Chapter 3 #2
Darla grips the pencil she uses to write down orders with white knuckles, and I can tell she’s imagining stabbing the dull point into my brother’s eye.
“Extra pickles is not enough to make a burger special. You don’t get to slap your name on something because of a slight increase in condiments. Is your life really that devoid of accomplishments?”
Sally appears then, as if she has a my-daughter-is-about-to-commit-murder radar. With one arm, the older woman pulls the waitress into a half-embrace, half-restraint.
“Darla,” she chides. “Remember what we talked about.”
The waitress growls. “But—”
“Darla.” There’s a note of warning that I fully expect my friend to ignore.
Instead, she glares at the tiled floor and mutters, “Don’t actively destroy the self-confidence of the customers.”
I have to bite hard into my bottom lip to keep from laughing, but I hear a snort somewhere else in the restaurant and realize Sam Cornfield has come out of the back office in time to hear her daughter attempt some personal growth.
The silver-haired Black woman is one of the friendliest people I’ve ever met.
Even kinder than her wife. And yet the pair adopted two children that lean toward grumpy at all times.
“That’s my girl.” Sally gives her daughter a proud little squeeze.
Darla pulls away from her mother, stomps over to the coffee maker, snatches a pot, and aggressively pours the steaming liquid into a mug before gently placing it in front of my brother.
“Here’s your one-of-a-kind totally original coffee.
Because you’re a super-special boy. Now let me go see if the chef can handle your complicated food order that no one else in the world has ever thought of ordering.
” She stalks away, so annoyed with my brother that she didn’t even ask George what he wanted.
Any other day, I’d risk permanent bodily harm by trying to flag down Darla.
But yesterday George took me up in an airplane and then saved my life, which I guess still counts, even if he was saving his own at the same time. With a sigh, I come to a stop in front of him and manage a smile because I’m a pro at faking it. “And what can we get you today?”
George’s eyes flick from the menu to my face and back to the menu. I wonder if he’s contemplating returning to his well-established habit of leaving without acknowledging my existence. The thought makes me itchy.
The truth is…I want George to like me.
The urge—probably—has nothing to do with me suddenly finding myself secretly horny for the man and everything to do with the fact that I am terrible at being disliked.
I don’t know how to deal with it. Don’t know how to act around someone who’s found fault in me even if I’m not a fan of them, either.
Making someone unhappy simply by being in their presence is as uncomfortable as working an eight-hour shift in a soaking-wet uniform—which I had to do a month ago when a three-year-old threw a full cup of water at me.
That was a personal hell, but being disliked is still worse.
“Get whatever your heart desires,” Shawn offers his friend. “My treat.” He turns to loudly whisper to me. “They’ve grounded him after what happened yesterday.”
“What?” I gape between the two men.
George’s lips tighten, and a redness infuses his cheeks.
“Temporarily,” the pilot clarifies.
“Still…” Why would anyone ground him? What he did yesterday was amazing. The skill to handle that plane with a cool head when everything was going wrong was impressive. Every part of me—other than my vagina—resents the guy, and even I can admit that.
“Hold up one second. You’re the man who almost crashed a plane with our Beth inside?” Sam leaves off filling the napkin holders and strides toward us, her face thunderous.
Sam in a temper. Now there’s a sight I’ve rarely seen. The middle-aged woman usually lets her children handle the angry outbursts. I think I saw her yell once, and that’s when a customer left their dog in their car when they came in to eat. It was a ninety-degree day out.
As a proud dog mom to three rescue mutts, Sam has no patience for animal neglect.
But I’m not a Yorkie left to bake in the sun, so what’s up?
George drags a rough palm over his cropped hair, then nods.
My boss looks ready to commit murder. It’s kind of sweet.
“I am,” George admits.
“And what risky nonsense were you doing up there that had you almost crashing?” Sam crosses her arms over her ample chest and glares at the pilot. “Flips? Nosedives? Trying to break the sound barrier?”
Cessna 172s aren’t really fast, and I don’t think they’re built for aerobatics, but I don’t bother to correct the normally mild-mannered Cornfield.
“It was engine failure,” George explains in a matter-of-fact voice with no trace of defensiveness. “One of the cylinders threw a rod.”
Sam loses a touch of heat. “How does that happen?”
“It typically occurs when the engine was not overhauled correctly by the mechanic.”
“Are you the mechanic?”
George continues to frown. “I have aviation mechanic experience.”
“But,” Sam presses, “were you the one who did the overhaul? The one that made the cylinder go wonky?”
The pilot hesitates for a stretch before answering. “No.”
“Well.” All the heat from Sam’s expression evaporates as quickly as it appeared. Her smile is wide and stunning. “That sounds like you didn’t do anything wrong.”
George keeps quiet, but I get the odd sense he doesn’t agree.
“In fact,” Sam continues, voice rising, a grin growing, “sounds like you did everything you could. You saved Beth! You’re a hero!”
George looks horrified. “I’m not.”
But it’s too late. The diner owner is already dragging George off his stool to wrap him in a hard hug. The sight has me fighting another laugh, because Mrs. Cornfield is a tall, broad woman, and she can crush bones with her affection if she has a mind to.
“You eat free today.” Sam lets George go only to clasp his shoulders in a final squeeze. “Anything you want. Don’t forget the pie. Darla makes them, and she’s a wizard at getting the flaky crust just right.”
“Don’t tell them that!” The younger woman glares at her mother as she skulks past us, steaming coffeepot in hand.
“I’ll get the Reuben, please,” George murmurs as he gingerly sits back on his stool. “And I’ll pay. I’m not a hero.”
“That’s what the best heroes say.” Sam offers him a wink before jogging back to the kitchen. I think she might be planning to elbow Billy out of the way and make the sandwich herself.
My brother chuckles as he heads to the bathroom, leaving me alone with George.
How long can he stand to be around me? I wonder. Will he break out in hives from all his suppressed disdain?
More likely that I will.
I could wander away, find another task to busy myself. But this diner is my territory, and I refuse to give him an inch of it.
Other than those inches his well-formed ass is claiming on the stool, I guess.
George stares at the sugar packets, and I stare at his forehead, my eyes tracing over the short hairs. Randomly, I ponder if they would be soft or scratchy against my palms.
Does he shave his head himself? Does he crop it close to his head and let it grow out? Does he ever miss spots? When I overlook an area on my legs, the little tease of stubble annoys the heck out of me until I can take my next shower.
Does he use his razor in the shower?
A vision pops into my mind then, of George soaping his skull before dragging a razor over the skin. Steam billowing up around him, suds slipping down his neck…down his chest…down his—
Stop it! Bad brain!
I clear my throat and try to keep my thoughts from showing in my eyes. George Bunsen would be appalled to know I’ve started having dirty fantasies about him.
Still, as much as he dislikes me, he did save my life, like Sam said.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out only slightly strained. I forget if I ever spoke the words yesterday in all the wildness that followed our emergency landing. “You saved us both.”
George’s lips tighten to a straight, displeased line, and I bet Shawn had to physically drag the guy here. Even when I’m grateful, he doesn’t want to be in my presence.
“When are you going to fly again?” he asks.
I flinch, not expecting the question.
The surety that I will fly again.
Tomorrow! My heart begs. But my heart has never made the rules.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
George scowls. Unfortunately, the angry expression looks good on his face. “The longer you wait, the worse the fear will get.”
I huff an unamused laugh. Fear isn’t what’s keeping me grounded.
“Yeah. I bet. But I don’t own a plane or have a license.
And…” I trail off, not wanting to discuss my money troubles with a man who is so rich he hasn’t even considered that I can’t afford to take regular plane rides.
But I throw my shoulders back, determined not to feel shame.
“I don’t have the income I need to pay to use someone else’s to learn. ”
George’s expression twists, as if confused by my explanation.
Does he think I work in a diner because I like to have syrup stains on my shoes?
“You’re twenty-four,” he says, like my age means something.
But realization comes quick.
He knows about the trust.
The trust that doesn’t exist. The reminder has my gut cramping with guilt.
George watches me, probably waiting for me to say, Oh yeah. When I turn twenty-five, I’ll get right back in that airplane. Maybe buy one of my own because I’ll be so rich.
But lying to my brother is already one too many people.
“Yep,” I say. “I’m twenty-four. And I don’t know when I’ll fly again.”
As I turn to check on my tables, the pilot’s stern voice stops me once again. “I’ll take you up.”
Brows raised, I face him. “I’m sorry, what?”
I must have misheard because that sounded a lot like George—the man who avoids me like smelly garbage—offered to spend more time with me. In an enclosed space. Where he’d have to acknowledge my presence.
“I’ll take you up,” he repeats.
“Are you joking?” Then I remember something and cross my arms. “Aren’t you grounded?”
George’s expression reveals nothing. “For a week, while the FAA runs an investigation. After that, we can go.”
Wait. He’s offering to fly with me? Again?!
What reality is this?
No. I must have misunderstood.
Or maybe he’s looking for some extra cash, too. Needs a side gig like I do. I bet the first trip was a favor for Shawn, but this one will cost me.
But that doesn’t make any sense. George is a Bunsen. He’s worth millions, if not more.
Still, playing along with his game and acting like this is a real offer, the answer is the same as much as I wish it was different.
“I just said,” my voice comes out careful, hiding the annoyance that I have to reiterate my financial situation to a man who would probably laugh at the small number in my savings account, “I don’t have the money to pay you.”
George’s silver eyes hold mine. “I’ll take you for free.”
What. The. Hell?
As I reel from his offer, George’s gaze breaks away and flicks toward the bathroom door, where my brother disappeared. Understanding dawns.
He’s guilty. Or Shawn put him up to this. Probably both.
“That’s…generous of you.” I clear my throat and try for a smile that feels more like a grimace. “But I can’t accept.”
It’s too much. He doesn’t owe me anything for our flight going wrong. I’m not a friend he’s doing a favor for. And I certainly don’t want to owe him. My debt is already too deep.
Then there’s that pesky heat in my lower belly to contend with.
I need to stay far away from this man until I can keep my eyes from tracing the way the sleeves of his T-shirt stretch over his biceps.
George’s jaw tenses and relaxes before he speaks again.
“I want to take you up, Beth.” He leans forward now, and I’m reminded of how broad his shoulders are. “I own the plane but don’t get to use it much. This is my excuse.”
He wants to take me up?
Lies. This is a favor for Shawn. I know it is.
But damn it, I want to say yes anyway. Anything to get in the air again.
“I’m about to start another job.” I speak the words out loud partly for him, but also for myself. This is a step I need to take, and articulating it makes the decision real. “I won’t have much free time.”
George taps an agitated rhythm on the counter, probably not used to his generosity being refused multiple times. The sound grates on my nerves, but I’m also perversely proud of myself for pissing him off. Normally, I trip over myself to agree with people. To keep them happy.
Maybe this mutual dislike can help me practice not people-pleasing to my own detriment.
When I think he’s finally accepted my no, I turn away, determined to put George and his tempting offer out of my mind, never to be considered again.
But he’s not done with me.
“We’ll find a time.” His voice is deep and demands I face him again. When our stares meet, they hold. “I’ll work around your schedule.”
Holy hell, Shawn must have laid the mother of all guilt trips on this guy.
I’ve given him the legitimate reasons I have to say no, but George is still pushing for a yes.
Why won’t he take the out?
His refusal to back down means my silly, hopeful heart is searching for a way to agree.
This may be the only chance I get.
Some other emergency might come up in the next few years, making me push all this off again. Maybe Mom will get sick again. Maybe I will. Maybe all the time I think I have will run out.
As I stand in my Cornfield Diner waitress uniform, clutching tight to my notepad filled with the same orders I’ve been writing down for years, I study a man who, despite thoroughly disliking me, is still offering me the chance to live my dream, even if it’s in the crevices of time wedged among other responsibilities.
My days ahead taunt me with long stretches of the same fake smiles, sore feet, and financial anxiety.
Escape with me, George’s offer whispers in the air between us.
In response, my heart asks the question I always avoid.
Could I stand to let my life go by never having tried?