by Max Monroe
“Way to go, buddy,” I whisper to him. “Keep on keepin’ on.”
Lazy Sunday morning engaged, I snag my laptop off my desk and get cozy on my sofa.
Unfortunately for me, when I pull up my Google inbox to see if there are any updates about the art installation being placed in the South Wing of the Met, I come face-to-face with not one, not two, but three flipping emails from Callie Camden-Baccus.
First email? To tell me that I’ll be in charge of name tags and balloons.
Second email? To let me know that since she is an expert in décor and apparently went to some kind of design class, I won’t be the one handling the balloons. She’ll do that. Instead, I’ll be in charge of the cake and desserts.
And, last but certainly not least, the third message provides me with questions about my and my boyfriend’s food allergies and a Callie-approved list of bakeries where I can order the desserts. And it should be noted that Lakewood has exactly two bakeries, both of which are on the list.
While I contemplate just being honest with her and avoiding this whole find-a-boyfriend and help-plan-a-stupid-high-school-reunion fiasco, I roll through my usual social media stops.
Instagram. Twitter. Facebook.
I scroll through what feels like a thousand pictures of my sister Kate and her fiancé Zach and my old high school classmates smiling in cheesy photos with their significant others, and uninvited dread and annoyance form a fucking alliance and carve out a hole in my stomach.
It feels like everyone is in a relationship. Or engaged. Or married.
Everyone besides me.
Why does this bother me so much?
I don’t know. But it does.
Before I know it, I’m Googling things like “Best Online Date Apps for NYC Singles.” And it doesn’t take long before I’m downloading a stupid dating app onto my phone.
Fucking hell. What has my life become?
Pathetic. Your life is pathetic.
I roll my eyes at my annoying thoughts but carry on with the insanity and scroll through the saved photos on my phone in search of the best picture to use for my brand-new profile.
A few minutes later, I have it narrowed down to a couple pictures, but the sound of keys jingling in the lock of my front door stops me from deciding on the winner. By the time I look up from the screen of my phone, Luke is already walking into my apartment.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” he says with a smirk as he shuts the door behind himself and tosses my keys onto the table beside my coatrack. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up this early. How are you feeling?”
I ignore his question completely and get straight to the point. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole,” he says with a smile. “You’re a Fantana.” He waggles his eyebrows when he says the word correctly, and I almost laugh.
The guilt of the position I put him in wins out, though, and a heavy sigh brings my face back to contrite.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his messy but stylish dark hair. “Let me guess. You already talked to Desi and Claire.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“It’s no big deal, Ava.” He waves me off with a casual gesture of his arm and walks toward the couch, sitting down beside me.
“You almost got in a fight.” I narrow my eyes at him and shove his shoulder with my hand. “That sounds like a big deal, Luke. If you’d gotten arrested, it could’ve ruined every-fucking-thing.”
“Ava, it’s fine. Stop freaking out about it,” he retorts. “I didn’t even come close to fighting the guy, I didn’t get arrested, and now, it’s over. I imagine it’ll be another fifteen years or so before I have to save you on Halloween again, and I’ll likely have achieved all I need to with NASA by that point,” he teases.
“It’s not funny!”
“Sure it is,” he contests. “The guy got pissed when he realized I wasn’t going to let him get into your panties—because you were way too drunk to even know what the hell was happening—and I set him straight. The end.”
“Jesus,” I say, sinking my head into my hands. “I’m sorry I got so fucked up last night.”
“Like I said, it’s no big deal.” He reaches out to pat his hand on my thigh. “Water under the bridge. Or should I say, Fanta under the bridge?”
“Smartass.” I snort and nudge him gently with my shoulder. “Even though you probably shouldn’t have, thanks for coming to my rescue. Lord knows, I would’ve felt like dying if I’d woken up in some random dude’s apartment.”
“Yeah, I figured you didn’t want that.” He smirks, and his eyes make their way to the screen of my phone. “TapNext?” he questions, his mind switching focus. “Why are you on a hookup site?”
“Dating site,” I correct him, but he doesn’t hesitate to disagree.
“That most people use as a hookup site.”
“Well, I don’t have a lot of options,” I sass back. “I need to find a date to bring to my stupid high school reunion, and I’m running out of time.”
“You’re seriously going to go through with the planning circus?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yes.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “And you think you’re going to find a boyfriend to bring home for the holidays on TapNext?”
“What? You think I should choose Match.com?” I retort. “Courtney has been trying to find someone for, like, three freaking years now, Luke. You know I don’t have that kind of time.”
“I don’t think you should choose any of them, Ace,” he responds and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just came clean with everybody?” he asks and meets my eyes. “I mean…TapNext? You really want to go that route?”
I think of what a messy shitstorm it would be if I decided to back out of everything and told everyone how terrible this all makes me feel, and a cold sense of doom envelops me. Honestly, this is awful, but getting all the dirty laundry out in the air sounds much, much worse.
“I do.” I nod. “So, you can either be a judgy jerk, or you can help me figure out what picture to use for my profile.”
He sighs, stares at me for a long moment, then sighs again. “Fine. Hit me with the options.”
“Aw, you’re the best best friend in the whole wide world!” I grin and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. “And once we choose the best picture, you can help me with my bio.”
“Lucky me,” he says through a groan, and I giggle.
“C’mon, Luke. Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. Help your bestie find a boyfriend.”
He snorts at that, and once he chooses his favorite profile picture option—a photo he actually took of me when we went to the Hamptons last summer, I upload it and proceed to type out my bio.
Ava, 33
Fun-loving art history lover who thinks online dating is kind of weird but is trying to give it an honest shot.
“You do realize that most of the messages you’re going to receive will be idiots asking for nudes, right?” Luke questions, and instantly, I get an idea.
Finger to the keys, I add a little more to my bio.
IMPORTANT! READ THIS BEFORE ASKING ME FOR A NAKED PIC:
In the early 1900s, a girl let a handsome, Leonardo DiCaprio-looking boy sketch her portrait—a very risqué, very nude portrait. That very sketch got locked away in a safe somewhere, on a boat that sank to the bottom of the ocean. And still, nearly a century later, that top-secret, nude portrait found its way onto television.
So, no, I DO NOT SEND NUDES.
“There,” I say with a big smile on my face and hit save. “That should do it.”
A soft laugh leaves Luke’s full lips. “Just so you know, I still think this is a horrible idea.”
“Do you know how many times you’ve said that to me during the lifetime of our friendship?”
He snorts. “Too many.”
“Plenty,” I correct. “And it always works out okay.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah. But one day
, you’re going to learn that if you listened to me, it might turn out even better.”
November 2nd
Luke
The lobby of Soar Aviation at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey is a tasteful oasis of beige hues, ambient lighting, high glass ceilings, well-spaced armchairs and sofas, and a baby grand piano.
No one ever plays that damn piano, but that’s beside the point.
This posh waiting room is for travelers catching private planes out of Soar, one of the five companies that flies and charters flights at one of the busiest strictly private airports in the world.
And since I’m one of Soar’s contracted pilots, I walk through this lobby about three times a week. No doubt, it’s a striking contrast to what I used to see more than two years ago when I was still flying as a commercial pilot out of Newark International Airport.
Basically, I get paid to fly around in the clouds.
You’d think after being a pilot for eight years, the novelty of flying would wane, but it doesn’t. Every time I sit in the cockpit and prepare to take off, I’m just as excited as I was my first day in flight school.
Lobby left behind, the tarmac feels like home under my feet. The moisture of dew is still ripe in the air, but after years of flying out of this airport in the mornings, I know it’ll be burned off within the next thirty minutes, as soon as the sun gets high enough in the sky to put some heat into the air. I do my checks and cross-checks, circling the plane and working my way through my preflight checklist, and then head for the stairs that lead to the inside. My phone buzzes in my pocket before I get to the top, so I pull it out quickly and check the screen to find a new text.
Thatcher Kelly: Luke, my man, I have a huge favor to ask. I’m running a little late this morning. Work your magic with air traffic control?
After leaving my job with a commercial airline and signing on with Soar—a company that specializes in private flights for a lot of very wealthy clients—I’ve had the pleasure of flying Thatcher Kelly and the rest of his friends—billion-dollar-bank-account friends, mind you—around for the past two years.
Apparently, I’ve also become his go-to contact whenever he’s running late. Which, frankly, is a lot. Thatcher Kelly runs on Thatcher Kelly time. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Me: Sure. I assume that means you’ll be handling Wes Lancaster, sir?
On this fine Monday morning, I’ll be flying Thatch and several of his closest friends to LA. And Wes Lancaster, the owner of the New York Mavericks and investor in a lot of high-profile restaurants, will be on today’s flight.
Wes is a stickler for time, and when his buddy Thatch is the cause for a delay? He gets pissed.
Thatcher Kelly: Ah, don’t worry about that broody bastard. He can handle running a few minutes behind schedule today.
I’m not worried about him handling it. I’m worried about being the one to have to tell him.
Me: How many minutes are we talking exactly?
Thatcher Kelly: About twenty.
Me: Okay. I’m sure I can swing a twenty-minute maintenance delay of some sort.
Thatcher Kelly: If I weren’t already married to the hottest woman on the planet, I’d get on my knees and fluffing propose to you, son. Consider dinner on me tonight.
I smirk, slide my phone back into my jacket pocket, and step inside the Bombardier Global 7500—my aircraft for the day. It’s a sleek piece of machinery and the biggest, fastest aircraft in Soar’s inventory.
Trevor is already in the cockpit and setting up his nest. We’ve been through a hell of a lot together, including doing quite a bit of growing up. After graduating from Columbia, we both went through flight school and took the first jobs we could find as pilots. He worked for FedEx, and I started climbing the ladder of the commercial airline world, but finally, with our jobs at Soar, we’re back together. He can still be a pain in the ass, but he’s one of the best pilots I could hope to fly with.
“Morning,” I greet, and he glances over his shoulder to grin at me.
“Hey, man.”
“Just so you know, Thatch is running behind.”
Trevor shakes his head. “And what’s our excuse for today’s delay?” he asks, more than used to faking pretend postponements on behalf of Thatcher Kelly. If he weren’t such a cool-ass guy, we’d probably get really tired of his shit, but I guess that’s Thatch’s charismatic magic. It’s impossible to dislike him. Plus, it just so happens that we get paid really well too.
“Let’s go with GPS maintenance,” I comment and stash my duffel and unpack the essentials from my flight bag—my headset for talking to air traffic control and my electronic flight charts.
While I enter the data about our flight into the computer system, Trev runs through our checklist.
About thirty minutes later, we’re confident we’re ready for the 2,454-mile flight from Teterboro to LA, and while Trevor makes a few last-minute adjustments to our GPS route, I step out of the cockpit and greet our passengers.
Kline Brooks—the CEO of the very lucrative Brooks Media—is the first to step on to the plane. He offers a smile and a nod, unbuttoning his suit jacket to prepare to take a seat. “Good to see you, Luke.”
“Likewise, Kline.” He’s always so put together, both physically and mentally, and I have to admire the way the guy runs his life. Not to mention, he looks like he’s still in his twenties, even though I’m pretty sure he’s nearing forty or beyond.
“Mornin’, Captain.” Wes Lancaster is next. Formal but polite, he’s unbelievably consistent in a way I appreciate. He didn’t build the empire he did for himself by not knowing what he wanted. “We all set to take off on time?”
It takes work, but I manage a polite look of apology rather than a cringe. “We have a minor maintenance issue with the GPS but shouldn’t be running too far behind today.”
Instantly, he scowls. It feels like it’s at me, but I know the truth of the matter is that I am just the unlucky messenger. “Is it a GPS issue or a fucking Thatch issue?”
All I can do is skirt around the truth. I’d love to get it all out in the open, but Thatcher Kelly is the one paying my tab for this flight. “Skies are clear, though. Should be smooth flying from here to LA.”
Wes sighs and takes a seat as Milo Ives, Caplin Hawkins, Harrison Hughes, Trent Turner, Theo Cruz, and Quincy Black all file onboard. All insanely successful, wealthy guys whom I’ve come to know over the last few years as more like friends than bosses. Still, I’m always painfully careful to keep things professional on my end, even when they don’t on theirs. Maybe even especially then. It’s all fun and games until I accidentally lose my job.
While Paula and Laura, the flight attendants on today’s flight, help everyone get comfortable with drinks, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting an update from Thatch, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find a text from someone else instead.
Ava: This TapNext shit is so crazy, Luke! Crazy, I tell you! So far, I’ve received two dick pics and a message from some guy who wants me to have a threesome with him and his wife.
I laugh and shake my head.
Obviously, this is shit I already knew and tried to tell her yesterday when she was adamant about starting an online dating profile, but just before I can reply with those exact words, my phone vibrates in my hand again.
Ava: BUT despite the penis photography and marriage gangbangs, there’s good news. I have matched with six guys who actually seem like normal human beings who prefer to go on an actual date before they start sharing insider photos of their genitals.
Six guys? That seems like a lot for having a profile for less than twenty-four hours. Doesn’t it?
Me: Fucking hell, Ace. How many dates are you planning on going on?
Ava: As many as it takes to complete my mission.
The urge to throw out a Mayday! on said mission is strong, but I know it’s useless. When Ava Lucie is convinced of something, there is no stopping her.
Focusing back on the task at
hand—figuring out when my missing passenger will be here—I open up the chat with Thatch and send him a quick, ETA?
Instead of a text back, though, a loud, boisterous, in-person voice fills my ears.
“Luke fluffing London! You ready to get this show on the road?” Thatch steps inside with a big-ass smile on his face. “How are the billionaire natives?”
I smile. “Restless.”
“Are we ready to stop acting like there’s a GPS issue since the big tardy idiot has finally arrived?” Wes shouts from his seat toward the front of the plane, and I smirk at Thatch, my eyes saying, See what I mean?
“Ah, get over yourself, Whitney,” Thatch retorts and steps into the cabin. “You didn’t have to wait that long for me, you grumpy fluffing bastard.”
“Grumpy fluffing bastard?” Wes retorts as I head back into the cockpit and shut the door behind me. The sounds of their bickering turn muffled, and Trev grins over at me as I get myself adjusted into my seat.
“I guess it’s time to let ATC know we’re ready to taxi.”
I nod. “Let’s kick the tires and light the fires.”
After a smooth, uneventful, five-and-half-hour flight from Teterboro to Los Angeles, Trev and I checked in to our hotel—the Beverly Wilshire—and spent a few hours doing nothing but lounging by the pool and drinking a few beers.
There’s no denying that being a pilot for Soar Aviation has some serious perks.
Take right now, for example. Instead of eating takeout pizza in a Holiday Inn like Trev and I used to do back in our early days, we’re currently sitting at a table inside Prime—Wes Lancaster’s newest steakhouse—surrounded by the same hilarious guys who kept us company on this morning’s flight. Our biggest problem now is keeping ourselves out of the billionaires’ brand of trouble.