Chapter 2 #2
My best friend, Riley Morgan, is short and fiery, with long auburn hair that she wears in a loose braid, or a French twist when at work on the plane.
Her gray eyes have the distinct ability to shift from kindness and understanding to ‘don’t fuck with me’ in an instant.
Like me, she’s from the west coast, and grew up in Portland, Oregon.
And with three older brothers, she learned early on to develop a razor-sharp wit and toughness, sense of fairness, and mastered the art of sarcasm.
We met in training at Celestial Airlines and we bonded through late night study sessions, discreetly gossiping about others in Italian, and solidifying our relationship after graduation by traveling the world together.
Protective and empathetic, she’s been my rock over the last year, even ending her lease without a second thought and moving in with me.
She held me and sobbed with me, and she used humor and tough love to get me through some of the tougher moments.
“That's okay,” I reassure her, smiling. “You’re not gonna go on a run with me this morning?” I ask, taking in her freshly cleansed and moisturized face, and oversized T-shirt.
“So, I had every intent,” she starts, emphasizing the first word, sweeping past me, popping a piece of bread into the toaster.
“There’s a ‘but’ there somewhere…” I probe.
“But,” she repeats, drawing it out. “I woke up with this weird cramp in my leg—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh sarcastically, lifting my coffee to my lips.
“For real!” She defends herself. “We are about to be gone for like, ten days! I need to save my energy!”
She’s not wrong. We picked up what our company calls a ‘Globe-Trot’ trip that reports tonight.
We’re assigned to work Celestial Flight CA02, and over the next ten days we’ll touch London, Istanbul, Mumbai, Bangkok, Tokyo, Honolulu, and my hometown, San Francisco.
We still have zero idea how on God’s green earth we snagged such a senior trip.
“You’re gonna spend some time with your mom at the end of the trip, right? Instead of deadheading back here?” Riley asks.
“Mhm,” I grunt in agreement through a mouthful of cereal. I’m planning on skipping the planned crew reposition flight back to base to spend some time at home.
I always say San Francisco is my hometown rather than explain the Bay Area.
I actually grew up between San Jose and San Francisco, and often did my homework on a BART train into the city where my mom, Lisa, worked as a family law attorney.
She’s retired now, and still lives in my childhood home where she spends her time golfing, and tending to her beloved garden.
“Well,” I begin, swallowing semi-crunchy mush. “You know I’ll have plenty of time to sleep on this trip.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re planning on slam-clicking each night!” she pleas, the loving term of going straight to the hotel room, only to re-emerge the next day used as a weapon. “When are we gonna snag this trip again?”
“Well, ya’ know.” I try to think of an excuse. “It’s worth so much money. It would be nice to save a little bit of it.”
“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” she shoots back. “You and I have never been to Turkey.” She lists on her fingers. “We’ve never been to India. And we’ve never been to Thailand.”
I set my bowl in the sink and brace myself against the counter with both arms, staring down the drain as a sigh slips out.
“And I will not let you go to these amazing places only to sulk in a hotel room,” Riley adds.
I look back at her, and I know she can sense the pain in my eyes.
“I’m not going to sulk,” I explain. “I just thought that I’d be able to see these places with him. One of the things I loved most about him was like, I don’t know, his zest for life and exploration.”
“I know.” She sighs empathetically, closing the space between us and reaching out to pull me into an embrace.
“Drew,” I begin, my voice just above a whisper. “He always talked about seeing and photographing the hot air balloons in Turkey. And to do it without him feels—”
“No, not without,” she interrupts, poking me twice in the chest near my heart. “He’ll be there.”
I smile lightly, pushing my heartache down.
“Besides,” she adds, dragging me across the kitchen to a photo of a bustling street market in Thailand. “He made it to Bangkok. And now you get the chance to stand where he did.”
“You know, I don’t think I ever thanked you for dragging me to that gallery,” I tease, nudging her with my elbow.
Three Years Earlier
New York City
August
The summer air clung thick and warm. It was a kind of oppressive heat that made the city feel like it never truly cooled, even after the sun sank below the skyline. I fidget with the collar of my white linen shirt with an expression mixed between reluctance and resignation as Riley tugs me along.
“Come on!” Riley hisses as we weave through the crowded Manhattan streets, the city buzzing with life around us. “It’s just a few more blocks this way.”
“I still can't believe you drug me into the city. On a Saturday. On the hottest night of the year.”
“Will you just chill?”
I shoot her an aggravated look.
“You’ll love it, I swear,” she quips. Her enthusiasm is clearly unbothered by my half-hearted grumbles.
Riley was dressed to kill, in a chic black, off-shoulder jumpsuit that caught the soft golden light that spilled from the storefronts.
“The views are worth it alone, and the photos?” She lets out a sigh. “Spectacular! Trust me!”
“I’m more of a canvas guy, remember?” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets. “You know, like the ones I did dissertations on? Edgar Degas. Auguste Renoir. Claude Monet.”
“Yeah, yeah. Some of the greatest names in Cubism,” Riley states with distracted inaccuracy.
“Impressionism,” I groan back as my mind wandered to my half-finished painting at home. Streaks of cobalt and burnt yellow waited for my return, but still, I let Riley lead me to a nondescript door nestled between two storefronts.
A few moments later, we emerge onto a rooftop that’s been transformed into a sleek gallery.
The humid air is tinged with the scent of gardenias that bloom under the exhibition displays.
Rows of photographs, big and small, stark and vivid, hang beneath strings of market lights.
Beyond us, the city sprawls past the railings, a glittering sea of light and motion.
The buzz of conversation and laughter fill the air, and Riley slips into the crowd, instantly absorbed in the art and mingling with patrons.
How did she even hear about this place, I wonder.
The guest list seems well outside of our social circle of hospitality professionals.
I linger at the edge of the space when a server stops and offers me a flute of champagne, which I promptly take a sip of.
I decide to meander closer, allowing my eyes to dart over black-and-white portraits, abstract landscapes, and close-ups of strangers’ faces.
There is no doubt, they are beautifully composed against a backdrop of Southeast Asia, but all utterly lifeless to me.
Turning toward the skyline, champagne in hand, I find some solace in the chaotic beauty of the city.
But just before I reach the railing, something catches my eye, a splash of red in a photo that’s tucked deep in a corner.
Curiosity takes over, and I step closer.
The eight by ten print is titled ‘Vibrant Market’.
And vibrant it is. The photographer captured the market brimming with life and energy.
Stalls line both sides of the narrow street, their colorful awnings and umbrellas providing shade to the vendors and their wares.
Reds, blues, yellows, and oranges blend into a tapestry of richness, lively chatter, and an undeniable charm of Thai culture.
I could swear that I can smell the air filled with the enticing aromas of sizzling street food, tropical fruits, and fragrant spices.
The vendors enthusiastically call to me as if I were a passerby.
They showcase handmade crafts and an array of street foods like skewers, pad Thai, and mango sticky rice.
It’s a visceral experience, one I had only previously experienced while wandering collections of the Louvre and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“You look like you’re deciding whether to buy the print or just book a flight.” A light voice muses from behind.
I’m unable to take my eyes from the market, and I respond to the unknown voice when they step up to my side, “I think I have to do both.”
The man stood next to me and admires the photo, the space between us charged with energy. Reaching out with a light hand, he gestures to a pad Thai stall in the photo’s corner. “Well, if you go, you need to visit this woman’s stall. It’s the best pad Thai you’ll ever have.”
I turn to look at him, his arm still outstretched.
He’s stunning and takes my breath away. He’s at least six feet tall, with medium length, sandy blond hair that curls at the edges.
It looks like he’s tried to style it, but it has a permanent tousled, casual appearance.
And his eyes. Oh my god, those eyes. They’re the bluest I’ve ever seen.
I break away briefly to take him all in.
A pair of worn, white, low-top converse, tapered olive chinos, and a cream-colored button down shirt.
Behind the two unbuttoned top buttons, the smallest amount of chest hair peeks out.
“I believe it,” I reply, finally finding my voice, and I smile shyly as he looks back. “If I’m being honest, I’m not the biggest fan of photography.”
“You’re bold.” He laughs. “Saying that to the artist.”
Fuck.
“You—you’re the artist?” I stammer as heat rises in my cheeks. I let out an embarrassed chuckle and toss back the rest of my champagne.
“Mhm, Drew Bennett,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.