Chapter Sixteen Nathan #2
She looks back up, then quirks her lips to one side apologetically. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”
Oh, man. Why didn’t I select an assortment?
“I break out in hives. It’s hideous.”
I highly doubt that. But I still feel bad. I’ll make light of the mistake by using her new passenger-given nickname. “Sorry, cupcake.”
Her eyes flash again, and her lips soften to a small smile. “But I can’t thank you enough. The last first officer I flew with gave out paper airplanes to all the kids, so rather than get serenaded, I got dive-bombed.”
Note to self: Never hand out paper airplanes.
The good news is that she’s comparing me favorably to someone else. The bad news is that it’s not her boyfriend. How else is she going to see that she deserves more?
“You’re welcome.” I let our eye contact linger so she knows she’s always welcome.
The spark in her eye smolders out. The smile lines disappear. She sobers and studies me openly, as if realizing for the first time this isn’t all fun and games. I want to play for keeps.
My breath catches. My skin tingles. If anything ever happens between us, I’ll remember this moment forever.
“Happy birthday, Claire,” Vincent calls from the flight deck. “And, Nathan, I’d better be welcome to one of those cupcakes too, since I did your walk-around for you in this weather.”
I nod to appease Vincent, but my gaze remains on Claire, trying to let her know I look forward to seeing her again.
She tilts her head toward the cockpit. “Home, James.”
An inside joke. I’ll take it.
My chest feels too puffed out to fit into my harness when I take my seat. Like I got all chicken breasted with her boyfriend and won, even though he’s not even here. It’s satisfying. So satisfying I don’t need birthday cake.
“Here, man.” I give both cupcake boxes to Vincent. “You’ve earned them.”
“Thanks.” His tone dips sarcastically, but it can’t get me down.
Unfortunately, we have to de-ice, which gives him time to crack open a box, shovel half a cupcake into his mouth, and study me while he chews. “You want some advice?”
Usually I’m not shy about asking Vincent for advice. It’s always thought provoking and right on target. The fact that I don’t want his advice today is not a good sign. “Shoot,” I say anyway.
I face forward, watching the de-icing fluid spray over our windshield. The sweet chemical scent seeps in to join us.
“Remember Air Florida Flight 90?”
“How could I forget?” It was one of the many videos of crashes we’d watched during “hell week” of pilot training and had been brought up in the news again recently when another plane crashed into the Potomac.
The first crash, in the 1980s, involved a captain who’d refused to de-ice as needed.
When it was his turn to taxi down the runway, ice had built up on his wings again.
He should have aborted takeoff, but he was too impatient and attempted it anyway.
He crashed into the river, killing himself and most of the passengers, along with a few motorists he took with him off a bridge. “Pilot error.”
Vincent nods sagely. “He should have aborted the takeoff and waited for better conditions.”
I want to roll my eyes. Because I know he’s talking about Claire. A relationship with her is not ready for takeoff.
Instead I’ll counter with my own analogy. “Perhaps that captain wasn’t fit for duty and they should have brought in another one.”
Vincent hoots. “You’re not a captain yet.”
Ouch. “You can just say what you mean, Vincent. You’re concerned I’m going to get hurt again.”
“No.” Vincent wipes his mouth with a napkin and stuffs his garbage in the trash bag hooked on my armrest. “Desiree was concerned you’d get hurt again. I’m concerned you’re going to hurt others.”
This sobers and offends me at the same time. “Claire is already getting hurt. Her boyfriend isn’t here for her. I’m the one here for her. I’m helping her heal.”
Vincent takes a deep breath. “The way Joey’s new boyfriend helped her heal?”
He might as well have just punched me in the gut and knocked me back in time to a year ago, when Joey’s text messages dwindled and she was suddenly too busy to hang out—even when I was in town.
I’d been on my way to snowboard when I saw her in a parking lot with another guy.
He’s lucky I didn’t pull over and use my snowboard like a soda in a sock.
My teeth grind. “Not that way,” I bite out.
Though . . . isn’t it? That guy would have seen himself as Joey’s hero if she made me out to be the inattentive boyfriend.
He tilts his head with compassion for the loss I need to accept. “Truly loving someone means you’re more afraid of harming them than losing them.”
There’s that word again. Harm. God promises not to harm us, and we’re supposed to be like Him.
Vincent’s right again. Well, mostly right. I’m attracted to Claire, but I wouldn’t call it love. I mean, I only met her this month. I rub my temples.
“I’m not in love with her,” I defend. And I wait for Vincent to argue my claim should make it easier to let her go.
But he doesn’t debate me. He lets me ponder, which is worse.
Air traffic control interrupts our uncomfortable silence with instructions to proceed. I press the button to respond in the exact moment Vincent speaks up. Unfortunately, he says, “You’re love-bombing.”
The b-word is not one air traffic control takes lightly, and it’s another half hour of frenzied communication before we’re cleared for takeoff. This isn’t a delay I’ll be explaining to Claire, though if I set the boundaries Vincent is suggesting, I won’t be talking to her much at all.
Love-bombing or not, I’m once again on the losing end of a love triangle. Only this time I’ve done it to myself.