Chapter 16 Alice
ALICE
Icheck my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. The boarding gate is getting crowded as passengers line up in their assigned groups, and still no sign of Oscar. Typical. The man who owns half of our industry can't be bothered to show up on time for a commercial flight.
I grip my carry-on handle tighter, scanning the terminal again. Part of me wonders if this is some kind of power play — making me wait, making me worry. The other part is genuinely concerned. Could something have happened to him?
My phone buzzes with a text, startling me out of my thoughts.
Almost there. Gate 34B, right?
I roll my eyes and type back quickly: 34A. Hurry up, they're boarding final call.
I'm about to pocket my phone when I spot him, running full-tilt through the terminal, dodging slower travelers like he's in some kind of obstacle course. His normally perfectly styled black hair is slightly disheveled, and he's wearing… jeans?
Yep. Jeans and a simple blue button-down shirt, his typical suit nowhere in sight.
The sight is so unexpected that I almost miss the gate agent's final announcement.
"Last call for passengers Glynn and Mackie for Flight 1429 to San Diego."
I hold up a finger to the agent. "He's coming!"
Oscar skids to a halt in front of the gate, slightly out of breath. "Sorry, sorry," he says, fumbling with his phone to pull up his boarding pass.
"Plebeian planes don't wait," I smirk at him. “Not even for rich people."
He looks up at me, and for a split second, there's that flash of the old Oscar — the one who would have laughed and shot back something equally snarky. Instead, he just nods, all business now that he's caught his breath. "Noted for future reference."
We board the plane in silence, making our way to first class. But of course it's first class. Even slumming it on a commercial flight, Oscar isn't about to sit in economy. The flight attendant greets us with a practiced smile, directing us to our seats by the window, where Oscar lets me go first.
"What happened to you?" I ask once we're settled. "I thought punctuality would be your religion."
Oscar stows his bag in the overhead compartment before sitting down beside me. Our shoulders almost touch in the confined space, and I shift slightly toward the window.
"Traffic was terrible," he says, buckling his seatbelt. "And I… may have forgotten that you need to arrive earlier for commercial flights. Security and all that."
I can't help but laugh. "When was the last time you flew commercial? College?"
He doesn't answer immediately, which tells me I've hit the mark, or at least I’m close to it. "It's been a while," he finally admits.
"I'm surprised your assistants allowed this," I say, watching him closely. "What happened to your fancy private jet? The one with the gold-plated toilet seats?"
"It doesn't have gold-plated toilet seats," he replies dryly. "And remember? It needed maintenance. Nothing serious, just… routine checks."
"Uh huh." I raise an eyebrow, not believing him for a second.
The flight attendant comes by with pre-flight drinks. Oscar requests Scotch, and I ask for sparkling water.
"No champagne?" he asks after the attendant leaves.
I shrug. "9:30 in the morning seems a bit early, even for a business trip."
"Right." He looks almost disappointed, as if he'd been hoping I'd take advantage of the first-class perks.
The plane begins to taxi, and I turn my attention to the window, watching as Seattle slowly recedes beneath us. The clouds are low today, a typical Pacific Northwest morning, and soon we're enveloped in a sea of white.
"So," I say, breaking the silence once we reach cruising altitude. "What's with the jeans? I don't think I've seen you in anything but suits since we ran into each other again. Other than when we played laser tag."
Oscar glances down at himself as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing. "I do own casual clothes, you know. I'm not completely detached from reality."
"Could have fooled me." I take a sip of my water. "First commercial flights, now jeans. What's next? Taking the bus? Shopping at Target?"
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'm not that out of touch."
"Aren't you, though?" I press, unsure why I'm needling him but unable to stop. "When was the last time you did your own grocery shopping? Or pumped your own gas? Or waited in line for anything?"
The flight attendant arrives with our drinks, momentarily halting our conversation. Oscar takes a large swallow of his Scotch before responding.
"I know what you think of me, Alice," he says quietly. "That I've turned into some sort of caricature of success. That I’m living in some sort of lala land."
"I don't think that," I say automatically, though we both know it's not entirely true.
"Yes, you do." He turns in his seat to face me more fully. "You made it clear at the party. I'm just a vulture who cares about nothing but money and work."
The hurt in his voice is so palpable that I feel a twinge of guilt. "That's not—" I start, then stop myself. Because isn't that basically what I said? "Look, I was angry that night."
"But you meant it." His hazel eyes lock with mine, searching. "That's what you believe I've become."
The intensity of his gaze makes me uncomfortable, and I look away, focusing on the clouds outside. "People change, Oscar. Twelve years is a long time."
"Not that much," he says softly.
An awkward silence falls between us. I fiddle with my seat belt absent-mindedly, unsure how to respond.
Part of me wants to tell him that yes, he has changed — that the Oscar I knew wouldn't have abandoned our startup, wouldn't have left me struggling to pick up the pieces alone.
But another part, a part I've been trying to ignore, is starting to recognize more and more glimpses of my old friend in this successful stranger.
The flight attendant saves me from having to reply, stopping by to take our breakfast orders. I request the fruit plate; Oscar goes for the omelet.
"Your jet doesn't really need maintenance, does it?" I ask once we're alone again, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Oscar chokes slightly on his Scotch. "What makes you say that?"
"Please," I roll my eyes. "You've been trying so hard to prove you're still a 'normal guy' ever since we started working together again. This whole commercial flight thing is just another attempt."
His face flushes slightly. "The jet does need a—"
"Oscar." I cut him off with a look that says I'm not buying it.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. No, it doesn't need maintenance. I thought… I thought you might be more comfortable flying commercial."
The admission surprises me. "Why would you think that?"
"Because every time I mention anything related to my success, you look at me like I've personally offended you," he says, frustration edging his voice. "So yes, I canceled the jet and booked us on this flight instead. Happy now?"
I should be annoyed at his presumption, but instead, I find myself oddly touched. "You did that for me?"
"I did it so we could have a civil working relationship for the next few days," he clarifies quickly. "This trip is important for Rooted Pantry."
"Right. Of course." I nod, trying to ignore the slight disappointment his words cause. "All about business."
“How is the ankle by the way? You obviously aren’t using the crutches anymore.”
I look down at it. “Good. Just a little sore. I have to keep the brace on it a bit longer. Don’t worry. Next laser tag day, I’ll crush you.”
He chuckles. “I would like to see you try.”
Our breakfast arrives, saving us from another awkward silence. We eat mostly without talking, the background noise of the plane filling the void between us. Oscar struggles with the tiny plastic cutlery, his large hands making the airplane utensils look like children's toys.
"Having trouble there?" I tease as he drops his fork for the second time.
He shoots me a look that's half annoyed, half amused. "These things are ridiculously small."
"Welcome to how the other half lives." I spear a piece of melon with my own fork effortlessly. "No sterling silver service at thirty thousand feet."
"I'm perfectly capable of adapting," he argues, though the effect is somewhat ruined when he drops his napkin.
As he bends to retrieve it, I find myself smiling. There's something almost endearing about watching him wrestle with the mundane challenges of commercial air travel. Cute, really.
"What?" he asks, catching me watching him.
"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just… this isn't how I expected this trip to go."
"Disappointed?" His tone is light, but there's a hint of genuine concern beneath it.
"Actually, no," I admit, surprising myself with the truth of it. "This might be a good trip after all."
Something shifts in his expression — a softening around the eyes, a slight quirk of his lips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I nod, feeling a strange sense of possibility open up between us. "As long as you don't expect me to carry your bags because your butler isn't here."
He laughs then, a real laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes, just the way I like. "I think I can manage."
The seatbelt sign pings, breaking the spell. "We'll be beginning our descent into San Diego shortly," the captain announces over the intercom.
"So," Oscar says as we both straighten our seats. “You excited to see this place?”
The question is casual, professional, a clear attempt to steer us back to safer territory. But there's something different now — a subtle shift in our dynamic that makes the space between us feel less fraught.
"Of course.”
He nods. "And dinner after? I know a great place near the Gaslamp Quarter."
"Of course you do," I say, but there's no bite to my words. "As long as it's not some pretentious place where they serve foam instead of food."
"Proper San Diego fish tacos," he promises. "No foam in sight."
"Then I'm in." I smile, and he smiles back.
As the plane begins its descent, I turn to look out the window at the approaching coastline, sunshine glinting off the Pacific.
I'm not sure what's changed, exactly, but something has.
Maybe it's seeing Oscar trying so hard to prove he's still the person I once knew.
Maybe it's the realization that beneath the billion-dollar empire and the carefully curated image, there are still traces of my old friend.
Or maybe it's just the California sunshine already working its magic on us both.
Whatever it is, I have a feeling this trip is going to be more interesting than I expected. And, luckily, that doesn't seem like such a bad thing.