Chapter Nine Claire #2
We finally make it to our hotel, built inside a renovated historic bank. Vincent holds the door open, and I bump my sunglasses to the top of my head before entering.
The hotel bar is in an actual vault. We walk past it and the circular double staircase toward the brass elevators. Our comfortable running shoes squeak against the marble.
Vincent pushes the Call button.
I didn’t expect you to give me any reason to be jealous.
I roll my eyes. My gaze meets Nathan’s curious one. Maybe I’ll tell him about this later. He’d be amused, I’m sure. He’s got a pretty good sense of humor.
But first I’ve got to take care of Wyatt.
You have nothing to be jealous over. If you don’t believe me, look him up on social media. His name is Nathan Stuart.
Reason and logic may have pacified my boyfriend, but things with Desiree inexplicably get worse. And not only because our plane has a mechanical issue and we’re delayed an hour.
During her predeparture announcements, I’m standing up front, ready to point out the exits, when she introduces me as “Claire, that cute little thing up there who already has a boyfriend.”
I’m grateful not to be hit on by career athletes anymore, but there go my tips. Not that everyone tips. Tell me again why flight attendants are the only servers in America who don’t automatically get a gratuity for their service.
On top of that, baristas also don’t have to worry about their customers falling asleep after ordering a drink. I made this guy his beverage, but now he’s got his eyes closed and his headphones on.
“Mr. Cirrincione?” I hope I’m pronouncing his name correctly. Do both Cs make S sounds? Do I pronounce the I and the O separately? Is the E at the end silent? I try a couple more pronunciations with no response.
I don’t want to bother Mr. C if he’s sleeping, but what do I do with this drink?
If only he’d opened his tray before closing his eyes, then I could leave it here.
Or if he were traveling with someone else, they could wake him or accept the beverage on his behalf.
But our planes are so little that there’s only one first-class seat on his side of the aisle.
I straighten and return to my galley to dump his orange juice in the garbage. Yes, we dump drinks in waterproof trash bags. It’s still weird to me, but we can’t pour them down the sink.
I make drinks for the couple sitting across from him. Maybe he’ll hear me serving them and wake up. Nothing.
All right. Moving on. Last row of first class.
I stride past him without a peep, but as soon as I deliver the ginger ale and mint tea and turn around, he’s upright and scowling.
He rips his headphones from his ears to wear around his neck like a spiked collar on a bulldog. His eyebrows have gone completely white. They also stick out as if he’d accidentally put his finger in the power outlet at the base of his armrest. “Why do you refuse to serve me?”
I blink. “Sir, I—”
“You walked right past and served the people behind me first.”
“No, I tried—”
“You wouldn’t give me orange juice before we took off either.”
I’d run out of orange juice in the front galley and couldn’t get to the back galley to restock while we were boarding because the aisle was filled with passengers and luggage.
I’d explained this to him at the time, but he’d been wearing his headphones, so perhaps he hadn’t heard.
Once we’d taken off, I’d made a special trip to the back just for his OJ, but that’s gone now too.
I press my lips together. He may have removed his headphones, but he’s still not listening.
Different flight attendants are sure to handle situations like this differently based on their personality. Then there’s how we want to respond versus how we should respond. One wrong move and our airline makes the news.
“Let me get that for you now, sir.” I’m not going to try his last name again. He’ll forever be remembered infamously as OJ.
I avoid eye contact with other passengers. No need pulling more people into my drama.
With a deep breath, I grab a clean glass and napkin to carry on my tray. I’ll have to get more juice from Desiree again.
Back up the aisle. At least Desiree has pushed her giant cart to the front of the main cabin. The sooner I serve OJ, the sooner I can ignore him.
He holds out a hand to stop me from passing.
I wipe all expression from my face. “I have to retrieve more orange juice from the back for you, sir. I got some earlier, but you were asleep, so I had to dump your drink out.”
“Yes. They told me.” He points to the angels across the aisle.
I glance over my shoulder to smile my thanks. They’re getting extra chocolate bars, whether they’re Premier Members or not.
“However, I wasn’t sleeping. I was resting my eyes.” It’s not an apology. Not even close. He only stopped me to defend his poor behavior.
“If you let me pass, I can get orange juice for you now.” I tack on a magnanimous smile, though it might come across as threatening, because I’m thinking, You do not want Desiree up here.
He eyes me, more suspicious than guilty, but lets me pass.
I lift my chin and take the last few steps to face Desiree, along with the entire main cabin.
There I wait on the opposite side of the cart as Desiree oohs and aahs over someone’s grandbaby photos.
She’s barely said five words to me today, but she’s just become best friends with this perfect stranger.
I just want her to hand me a box of juice so I can feed this guy’s addiction and go hide in my galley for the rest of our flight to Denver. I am not going to cry.
I may have danced on stages around the world, but this is the performance of my life. So what if I used to receive standing ovations? So what if I used to give autographs? I now get yelled at when I do my job well.
Desiree looks up. She stills. She’s not a good multitasker, but she’s really good at being in the moment. At making people feel seen. “What do you need, baby?”
“Orange juice.” My voice squeaks when I say it. I clear the knot from my throat to try again. “Orange juice.” It comes out too deep this time. Like an Elvis impersonation. But at least I know she can hear me.
Her eyes rove the first-class cabin in case I actually need a can to put in a sock, so I suppose my situation could be worse. If I can’t deal with a dehydrated juice drinker, how am I ever going to deal with terrorists?
Desiree reaches into a bin and retrieves an unopened carton. Since I’d finished off her last carton of OJ, I won’t take this one back up with me. No need to cause a revolt in the economy cabin as well.
I set my tray on top of a box of snacks so my hands are free to twist off the lid.
It’s the kind of lid that breaks through an aluminum seal underneath.
I tilt the juice box over the glass and squeeze, expecting the liquid to slosh directly into the cup.
Unfortunately, that’s not the kind of day I’m having.
A thin orange stream fountains up at a gravity-defying angle. Before I can stop squeezing or lift the carton, the stream sprays across the front of Desiree’s new friend’s crisp white blouse.