Chapter Twenty-Two Nathan
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nathan
The time to worry about flying is when you’re on the ground. When you’re up in the air, it’s too late.
No point in worrying about it then.
—DENZEL WASHINGTON
I never thought my first date after Joey would be set up by a woman I’m falling for. But since she’s off-limits, I have yet to move on. Might as well start now.
As with my house restoration, I’ve decided to focus on what I want to create rather than what I want to escape. And the truth is that I want a family more than I want a home.
With that in mind, I hold the phone closer to my ear and ask Claire one of the most important questions when dating flight attendants. “Is she open to moving to Seattle for good?”
Angel lives in the crash pad with Claire and speaks with a Southern twang, so as far as I know, she’s planning to transfer to Atlanta.
“She loves Seattle,” Claire gushes, without really answering my question. “It’s just more expensive than the South, you know. And she can’t afford a place of her own at the moment.”
Valid. I’ve always lived in Washington—except during my short pilot training in Paris, when I was too stressed to even explore the city—so I’ve always figured I’d marry a Washingtonian.
Actually, I always figured I’d marry Joey.
It’s weird and a little overwhelming to consider all the other types of women out there.
I don’t know much about the South other than what I’ve experienced on work trips.
Oh, and my roommate in Paris, who came from Shreveport, Louisiana, said that during his time at flight school there, two planes returned to the hangar with bullet holes.
I know Shreveport has a high crime rate, but are there really that many stray bullets flying around that they’d hit planes, or were the planes being used as target practice? I never want to find out.
“Okay,” I allow.
“Are you free tonight?”
I blink at the suddenness. If I say yes, I’m going on a date with Claire’s roommate. And the woman probably doesn’t want to help paint my walls, which is what I’d been planning to do.
I fly out tomorrow to work a trip, so if I’m going to take Angel out, it’s either now or next week. “Sure. Why not? What does she want to do? I’m kind of rusty at this.”
The Museum of Flight is close by. There’s indoor mini-golf. We could drive downtown to the aquarium and ride the giant Ferris wheel. Though if it turns out we have nothing to talk about, that could get awkward.
“Do you enjoy Caribbean food?”
This is a trick question in our career. It could mean we’re taking a red-eye to Jamaica. “Sometimes?”
Claire apparently takes this as a yes. “A passenger was talking about a Caribbean restaurant on my flight in yesterday. I told Angel about it, and she looked it up online. I think she’d really like to go there.”
I smile and shake my head. Claire’s not only playing matchmaker but is planning our whole date, as if she wants this more than Angel does. Wait a minute—maybe she does.
“Is Angel interested in me?” I challenge.
“Oh, she thinks you’re very handsome. Very handsome.”
I arch an eyebrow that she cannot see. “The only person who’s ever called me handsome was my grandmother when I was five and wearing a bow tie.
I think the exact phrase was ‘handsome devil,’ which my mom claimed was scandalous since we were heading to church for Easter.
But then Grandma rebutted that we eat deviled eggs at Easter too, so it’s allowed. ”
Claire laughs, then sobers. “To be honest, Angel just broke up with a cheater.”
Ahh . . . that’s what this is. Claire thinks we’ll connect over being cheated on, even though it’s something I’d rather never talk about again. “She might need more time to heal,” I suggest.
“Then think of this as therapy.”
Great. Rather than Angel paying for a therapist, I’m paying for her dinner and listening to her sob story. However, Claire sounds so pleased with herself that I can’t say no. Plus, I’ll get to see her tonight when I go to their condo.
“All right. I’ll pick her up at six.” It’ll be interesting to hear how Claire talked Angel into a date with me.
I knock on the familiar red door. Claire opens it, wearing a pink sweat suit and a walking boot. She isn’t dressed for a date. She’s dressed for a workout or a night of binge-watching Netflix. Or painting a living room.
Even in stay-home mode, though, she looks as excited as if she were the one going on the date. With her boyfriend, of course, not me.
“How are you feeling?” I nod to her foot.
She shrugs. “I’ve been worse.”
I look up from her boot to meet her gaze. I want to read her eyes, see what she isn’t saying. It sounds like an unexpected confession. Reminds me of the time I told her I didn’t have any children to fill my extra bedrooms.
She turns away to motion toward the blonde exiting the bathroom. “You remember Angel?”
Angel is wearing a dress designed to resemble an oversized black T-shirt with knee-high cranberry-colored boots and a matching flat-brim hat. It’s attractive. She’s attractive. And unlike Claire, she’s single. I need to give her a chance.
“Yes. Hi.” I wave. Then I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I stick them in my pockets.
“Hi, Nathan.” Angel shrugs into a denim jacket. “Claire said you’re taking me out for Caribbean food. We’re not flying to Jamaica, are we?”
I chuckle at our mutual airline humor. “I thought about it.”
Claire watches from where she’s still holding the door, practically bouncing on the ball of her one good foot. “I told him about that Bahama Breeze place we were looking at online.”
“Oh, yum.” Angel smiles. “I’ve been craving coconut shrimp ever since I read their menu.”
She might just be in this for a free meal, but I’m hungry too, so here we go. I offer my elbow. “Shall we?”
She giggles and hooks her hand through my arm. We both grin back at Claire.
Claire waves from the doorway as I escort her roommate into the cool evening. “Have fun, you two.”
This is starting to feel like a father-daughter dance in which the mother is getting everyone ready. But Angel is pleasant company on our drive to the restaurant. She’s basically just thrilled to be seeing the city from a car rather than the train that only goes north and south.
I’ve never been to Bahama Breeze before, because I eat out so much on trips that when I’m home, I cook my own food.
But the place is charming. Its yellow exterior and large outdoor patio remind me of a beach bungalow.
Inside, the vaulted ceilings have exposed beams, and fans with blades designed to look like large palm leaves spin above actual palm trees.
Wood-paneled walls painted turquoise contrast with the white built-in wooden blinds that aren’t used as much in Seattle as they are in the tropics.
Most importantly, the place smells of sweet fruit and garlicky sizzling fish.
The hostess shows us to a table along a wall with barrels stacked overhead and an old-fashioned lantern for lighting. Makes me feel a bit like a pirate. I pull out one of the pastel chairs for Angel.
“Thank you.” She sits and looks around in delight.
I lower myself across from her and accept a menu. Now what? “Have you ever been to the Caribbean?”
Angel inhales deeply, as if she’s trying to take it all in. “Not yet. Though my goal is to visit thirty countries before I turn thirty. Is there a country in the Caribbean you’d recommend?”
Wow. Thirty countries is a lot. And she can’t be that far from thirty. “I’ve only been on a mission trip to Cuba, where we smuggled in Bibles. I probably didn’t see the prettiest areas, but I’d go back there in a heartbeat. The people were welcoming and colorful.”
She leans in, eyes fascinated. “You smuggled Bibles?”
I shrug. “Nothing happens if you get caught. They just keep the Bibles for you until you leave. But we didn’t get caught.
” I grin. “When customs was about to open a suitcase and asked what was inside, my buddy Vincent said, ‘Dirty underwear.’ It wasn’t a lie.
He’d stuffed his laundry bag in there too. ”
“I love it.” She cackles, then sobers. “My travel plans aren’t so altruistic.”
Most vacations aren’t, but in my experience, serving underprivileged people in foreign countries is more rewarding than sipping pina coladas on a beach.
I know because I signed up to join the mission trip in high school to get away from my broken home after Mom left, and I found the family I’d been looking for.
My church family. “How many countries have you visited, and how many do you have left to reach your goal?”
“Well . . .” She twists her lips. “I’ve flown to Canada and Mexico with this job. And before I got my crash pad, I didn’t have a place to sleep, so I hopped on a first-class red-eye to Amsterdam.”
I lean forward, intrigued. “Rather than rent a hotel room, you boarded an international flight?”
She laughs. “With our benefits, it was cheaper. Plus they fed me.”
Can’t argue with that. “Clever.” Though I’m a little concerned for her goal if she’s only been to three other countries. “So you’ve got twenty-seven to go?”
She waves her hand, and I’m not sure if she’s waving off my concerns or trying to attract the waiter’s attention, but he comes over, and I quickly scan the menu. I order the chicken pineapple bowl—because pineapple bowl!—then face my date again to get the rest of her story.
“Okay, so you have twenty-seven countries to go . . .” My tone rises in question. “In how much time?”
She folds her hands together. “Two things. First of all, I’m twenty-eight, but I’m applying to the bigger airlines so I can work international trips.”
“That will help.” I grimace. “But still.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes. “Which brings me to the second thing. I only have twenty countries to go. Before I took this job, I’d vacationed in Germany, Italy, England, France, Costa Rica, Australia, and . . .” She pauses, counting silently on her fingers. “Oh, Switzerland.”