Chapter 9
Work has been a haven these last two weeks. Every day since the spectacular implosion of my love life, I’ve sought out ways to avoid thoughts of the man I’m trying not to love anymore. My job is the best distraction. Even as I struggle to remove this rusty exhaust system, my strained grimace is half a smile. Because this is my happy place. I find digging into a greasy plane engine to be a sort of meditation.
Green Valley Aviation is a small operation based at the East Tennessee Airport, only a twenty-minute drive outside of town. I started working in this shop soon after I moved here with...
Him.
I thought I was lucky to find this job. To have a reason to relocate not solely based on a man. Now, I’m glad I have something in Green Valley that’s mine alone. Seems like every other part of my life is connected to my ex.
Then again, if not for this job, I might have talked myself out of the move. And then Daren never would’ve gotten the chance to hurt me.
No. I won’t let him ruin this part of my life.
The one part that’s going well. The part that drowns out the pain machine wrenching and grinding away in my chest. The pain Daren insisted on fueling by calling and texting me constantly the days following me hosing his balls.
A week after I found him bare-assed with another woman, I messaged him back.
Me:I have a place to stay. Stop contacting me. Give me space. Sincerely, Fuck you, I’m blocking your number
Daren went silent after that. He kind of had to, seeing as how I wasn’t lying about blocking him. And since he never showed up banging on Arthur’s door, I suspected maybe Daren hadn’t caught sight of my last-minute breakup buddy. I don’t think Arthur was trying to hide his presence from his cousin. The house was shadowy, and Daren’s attention had been on me. Well, on Trinity, then on me.
I asked Arthur not to say anything to Daren. Mainly because I wanted a safe space. A place where I could escape his hollow apologies.
When I showed up to work the Monday after I broke it off, I half expected to find Daren waiting in the airport parking lot, seeing as how this was the only place he’d know to find me.
But only the normal guys were here. My boss, Malcolm, and the two other shop mechanics, Benny and Donald.
And of course, Jumpseat, Green Valley Aviation’s shop cat. The mangy black feline, missing half its tail, might look like a mess, but everyone who works here adores her, my grumpy boss most of all.
“Rob!”
The growl of my boss’s voice makes it to me through my left ear, the deep rasp at a register I can still mostly hear. My doctor labeled the hearing loss in my left ear as severe, which means I can’t pick up conversation-level voices, but a loud shout or very deep voice can sometimes register. Which is why I have a hearing aid...one I’m not currently wearing.
Even after years of having the device, I’m still not a fan. The way it feeds noise to me isn’t perfect, and the part that hooks over my ear itches and always seems to tangle in my curls. My audiologist likes to remind me I’ll only get used to it through consistent usage, and I promise to be better, and then I leave it, sitting unused, on my dresser most mornings. I’ll put it on if I know I’m going somewhere with a small group of people and not a lot of background noise, so I can keep up with the conversation. But at work, I don’t usually bother.
When I arrived at the hangar this morning, I stuck an AirPod in my right ear, playing angry punk-girl music at a low volume that still blocked out most ambient noise.
I wipe my oil-covered fingers on a rag and pop the earbud out. “Yeah, boss?”
Malcolm knows yelling for me isn’t the best way to grab my attention. Most times, I won’t hear him, especially if I’m listening to music. He only forgets when he’s in a bad mood, which doesn’t bode well.
Malcolm strides toward me, a scowl deepening the wrinkles on his flushed face. “Delivery. Flowers.” The last word comes out like he’s saying hot garbage.
That piece of shit.
Since I doubt anyone is sending Malcolm Stetson a floral arrangement, I have a good guess who the delivery is for. And who it’s from.
I guess he thought two weeks was enough time for my temper to cool down. The asshole has invaded my haven after all.
“I’ll grab them.” I wipe as much of the grease from my hands as I can manage.
“Don’t want them at the desk. They smell.” The nose hairs peeking out of his nostrils twitch as he huffs an offended breath.
Flowers tend to smell, but most people enjoy the scent, my snarky side is tempted to point out. But that would just make his glare all the more ornery.
“Got it. I’ll get rid of them.”
“You do that,” he grumbles, leaning over the Cessna’s engine. Inspecting my work.
The oversight—and potential judgment—makes my skin itch. I’ve been fixing aircraft since I was nineteen. That’s over ten years now.
If I want a second opinion, I’ll ask for one.
Normally, Malcolm doesn’t hover, trusting me to produce quality work. But I’m guessing this frivolous delivery is a neon-bright reminder that I am a woman and therefore must be a lesser mechanic.
Or maybe I’m in a shitty mood and being unfair to my boss. But I have reason to be wary.
All the civilian aviation mechanic shops where I’ve worked have been big into the boys’-club mentality. The one I worked at part-time in Chicago was the worst. Every other person there was male and full-time. Meanwhile, I was thrown a shift or two a week and always assigned to partner with another mechanic. To basically be their assistant. And instead of using my name, some guys called me girl. Like, “Hey, girl, hand me that wrench.” And they never bothered trying to speak to me on my right side, even after I explained my diminished hearing on the left.
That misogynistic treatment was what I thought I might get in the military. But other than a brutal boot camp and the occasional dick bag who thought he could bully me, I enjoyed my time in the army. I made friends, was part of a team, and found a career I’m passionate about. If it wasn’t for my hearing loss, I might still be serving.
The thing was, I didn’t need to work at that Chicago shop. I had savings and made enough tips at my bartending gig to get by. But I had a craving to be around planes. I missed them. So, I dealt with the close-minded assholes while searching for other mechanic job openings.
That was when I first realized I wanted to not only keep working on aircraft, but also own my own shop. Make my own rules. Fill the place with cool people instead of assholes.
But right now, all I want is to find the piece of shit who sent me a floral arrangement and punch him in the gut.
I weave my way through the hangar toward the office door. We currently have three planes in here, all in different stages of broken down. A Cessna, a popular four-seater, that was leaking gasses into the engine compartment, which was why I was fighting with the exhaust system. Donald is on the far side of the cavernous space, working through an annual inspection on a Cirrus SR22. The guy is retired, using this job as a way to get out of the house. He’s a veteran, like me, and he also doesn’t hear great. My guess is, Donald is why the guys didn’t blink when I told them about my unilateral hearing loss. As I shimmy around the last plane—a bright yellow Piper J-3 Cub—I spy Benny up on a short ladder, cutting away a tear in the wing. Those classics utilize fabric as opposed to the more modern aluminum, and Benny is a master at restoration.
When I push through the office door, Jumpseat lets out a croaky meow in greeting from her napping spot in a torn-up desk chair. But the sleepy black cat doesn’t bother getting up, and that’s for the best because my fisted hands aren’t optimal for ear scratches at the moment.
The sight of the enormous collection of red roses fills my pain machine with fury fuel.
“Hi.” A teenager in a polo shirt cradles the glass vase against her chest. “These are for Robin Dunn. I’m supposed to get a signature.”
“That’s me.” My teeth grind over the words, but I try to relax my jaw and not scare the delivery girl. She’s not the one I’m pissed at. “You can set them on the counter.”
When she does, I snatch the little white card nestled between the vibrant petals.
Robin,
I am sorry.
I love you.
Please forgive me.
Please come back to our home.
I am lost without you.
—Daren
Bile coatsthe back of my throat, my entire body wanting to expel his sentimental words.
Of course he’s sorry.
He got caught.
Of course he wants me to come back.
What we had was good.
Or I thought it was. Not good enough, apparently.
And if our relationship—our love—wasn’t enough for Daren, why does he even want me to come back? Shouldn’t he be relieved that he can sleep with whoever he wants now?
Or was it the secretive part that turned him on? Did he get off on the fact that he was not only screwing someone else, but also doing it behind my back?
“Can I get your signature?” The girl holds out a clipboard, unaware of the thunderous pain machine plowing through my thoughts.
I accept the clipboard with quivering fingers.
What the hell is wrong with him?
Even if Daren was serious about winning me back—which will never happen—he should have known this was one of the worst ways to go about doing it.
I’ve told him plenty of times how I work to erase thoughts of my gender at work. How I want to earn Malcolm’s respect by being a damn fine aircraft mechanic.
Hopefully, good enough to take over the Green Valley Aviation shop whenever the man gets around to retiring.
The last thing I need is two dozen roses showing up at my job, bringing my personal life into this professional space.
Daren is a grade-A fuckup in the romance department on multiple counts now.
Anger burns so hot in my chest that I’m embarrassed to realize I’m a second away from crying.
That won’t do.
Pulling on what calmed me down the last time I felt this way, I turn my mind in another direction. Going down that same path that had me buying two dozen eggs and tossing that garden hose at his precious entertainment system.
Calm. Controlled. Finish the mission.
A mission of revenge.
An idea comes to me.
“Once I sign this, the flowers are mine, right?” I ask, voice innocent. “I can do whatever I want with them?”
The young woman’s brows dip, her face scrunched as she contemplates my words. “Um, yeah. They’re yours to keep.”
“What if I don’t want to keep them?”
She bites her lip. “Well, if you want to throw them away, you can. Seems kind of like a waste though.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to throw them away.” An evil plan has formed in my mind, and all my potential tears dry up as I grin wide. The pain machine calms to a purr. “I just thought of someone who deserves these a lot more than I do. If I pay for delivery, could I forward these on? You know, brighten up someone else’s day?”
The girl’s face relaxes into a smile. “Of course. That’s so sweet.”
Oh, yes. So sweet. I’m a fucking angel.I barely keep from cackling.
While she’s busy writing my credit card information into a receipt book, I toss Daren’s bullshit note into the trash and pull a clean sheet of paper from the printer. I even cut the paper into a smaller square and neatly fold it until the thing is almost identical to the original card.
However, the message inside will be vastly different.
After writing the name of the new recipient of the roses on the outside, I flip the card open and contemplate exactly what I want to say. Inspiration strikes, and I bite back a bark of laughter.
I jot down two simple words, then sign the card.
But not with my name.