Chapter Four Nathan
Chapter Four
Nathan
I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things.
—ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPéRY
Air-frying chicken wings reminds me of Claire’s chicken-dance defense.
Turning on a Seahawks game reminds me of how the shuttle driver came at me like a linebacker.
Even Andrew James, the famous quarterback starring in an insurance commercial, reminds me of her “Home, James” quote. Who says that anymore? I’m not even sure where the saying came from in the first place. I just know it’s outdated.
There’s something classic about Claire. Something other than the pearl necklace and old-fashioned Mary Jane heels, because lots of flight attendants wear those, and I usually forget their names.
Claire Holloway is memorable for herself, and I smile every time something reminds me of the day. Which is often.
It’s been a while since the thought of a woman has made me smile. For almost a year now, my thoughts have centered on my former fiancée, and those definitely don’t make me smile. They make me rip down interior walls of my house with a sledgehammer.
Here I sit in my lone recliner, facing a television on a card table, surrounded by the gutted first floor of my house and the chalky scent of fresh drywall. It’s the clean slate I need for rebuilding a life without Joey.
I’m free to remodel my own way since I won’t be getting married.
I can choose flooring and fixtures for their function rather than the aesthetic.
I can furnish with the sleek designs and leather that she hated.
I can replace the typical dining room table with a pool table. Nobody’s here to argue against it.
What I cannot do is fall for another woman who is interested in someone else. There aren’t any more walls here to demolish.
The roar of the crowd on television echoes in my empty home, as if to emphasize my concern. Not that it’s a legitimate concern. The woman on my mind is nothing more than a memory. A stranger on a bus.
I focus on the game to see what everyone is yelling about. Apparently, our kicker missed a field goal that could have given us the lead. I snort in disgust at how the losing score symbolizes my love life.
Maverick lifts his head from where he lies at my feet. His tongue hangs out in the hope that my snort means I’ll feed him leftovers.
I would scratch the golden retriever behind his floppy ears if my fingers weren’t covered in sticky buffalo sauce. “Sorry, boy. Your stomach couldn’t handle the cayenne pepper.”
He watches with tortured black eyes as I rip the last bite of spicy meat from a bone with my teeth, then chew and swallow.
“If it wasn’t raining, I’d take you for a walk.”
He leaps to his paws and charges the front door.
Oops. I’m a horrible pet owner. I used the w word in vain. At least I know my dog gets spoiled when I’m gone.
Joey surprised me with Maverick for Christmas last year and agreed to watch him while I went on trips. Of course, that ended after our breakup, and I thought I might have to find him a new home. What happened next was either divine intervention or God playing a joke. Probably both.
Last January Maverick disappeared from my backyard.
I drove the streets looking for him and finally knocked on doors.
The neighbor girl, Eliza, sheepishly let me in to reveal that she’d taken Maverick from my backyard so she could dress him up in her doll clothes.
The dog staring back at me wore a frilly red dress. He put the “ruff ” in ruffles.
After I stopped laughing and Eliza’s mom realized what had happened, we agreed their family would be my new dog sitters. Hence, Mav’s love of fashion and the reason he’s currently sporting a navy-blue football jersey. Now he puts the “ruff ” in rough sport.
It’s nice to have a pet waiting for me when I come home, and I feel bad for letting him down. I carry my plate to the stainless steel undermount sink in my new marble kitchen island and get him a doggy treat.
I consider taking him on that walk that I accidentally got him excited about. Except it’s nearly dark out, and, you know, the smell of wet dog.
As soon as the bag of doggy treats crinkles, Maverick bounds over, all else forgiven. I feed him and finally give him the ear scratches he deserves.
I wonder if Joey bought her new boyfriend a dog too. I wonder if Claire has any pets back home and if her boyfriend takes care of them while she’s gone.
Maybe I need a distraction as much as Maverick needs exercise.
I clap my hands and head toward the closet door to retrieve Maverick’s leash. He bounds after me, eager to stink up our house.
We wind our way through my hodgepodge of a neighborhood without enough streetlights, and I’m listening to the rest of the Seahawks game through my earbuds when the tune “Danger Zone” from Top Gun interrupts. Vincent’s special ringtone.
I pull my phone from my pocket and notice the time. It’s not as late as it feels. It’s just that I woke up at 4:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, which was one in the morning here.
I swipe my thumb over the wet screen and answer with a question. “Did you see that field goal attempt?”
“If you can call it that.” My spiritual mentor’s voice rumbles over the cell waves. Vincent is also the captain I most enjoy working with. “What’s on your schedule for the next four days?”
More remodeling. The popcorn ceilings need to be scraped away and an old brass light fixture replaced. “Texture and paint. Start on the flooring.”
“Did you see the snowstorm in Minneapolis? Crews are being stranded, and the trips they were supposed to work are popping up in Open Time.”
Open Time is the list of flights without crew. The trips can be picked up by pilots not already scheduled or awarded to new employees on reserve. When the airline is desperate, they’ll offer up to three times the pay for someone to work a trip in Open Time.
More raindrops blur my phone screen. If I’m going to check out Open Time for myself, I need to get to a drier place. I jog toward the overhang of an elementary school just ahead.
“Did you pick up a trip?” I ask, finally able to log into Premier Air.
“A four-day. Easy flights with long overnights in San Luis Obispo, San Antonio, and Green Bay.”
Those kinds of trips usually only go to senior employees. San Luis Obispo itself is a coveted destination since our company puts us up in a clifftop resort overlooking the ocean. I haven’t been there since spring.
The only overnights more desirable are long hauls to Maui. But those are so rare that someone with less seniority—like me—could only get one on a holiday, when the more senior pilots would rather have the day off.
A list of trips populates my screen, and I scan airport codes to see if the first-officer position for Vincent’s trip is available.
“Desiree picked it up too. We thought it would be fun to have you along.”
Desiree is Vincent’s wife, a motherly type who always feeds us pilots leftover first-class meals and has been known to sing her announcements as if she’s in a gospel choir. And oh happy day, the position is still listed.
It’s only offering time and a half, but that’s not a bad chunk of change for watching the sun set over the ocean, touring the Alamo, and finally getting to visit Lambeau Field.
I’m not a Packers fan, but that place is iconic.
Plus, a trip will distance me from futile thoughts of a certain flight attendant who just moved in across the street.
“I see it.” I click on the link.
The trip sheet opens. A six a.m. showtime means I’ll need to get to bed early, but that shouldn’t be a problem given how early I was up today. Going from an early showtime to a late showtime, or vice versa, is what messes up my internal clock.
The duty periods are all under nine hours. Not bad, considering they can schedule us for up to fourteen. One trip is even under six hours, which is awesome because we still get paid for minimum flight time even though we aren’t working that long.
Unless, you know, we get stranded in a blizzard. Or our airplane breaks down. Or . . . or . . . or . . .
My finger continues down the pairing details to make sure I know what I’m getting myself into.
No long layovers in airports, thankfully.
No deadheads, though I don’t mind getting paid to fly as a passenger.
Now just to make sure the second flight attendant isn’t the girl who uses baby talk or the guy who’s always coughing.
I already have to work with him later this month, so I should probably start doubling up on my vitamins.
My finger stops on the name Claire Holloway.
I grunt in surprise, not sure if this is a good or bad development.
Maverick sits at attention, in case I’m grunting at him.
“Did another FO beat you to it?” Vincent asks.
“No.” I tap on Claire’s name, and the photo from her ID badge pops up.
She’s as cute as I remember, with her ballerina bun and button nose.
But she’s not the reason I’m considering the trip.
I’d take it to hang out with Vincent. To experience the legacy of the NFL’s oldest stadium.
To make enough extra money to pay for my hardwood floors.
“Then what’s wrong?” Vincent demands.
A flash of headlights blinds me as a car turns into the far side of the parking lot.
I glance over, making sure it’s not a cop here to write me a ticket for loitering. But it’s just an old Cadillac.
I focus on my bigger problem—how much do I tell Vincent about Claire? He’d been my voice of wisdom through the breakup, but I’m not really interested in wisdom at the moment. “The other flight attendant is brand new.”
“Could be worse.” Vincent chuckles, probably assuming my information is based on her employee number. “If nothing else, she’ll be entertaining.”
I nod in thought. He’s referring to the time a new flight attendant called the flight deck in Emergency Mode to tell us a passenger rose to use the bathroom before we turned off the seat-belt sign.
After that, Vincent would tease her whenever she called.
Is the cabin on fire, or is someone dropping a deuce?
However, the entertainment I’m remembering is much more recent: the way Claire ran after me with her luggage and put up her fists, like she wanted to box. I smile to myself.
Yeah, I may find her attractive now, but since we barely know each other, that could change.
It doesn’t have to mean anything. The fact that she has a boyfriend actually makes her a safe female to hang out with.
I can enjoy working with her without worrying about relationship issues.
Better yet, I won’t have to listen to annoying baby talk or avoid germs from the habitually sick guy.
A second beam of headlights blinds me. Another car rolls into the parking lot, meeting up with the first. I don’t want to know what shady deal is going on over there. I’m just glad I have a big dog with me.
If I’m going on this trip, I need to pick it up before I head back into the elements.
I hardly know Claire, but I do know one thing. “Yes, she’ll be entertaining,” I assure Vincent. Then I tap the link to add the trip to my schedule.