Chapter 22
Chapter
The airplane-washing event is more enjoyable than I expected it to be. Probably because I’ve managed to keep at least a plane between me and George since the moment I arrived.
But also, the spring day is sunny and warm, and as we hose down and scrub the planes, I get to watch the occasional takeoff and landing on the nearby runway. Plus, I finally feel like I’m giving back, even if it just means scraping bugs off the windshield of a Cessna.
“How’s ground school coming?” Tim asks as he drags a soapy sponge over the propeller. The man has decided to take on the plane-washing task shirtless, the sun reflecting off his winter pale skin. I’m tempted to ask if he applied sunscreen, but he’s an adult who can take care of himself.
Although if it was Shawn, I totally would nag him about it.
“It’s going really well actually.” Soapsuds flick onto the ratty T-shirt I decided to wear.
A freebie from a Red Cross blood drive that’s now speckled with paint and torn in a few places from catching on stray nails.
My messy work shirt. Aka most of my shirts.
“I found an online program. I can work on it when I have a free moment.” Which usually ends up being close to midnight, and I try not to fall asleep halfway through.
Despite telling George I’d come to this event, I wasn’t sure I’d make it.
I only plan to stay for an hour and then I need to get home to check on Mom before my secret shift at Beefies.
Luckily, Mom is pro me being an independent woman, and she’s always fine with me giving her a vague I’m going out.
I tend to be the one who worries in our relationship.
“Nice. If you’re thinking you want to keep going—get your commercial license—a few airlines have partnership programs. Like, they’ll reimburse some of your tuition.” He tosses his sponge in the bucket. “That’s my plan anyway.”
“Oh. Wow. I didn’t realize that was a thing.” Suds dry on my hands as I pause to think over the idea. “I’m not sure about flying for an airline, but maybe. I’ll have to look into that.”
“Definitely think about it. How’s flying with Bunsen?
” Tim grabs a hose and waits for me to climb down from my stepladder to rinse the nose of the plane.
“On paper, the guy seems cool. You know, leasing his planes to the club and all that. But he’s hella intimidating.
And I’ve heard some guys are harder on women. ”
My joints lock up, a visceral reaction to his words. “They’re what?”
Tim grimaces as he aims the water at the closest wing.
“Just something a friend said. Like instructors making big deals out of small mistakes they wouldn’t knock a guy for.
Or examiners asking tougher questions cause you’re a woman.
Like they want you to fail or something.
” He huffs, his eyes meeting mine, then flicking away.
“It’s fucked up. And I tried to get my friend to say something. But she…”
His brow furrows as he trails off. Still, I know what her answer was without him having to say it.
If she brought up the unfair treatment, she’d be labeled the whiny one. The complainer. The one who can’t hack it.
The bitch.
“Yeah. So, I just wanted to check. George isn’t giving you a hard time, right? Because it’s okay to mess up. Fuck knows I have.” Tim throws me a rueful smile.
I snort. Sure, the dry way George speaks and the general lack of emotion he allows on his face might strike fear into some hearts.
But I think I have too much simmering rage deep in my gut for all BnB-related people to ever be cowed by them. And I can’t think of a time he’s been overly hard on me. When I make a mistake, I’m quick to berate myself, while he gives me a no-nonsense correction.
If anyone is fixated on gender, it’s me, and the fact that George is a hot guy I can’t get out of my horny brain. Meanwhile, I hold all the sexual appeal of a cardboard box to him. A box full of unpleasant reminders of Karl Newton’s infidelity, so let’s keep a lid on that, why don’t we?
My goal is to keep George from thinking he has power over my emotions in any way. That he can affect them.
Even if he does.
“Bunsen is fine,” I say to reassure Tim. “Professional. Knows his stuff. Answers my questions. Flying with him is fine.”
“Glad to hear you think so highly of me.”
I squeak, turning fast at the sound of the wry comment. And for some reason, my body goes into defense mode and I chuck the item I’m holding at the new arrival.
That item? A sudsy sponge.
It whacks into his chest, then splats on the ground. George frowns at the wet spot on his shirt. “What was that for?”
“You snuck up on me!” Maybe before the run-in with Karl Newton I would have apologized, but I’m still salty and absolutely sure that any wrong thing happening around George Bunsen is his fault.
Unfortunately, now the front of his white T-shirt is wet, and the material clings to his skin in an indecent way. I swear I can see his nipples.
Of course, my libido wants to snatch the hose out of Tim’s hands and give George a full wet down. But my buddy is backing away quickly. As if he thinks George might blow up. Well, now I at least know Tim is a coward.
George leans over to scoop up the sponge I flung at him and drops it in a nearby bucket.
The club has four planes, all currently tied down outside, and the fifteen or so of us who showed up have been working on bringing them to a shine.
Well, some of us are working hard. Others are milling around a cooler with beers, chatting about an upcoming air show in Oshkosh.
How I’d love to go to that. A gathering of aircraft lovers all geeking out over the latest flight innovations. Maybe I’ll join them in a decade, if it’s still around and I’ve actually started saving some money.
“Can I talk to you?” George asks, and I realize that with Tim’s abandonment, we’re basically alone over here. Still, he waves toward a grassy area with a picnic table.
Great. He wants to talk.
At least this time, with me actively coming to the club meeting rather than getting ambushed at my job, I knew an interaction with George would happen. I’ve had time to prepare.
But I’ve mainly spent the lead-up having an imaginary argument with him about how he is a pompous asshole who let my father brainwash him into believing I belong locked away in a tower.
And in this fictional fight, George is shocked and humbled by the realization that I am right, and he offers to give me his planes as an apology.
So, yeah. Super ready for this real-life confrontation.
I follow him away from the group, trying to keep my body loose and not tensed up like we’re about to brawl.
Focus. You want this to end with you still getting flight lessons. Just swallow his disdain and let out all the repressed fury when you finally sledgehammer that wall in the third bedroom.
“About last Saturday—”
“You don’t need to do this.” Okay, so maybe I can’t swallow his disdain.
But I think it might be easier if I’m the one to speak to it.
He can give a stoic nod, and then we’ll move on.
“We don’t need to talk about it. I understand that you’re helping me as a favor to Shawn.
That we’re not friends and you don’t want us to be. ”
“What?”
“I get it.” God, do I get it. “I would literally do anything for Shawn, too.”
Which is why I’d submitted an application to Beefies Steak House a week ago and my first shift is tonight.
George, instead of looking understanding, or maybe relieved that I said the words so he doesn’t have to, wears a deep frown that carves grooves into his face.
“I do want to be your friend.”
I bark out a laugh. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Is this gaslighting? Feels a hell of a lot like it.
“So, you’re saying that when Karl called us friendly—not even friends, just friendly—you didn’t back away from me like I suddenly contracted a contagious disease?”
He grimaces. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”
“I would.”
“Fine.” He sighs. “Yes. I treated you like you had rabies. But not because of you.”
I frown. “That makes zero sense.”
George has his hands planted on his hips, his scowl directed at the ground. I swear he’s having some internal argument, and I really hope he’s not brainstorming more obvious lies.
But he surprises me by seemingly changing the topic.
“Has Shawn ever told you what it was like for us growing up? Him, Tasha, and me?”
You mean the charmed life of the legitimate BnB offspring where you never had to worry about lunch money, or holes in your shoes, or trying to sleep in a car while pretending not to hear your mom quietly cry because she blamed herself for getting kicked out of your apartment after being late on rent?
“Not in detail,” I say instead, loathing the idea of pity on George’s face if he were to realize exactly how different our upbringings were.
I doubt my brother even realizes the vast difference. We’ve always kept to surface-level stuff, having fun together. Shawn would make offhand comments about his friends or mention places they’d gone or things they’d done together if he thought I’d enjoy the stories.
But I don’t know much about what it was actually like living in the Newton household.
Is that something I should know about? Something we should talk about?
Shit, am I a bad sister for more reasons than I thought?
“Shawn is the charming one,” George says, unaware of my latest guilt spiral. “Obviously. Tasha is the smart one. The driven one.” He sighs and spreads his arms, the wingspan impressive and reminiscent of the Cessna I was just washing. “And I’m the fuckup.”
I couldn’t have heard that right.
“Excuse me?”