any of the unrecognizable numbers, today’s papers would’ve been full of quotes because I have the hardest time getting off the phone with people.
I learned my lesson about ignoring unknown callers after too many drawn-out conversations with telemarketers.
Luckily, I have enough self-restraint not to buy what they’re selling, but that doesn’t stop me from listening to the entire sales pitch.
Needless to say, I don’t plan on calling the newspaper contacts back.
From the way Mrs. McGuire starts to open her mouth again, I can tell she’d rather consume gossip than her lunch. If I don’t get out now, I’ll be stuck here for the rest of my shift.
“I’ll come around with coffee. Enjoy your meal!” Trying not to look like I’m running away, I escape the table.
All morning it’s been like this. The locals that frequent the Cornfield Diner are making a point to come in and gawp at me.
Come one, come all! See the waitress who landed in the middle of the highway and survived!
If I could step out of this spotlight, that would be great.
On the other hand, I do appreciate the influx in tips. In the past two hours I’ve earned double what I usually make during my entire shift. If every day were like this, I might not dread the impending deadline of my loan coming due.
I owe my brother money. A lot of money.
And he, the poor trusting soul, still thinks I’ll be able to pay him back easily.
Shawn has yet to discover that I am a terrible sister, but in a few months, he will. There will be no hiding the fact that I took money from him under false pretenses.
Guilt and anxiety twist together in my gut whenever I imagine the fast-approaching confrontation.
I’ll get another job.
It’s the only solution. Even if it means working eighty hours a week, I’ll pay Shawn back while covering my portion of the mortgage and household bills. Mentally, I prepare for a diet of peanut butter sandwiches for the next ten years or so.
And maybe in another decade, I can circle back to my dream of earning my private pilot’s license. When I have time to fly and money to pay for sessions with an instructor. A point far in the future when I can work in the sky rather than in this diner.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the people here at Cornfield’s, and this is a good job to have.
But it’s not what I’ve longed for since the moment I went up in a plane for the first time.
That day when I sat in the seat of a small jet and felt myself pressed backward as we rocketed down the runway.
When I realized I was above the clouds instead of underneath them, I was euphoric.
The pilot dream was born.
When I was old enough to get a job at Cornfield’s, I worked and saved, then I graduated high school and kept on waitressing and researching how to pursue a pilot’s license.
Was the cost of classes and flight time with an instructor daunting?
Hell yeah. Did the fact that every contact I found was a man over forty intimidate me?
Totally. Could I do without the head of the local flight club calling me “Sweetheart” when I called to ask about membership? Most definitely.
But I took the money and misogyny into account and made a plan. I was determined to live the life I’d fantasized for myself. One in which I spent as much time in the sky as I did on the ground.
But then Mom got sick. Everything changed after that.
Sometimes dreams have to wait awhile.
I head to the food pass and get there just as Billy is setting down my next order.
“Hey,” I call out to the cook as I slide the slip of paper from my pocket and unfold it, trying to wear an earnest expression. “I never knew you had such kind words in you. I’m also interested in, what was it…” I glance down at the note and then back up at the confused man. “The future of us.”
Billy frowns, wrinkles forming in his normally pale forehead that’s flushed red from the heat of the stove. A backward baseball cap keeps his blond hair off his face, and he studies me with striking blue eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Your letter.” I hold it up for him to see. “I know you said not to mention it, but I just had to thank you.” I overplay the sincerity, barely managing to keep from laughing.
Billy reaches a long arm through the window and snatches the paper from my hand. I let him, enjoying the way his face scrunches into a scowl as he reads.
“Mom!” he bellows.
Sally Cornfield flips a chestnut ponytail threaded with silver over her shoulder as she glances our way from her spot at the register, brows raised and expression innocent.
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m too shy?” Billy growls at her, his head stuck through the pass, hand waving the note.
I snatch up the plate for my customer to save it from the impending argument and slide the grilled cheese across the counter to Mr. Fraser, one of my regulars.
The older man seems more interested in the cook’s outrage than his food.
Guess everyone wants drama added as a special menu item today.
“Oh, you are?” Sally presses a hand against her chest. “That’s good of you to acknowledge.”
I bite my lip to keep from chuckling.
Billy breathes through his nose like an angry bull. “Stop writing love notes to Beth from me! It’s creepy. She’s basically my sister.”
Personally, I think Sally’s blatant attempts at matchmaking are hilarious.
But I agree about the sibling-like relationship.
The Cornfields began fostering Billy and his twin sister, Darla, when they were ten, and the three of us grew up in this diner together.
Sally’s parents built the place, and my mom started waitressing here while she was pregnant with me and stayed all the way until I graduated high school.
The idea of kissing Billy…no thank you.
Mrs. Cornfield bats her lashes, peachy cheeks not even darkening with the slightest touch of embarrassment at getting caught. “Well, goodness. I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Of course not. And this certainly isn’t your handwriting, either.” He gives the paper another vigorous wave before retracting his arm. “No more meddling at work.”
“At work?” Sally clasps her hands under her chin, eager expression in her eyes, likely planning to ambush her son with a dating show the moment he steps out of the diner.
“No more meddling period! I can find my own dates. And I’m sure Beth can, too.”
I choose to keep my mouth shut following this declaration. Whether I can find dates is a questionable assertion, seeing as how I haven’t looked for one in a long while.