4. CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR
Joss
I feel the strain of the day rolling off my shoulders as I unlock the door to my apartment. I haven’t been home in a few days, and I’ve been craving the refresh button that comes with it. No matter how stressful work is, I can always let it go here. It’s one of my favorite things about being a flight attendant. I get to leave it all at the airport.
Of course, I haven’t completely left this most recent trip behind me. Despite my best efforts, my thoughts linger on Wes. Never have I met a man on a flight—or anywhere—that caught my attention like he did. It’s kind of infuriating because why couldn’t Eric, or anyone I’ve dated, have that pull? Maybe I wouldn’t be single right now if they had. I mean, come on, it had to be a random man on an airplane? An American, no less? Likely here and gone just as quick?
It’s not like I’m all that upset over mine and Eric’s breakup last month. He didn’t understand me, and I’m glad I never fully gave him my heart—even if his words still play on a loop, poking holes in my unaffected facade.
You never open up.
How can you see a future for us when you can’t even share your past with me?
Sorry, bud, some things just don’t need rehashing. Like, ever.
I pull myself out of my head—those thoughts aren’t going to take me anywhere good. What I need to do is unpack, do laundry, get groceries, and eventually fall into bed. These intercontinental flights are brutal, but the pay is good, and I would never give up the industry perks.
I throw in a load of laundry, the comforting whir filling the apartment with a buzz of white noise. I slip on a pair of joggers and a baggy band T-shirt, ready for a day of doing absolutely nothing. I unpack the rest of my bag, sliding it up onto a shelf in the closet.
Bye, Felicia, see you in a week.
My feet sink into the soft white carpet on the way to the fridge. There’s very little in there, but the cheese and deli meats I bought right before I left still look good. All thoughts of getting groceries are pushed to tomorrow. I throw together a makeshift charcuterie board—so bougie of me—and pour a glass of rosé before heading out to the balcony.
This is my favorite spot in my apartment. It may not be huge, but the view is beautiful, and the sun over the harbour is perfect despite the chill in the air. My surfboard taunts me from its place in the corner. I’m itching to hit the beach but know full well I’ll wake up too late tomorrow and miss the best waves. Maybe an afternoon session then.
I set my plate on the table and walk to the railing where I lean my forearms against the cool metal. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the smell of home, then lift my glass to my lips, the crisp wine bursting with flavor against my tongue. When my stomach rumbles, bringing my attention back to my makeshift lunch, I spot a light on in the apartment next door. Has it finally been rented out? I don’t see any movement, but my curiosity is piqued as I wonder who my new neighbors might be.
When I finish scarfing down my meal, I take the dishes to the sink and don’t bother washing them. I’m a rebel, okay? Still feeling hungry, I pull out the package of Tim Tams. Talk about “home.” The only other place I’ve been able to find my guilty pleasure is in Hawaii, oddly enough. I keep my gluttony contained and settle on two for tonight, dropping crumbs on my way to the bathroom.
I rush through what you could barely call a shower, pull my comfy clothes back on, then wrap my hair in the softest towel on earth. I spend so much time in hotels that I’ve learned the importance of good linens.
I wipe away the steam fogging the mirror and momentarily take myself in. This long day has left me with dark circles beneath my lower lashes. My distinctive grey eyes stand out in contrast to my brown hair and sun-warmed skin. They’ve always been my favorite feature, and they’d be completely unique to me if I didn’t know exactly where—who—I got them from. I release the dark tendrils of my hair, shaking off that thought, and let it fall in wet waves past my shoulders. I’m due for a trim, but I tend to forget mundane things like appointments for haircuts.
I palm my cheeks with a huff and get to work applying my skincare. I swear with every birthday comes yet another product I “need” and with my thirtieth creeping up I feel that pressure even more. How men get away with washing their hair, face, and bodies with the same soap—and maybe applying a moisturizer—is beyond me. No one ever tells them they need seventeen steps in order to look good.
My bed beckons to me with its cushy pillows and soft throw blankets. Laundry. I should rotate the laundry. I swipe that thought away like a bad Tinder match, instead going in search of my phone and Kindle. When I’m back in my room, I fall into bed with a contented sigh. I plan to stay right here the rest of the afternoon.
Unfortunately, it’s not long before the exhaustion takes its toll, and I can’t spare a thought for the romance in my book. I’m asleep in no time, completely oblivious to the world.
I wake up in the morning feeling well rested but frustrated. Frustrated because a certain beautiful man featured heavily in my dreams last night. I can still feel a light blush on my cheeks thanks to said dreams.
Goodness, Joss, get a grip.
I roll myself out of bed, knowing the groceries aren’t going to buy themselves. The laundry probably didn’t move itself to the dryer while I slept either, which is unfortunate.
I pad to the bathroom, splashing water on my heated skin. My favorite running shorts and hoodie call my name from the vanity where I always leave them before a trip. I do so with high hopes that pulling them on first thing in the morning will lead to me actually going for a run. It never does, but a girl can dream. I slip my runners onto my feet, but with no bra I’ve eliminated any chance I’ll be jogging anywhere.
First things first—I need coffee.
I’m out the door and halfway to the elevator when I notice the door to the apartment next door is cracked. Soft music drifting from inside. I’m tempted to knock and introduce myself, but braless with a messy bun might not be my best first impression. I get on the elevator, and as the doors slide shut, I spot a man coming out from apartment 16A. Before I can take note of much more than the logo on the tattered baseball cap sitting backward on his head, the doors shut completely, leaving me more curious about my new neighbor than I was before.
The sun is shining this morning and a sense of calm washes over me. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere but the city. I love the hustle and bustle, the noise, the pace… it’s where I thrive. There’s nothing that could ever tear me away from my life here.
I pop my AirPods into my ears as I walk down the street, headed for Harbour Grounds. I slip through the door and let the heady scent of coffee surround me. I could float away on the aroma like a cloud. Jaz, the barista behind the bar, is also my best friend. She squeals with delight when I catch her eye from my place in line. The people waiting for their coffee look around as if Sting just walked in, but it’s just me. They make sure to display their disappointment before turning back around.
Jaz and I moved to Sydney around the same time, right out of high school, and became fast friends over a mutual love of coffee, books, and a desire to see the world someday. I pull my AirPods out and return them to their case as she leaves the line waiting, scurrying out from behind the counter. She’s in my arms for a big hug before I can even fully register that she’s coming for me.
“Hi! You’re here, I couldn’t remember when you were getting back.”
“I’m here, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Except maybe if the crap service at this place was better.” This last part I say with a giggle, and she smacks me on the shoulder, heading back to the counter.
She points her finger at me and shouts over her shoulder. “You get decaf for that.”
I feign a look of hurt and fling my hand across my chest dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She ignores me and turns her attention back to her customers. Luckily, most of the locals who frequent this place know that Jaz is crazy and flighty—it’s part of her charm—and she takes the next few orders with quick precision.
Before I even reach the counter, she slides me my Sleepy Sydney, a nitro cold brew with brown sugar syrup, salted caramel cold foam, and a caramel drizzle. It’s basically caffeine and sugar incarnate.
She points me to the open seat at the bar so she can come catch up with me when the line clears. I watch her work, admiring my best friend. She started here as a barista and is now part owner of the place. There’s more than one man in here that watches her with rapt attention. Her soft brown skin glows in the café’s amber light, and her dark curls are pulled away from her face, emphasizing her shining green eyes. My friend is stunning. But her looks don’t even hold a candle to the woman she is on the inside.
Beyond my parents, who I do not count, Jaz is the person who’s been in my life the longest. She’s seen me through the hardest moments of my adult life. She’s my person. I’d bury a body with her if she asked me to, and I know she’d do the same for me. Let’s just hope that particular need never arises—dead people aren’t really my thing.
It only takes her a few minutes to get through the mid-morning rush before she takes up her spot opposite me behind the bar.
“Have you gotten better at making these? Or did I just miss your coffee so much that it somehow tastes better?”
“You know it’s just because you missed me. How was your trip?”
My trip… Do I tell her about Wes? I chew my lip, debating it. She’ll probably have more questions than I have answers. So, maybe not.
“It was good, uneventful. You know I don’t love the LA route, but I always find something fun to do.”
That I get to travel for my job is about the only area of my life that makes Jaz jealous. I bank my buddy passes and frequent flyer miles so we can take a vacation together every couple of years. We’ve done Africa and the Maldives so far, but we’re still working out the details for where we’ll go next.
“Don’t tell me… You went to Disneyland?” She says this as if she knows me or something.
“Yes, I did. Before you say anything, I know I go there every time I’m in LA, but I can’t help it. I do believe it’s the happiest place on earth, outside our little slice of heaven here, of course.”
“I know that, but what makes me crazy is that you could do so many things—hit up Hollywood, shop Rodeo Drive, go to Santa Monica—but instead, you always go back to Disneyland. I think you’re nuts.”
“I’m aware of how nuts you think I am.” I add an aggressive eye roll just to drive my point home. “Maybe I’m saving those things for when I drag you to LA with me someday.”
“Have you talked to Eric lately?” she asks nonchalantly, avoiding my eyes by wiping the perfectly clean counter with a rag.
Where did that question come from?
“Definitely not, why?”
“I’m just asking.” She holds her hands up like I have her at gunpoint, the rag hanging limply. I guess my response came out a little defensive. It’s been over a month though, so I can’t figure out why she’d suddenly be interested.
“You remember he dumped me , right?” I try to lighten my tone, but it’s still more clipped than I’d like.
“I just thought that maybe…” At the look on my face, she stops and seems to think better of where she was going with that sentence. Or maybe not. She sets her shoulders and continues. “I just thought you might have decided it was finally time to let someone in. ”
I clearly haven’t had enough caffeine yet because I have no idea what she’s getting at. I let people in. Eric and I dated for six months. It just turned out he wasn’t the right guy for me.
“Look,” she continues, “I love you. You know I love you. I’ve also known you a long time, nearly twelve years come to think of it, and there hasn’t been a single guy you’ve dated that’s scratched the surface of knowing the real you. Eric told you as much, right? Wasn’t that the problem?”
I’m stunned. Where is this coming from? Maybe I should have led with the Wes story so we wouldn’t be talking about this right now.
“Why would I want to put all that baggage on someone? I wish I didn’t have it myself. And it’s not like every guy I date dumps me for not being an emotional oversharer. I’d say most guys appreciate that about me. Some things just don’t work out.”
She scoffs at this. “Love, there’s a difference between not working out and you ending things before you can get hurt.”
“That’s not what I do.”
Again, she raises her hands. “Okay, okay. I wasn’t trying to get your hackles up. I just don’t want you to be alone forever. You deserve to be happy.”
I’m about to push her on her sudden interest when I notice that Jaz is no longer looking at me. She’s looking past me, which is strange. Jaz is one of those people who gives you a hundred percent of her attention. It’s part of what makes her a great barista and why I keep suggesting they convert Harbour Grounds to a bar at night—she’d make a great bartender .
She lets out a low whistle, just loud enough for me to hear, and I giggle as understanding dawns on me.
“Damn… Don’t look now, but you can forget everything I just said because I think your future husband just walked in.” Her eyes have gone all soft and gooey, like the center of a cinnamon roll. “Yum-my!”
Typical Jaz to casually transition from debating my love life to finding my future husband. She’s probably trying to keep me from being mad at her. Not that I could ever stay mad at her for long, no matter what she drops on me at nine a.m. while I’m jet-lagged and caffeine-deprived. It’s working though, because I’m intrigued. Her face says enough about how hot the guy behind me must be.
I turn slowly on my stool, taking a sip of my drink as I go. You know, so it doesn’t seem as obvious that the only reason I’m turning around is to ogle an innocent customer. But when I make it all the way around, I inhale sharply, cold foam and coffee clogging my lungs. The coughing and spluttering cover some of my reaction, but nothing can drown out the recognition.
Oh god . That sharp jawline. The stubbled face and dimples. The messy hair. Messy hair I wanted to run my hands through less than twenty-four hours ago.
I spin back to the counter and try to pull coffee-free air through my lips. He’s just a mirage. He’s not real. I wipe at my hoodie with a napkin, glad the navy blue will mask the stains of my embarrassment. All the while, Jaz is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. Her evergreen eyes are round. She’s also speechless, which is not something I’ve ever witnessed in my best friend.
“Bloody hell, what was that, Joss? ”
Now she finds her words. She’s also using them way too loudly and including my name . I act on instinct, leaning across the bar and slapping my hand across her mouth to stop her talking. If it’s possible, her eyes grow even wider.
“Shhhh. Don’t draw his attention. Don’t look at him. Look at me,” I whisper-shout, as if it will somehow undo this nightmare. But it doesn’t, and as I lower my hand, she glances back to me with a What the fuck look. This is not going well.
“I might already know him.” The words are clipped and kind of garbled. I’m honestly amazed Jaz can even understand me at this point. She makes a keep going gesture with her hand, a wide and far too interested smile spreading across her face. “He was on my flight in from LA yesterday. It’s a long story.”
“Oh my god!” Now she’s the one whisper-shouting, and she follows up her quiet proclamation with a flick to my nose, making my eyes jump to hers in shock.
“Ow! That hurt.”
“Did you do the nasty with him in the bathroom?” She waggles her dark eyebrows at me. “Can we call him Mr. Mile High Club?”
She’s taking way too much pleasure in this, making me wish a crack would open in the ground and swallow me whole.
“First of all…” I flick her nose in return, earning me a little yelp. “Second of all, no I did not do the nasty with him, do you think I want to get fired? No! I just—we just… ugh, it’s hard to explain when he’s—”
I don’t get to complete my sentence as I hear a deep voice rumble from behind me. “Right here. ”
Oh my god. I let my head fall to the counter, all hope of avoiding exactly this flying out the window. Did he hear all of that? No. No. No .
“Kill me now,” I mutter, but the deep chuckle behind me tells me he definitely heard me. I lift my head and catch sight of Jaz’s face. She’s gone mute again . That’s twice in 5 minutes, an all-time record. Turning, I hold my breath and take him in.
Wes Anderson.