Chapter 7
I experience only a flutter of panic at the New Orleans airport.
The Ticket Agent didn’t exactly give explicit instructions on how to return to my own time.
But when I cross the threshold of the airport, finding my way back to the private lounge is as instinctual as the walk from my bedroom to the kitchen in the morning, even without the lure of the aroma emanating from my timed coffee maker.
I find the tickets and ID I need in my backpack, and it isn’t long before I board the same vintage aircraft from before.
A glass of champagne is sitting next to my seat, though no flight attendant is anywhere to be seen.
I can’t help but long for the bygone days when normal, everyday air travel was this .
. . serene. And I suppose it still is for certain members of society with unlimited funds and a complete disregard for their carbon footprint.
I replay the events with Edward over and over on the almost-instantaneous flight—or whatever it is—back to Burbank.
I’m glad I had more time with dear Jean-Rémy, though I realize with a slight sinking feeling that I missed my chance at saying a proper goodbye. But perhaps it is just as well.
I’d have been too distracted by Edward to properly appreciate the moment.
I’d carried Edward’s words with me for far too long. “Just a glorified dishwasher.”
The worst of it is that I know, deep within, he never meant it.
We’d cooked together far too much and had openly admired each other’s skills.
He was lashing out because he was profoundly unhappy at work and I was a convenient target because I was lower on the culinary ladder but climbing at a decent clip.
Which was never my fault. And if he had been a better partner, he would have praised me for my accomplishments rather than speak ill of me to colleagues.
I’m glad to know for certain that leaving Edward was the right choice.
Do I think he’s irredeemable as a person or a partner? Probably not. He’s a fundamentally decent human, but he just wasn’t ready to be a great boyfriend fifteen years ago. I hope that will change for him and that he’ll be able to find both professional and personal happiness.
But I wasn’t the partner for him. Not then and, I’m guessing, based on his recent threats, even less so now.
His vision for his career was so big that it sucked all the air out of the room for everyone else. Back then, he needed someone who was willing to make his dreams their own. Maybe once he gained more footing in the industry, he’d have space for someone who had ambitions of their own.
Back in Burbank, the Ticket Agent greets me with a smile. “How was your trip, dearie?”
“Educational,” is the best reply I can summon.
“Well, travel is the best teacher, is it not?” She pats my arm and shows me to a table. “I hope the lesson was worthwhile.”
“I got a lot off my chest.”
She pushes a cup of her incredible coffee in front of me, and I accept, though I have no idea what time it is or how much I’ll regret the caffeine intake.
The earthy, almost smoky aroma of the dark roast with the barest hint of caramel and sea salt is too much for any mere mortal to resist. “But in the end, I’m not sure it changed anything. ”
“Do you feel like it went better this time around?” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes assessing me.
“I was more discreet, which is good. And I think more eloquent too. Which can’t hurt. I didn’t let him off the hook, but I did better than just lashing out.” I didn’t feel as mortified as I’d felt fifteen years before. I hope that counts for something.
The Ticket Agent looks serious as she nods. “Lashing out rarely yields the results we want. Well done, you.”
I brood over my coffee for a few moments, collecting my thoughts.
I get ready to launch into a litany of questions about this weird experiment in time travel, wanting to know whether I’m undoing a life’s work of progress by tampering with my past, when I get a buzz on my phone—my actual phone from this timeline—that I’d left on the table.
The time is only a couple of minutes later than when I boarded the flight.
The only time passing is when I am actually in this terminal, which is somehow a relief.
I didn’t lose hours out of my life reliving my time with Edward.
“Why don’t you see to that, dearie. It may be important.”
I know the Ticket Agent knows who is texting me and why without a glance at my screen, but I’ve been unsettled for so long now, I’ve become inured to the sensation. Tentatively, I slide it to the unlocked position to see messages from Nora.
NORA: Thank you so much for meeting with me last week. I know it must have been a bear to fit us in right before the holidays. I hope you don’t mind me communicating informally?
A “but” looms heavy in the air, and I consider preemptively thanking her for her time to save myself the embarrassment of having her reject me, but I restrain myself.
ME: Of course not. And the pleasure was mine. 540 Blake has a lot of potential.
I do stop short of saying “and I’d love to help you realize that potential.”
NORA: I wish I were writing with better news, but we’ve decided to go another direction with the GM position. You know how these things are. It’s so subjective and there are a lot of stakeholders who have input in such a big position.
Read: Edward said no. Not a surprise.
ME: All too well. Personalities have to mesh for it to work. It’s no simple thing.
I know this from my time at Maison Ortense. Joelle was impeccable, but the rest of the staff didn’t work as a cohesive unit. There was no sense in wishing for the job if Edward was set on making it impossible.
NORA: I knew you’d understand. The reason I’m texting is because I’d like to keep your résumé on file for our other restaurants, if you’re interested. We have quite a few under our umbrella and are always expanding.
I sit a little straighter. This is a little brighter than the “we’ll keep you in mind for future opportunities” schtick a lot of recruiters bring out.
ME: Of course. I’d be delighted to be considered.
It’s something. Edward doesn’t want to work with me, which is fair. But either he has chosen not to blackball me, or he doesn’t have that kind of sway with the investors. I could see it going either way, but the latter seems more likely.
I show the Ticket Agent the exchange. “Do you think my trip to New Orleans did this?”
She shrugs, but her lips are curled in a smile. “It’s difficult to say, but it’s certainly possible. Would you like to work for them?”
“Maybe. They’re definitely a growing company and might have some interesting options. Hopefully outside of Denver.” And far from Edward. I don’t voice that, but I’m sure it’s etched on my face.
The Ticket Agent looks pensive. “That seems nice, dearie, but I don’t sense any real enthusiasm.”
I make a noncommittal hawing noise. “It seems like a step sideways, professionally speaking, but better than a step backward.” I’m not sure how true that is, though.
There was something to Robin’s gibe about Denver being a demotion from Paris, especially in the Michelin world, but a step back doesn’t necessarily mean a setback.
I have to think of it like a long jumper bracing themselves on their back foot before making the leap.
If Nora is able to find me a job at one of her restaurants, I may be better poised to make some waves. A smaller market may be precisely what I need . . . and I just might find the courage to apply to Michelin if those waves are impressive enough.
The Ticket Agent brings me back to the here and now by placing a hand on mine. “Would you like to take another hop, dearie? It might be enlightening.”
I lean back, both exhausted and exhilarated by the prospect of another visit to my past. “I get to go again?”
Her hand still on mine, she gives an affectionate squeeze. “Of course. It often takes a few trips to figure things out. Never once have I had someone decide on their perfect course after a single flight.”
I take a few moments to consider. The possibilities seem too vast to fully wrap my head around. I know for sure that this next jump shouldn’t have anything to do with Edward. That path feels like a dead end, and I don’t feel compelled to expel any more energy on him.
The Ticket Agent’s hand is still on mine. “Think about a time when you were truly happy. Maybe going back then will reveal something you need to recapture in the here and now.”
I exhale as the answer washes over me in a painful wave.
Rian.
The gorgeous Irish surgeon I was madly in love with.
The one I’d come this close to marrying.
The one whose mother had driven me so batty I’d had to run screaming.
My issues with Robin had made it impossible to show Orla and her interfering ways much grace.
It was the last time I gave a relationship a real shot, and the breakup that hurt the most.
I’ve wondered so many times whether, if I’d been more empathetic with Orla, if I’d made space for her and helped her adapt to a life where she had to share Rian’s attentions with me, things might have gone better for us.
Maybe time and a decade of lived experiences will make it easier to manage her overbearing ways.
Time hasn’t helped me deal with Robin all that more effectively, but Rian isn’t in the mix to make it worthwhile in that case.
“Dublin, circa 2013. I want to see if I can make things work with Rian.”
The Ticket Agent grins broadly. “Oh, the one that got away. And my homeland too. Lovely choice, dearie. Grab that pack of yours and let’s go.”
I’d instantly placed her accent as Irish, but it’s hard to envision her as being from Ireland. Indeed, she doesn’t feel as if she belongs on our plane of existence at all. But if she is of our world, no better place than the land of leprechauns and fairies exists for her to call home.
“Okay . . .” I stand, slinging the backpack over my shoulder, and join her as she ventures back down the Jetway. I try to sound more self-assured than I feel, but the prospect of seeing Rian—and Orla—again has me just shy of shaking.
The Ticket Agent gestures to the open door of the aircraft, a trademark flight attendant smile on her lips. “Wishing you the luck of my people, dearie. Enjoy yourself.”