Come Fly with Me: A Collection

by Whitney G.

  I’m definitely not going home for that proposal…

  The car came to a sudden, jerky stop and I looked ahead through the windshield. Several police cars were flashing their blue and white lights, and an ambulance was speeding down the emergency lane.

  Since it looked as if it was going to take even longer to get to Manhattan, I leaned against the window and drifted to sleep.

  An hour later, I woke up to see the car coasting its way down Broadway, still blocks away from the Woolworth Building.

  There were three new texts from Ben on my phone, all concerned with appearances, not me.

  Ben: If the Uber car you’re in isn’t a luxury car, tell him to drop you off at the back entrance so you won’t look like a caterer or something.

  Ben: The senator and his wife just arrived, so it’s settled. My girlfriend can’t be seen getting out of anything less than a luxury car.

  Ben: Please tell me you’re wearing one of the dresses your roommate bought for you. One of the designer ones.

  I rolled my eyes as the car pulled in front of the building, not caring anything about his ridiculous requests. From what I could see, the only people standing outside were valets and doormen, and the luxury cars and limousines were long abandoned.

  I handed the driver a five and stepped out, holding my umbrella over my head as I walked up the steps to two waiting doormen.

  In unison, they uttered, “Good evening,” and opened the doors, letting me inside a glittering, gold lobby. To my surprise, the grand space was completely empty.

  Before I could ask where I was supposed to go, a white-suited bellman stepped off the elevator and motioned for me to step inside.

  “You’re the girlfriend of Ben Walsh, correct?” he asked.

  “Supposedly. Depends on what day of the week it is.”

  He laughed and hit the button for the top floor. “I’d say it’s more than ‘supposedly.’ He’s asked me about your arrival six times tonight. Described you to a T.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll quote him verbatim,” he said. “Beautiful woman with long, wavy black hair and the prettiest set of emerald green eyes you’ll ever see. That’s how I knew it was you.”

  I blushed, feeling somewhat guilty for being so upset with Ben. “Thank you. I’ll tell him how sweet that is.”

  He nodded and faced the front, watching the lights above the doors flash as we passed every floor. When it reached ‘57’, the doors suddenly slid open, letting in the blinding flashes of photographers.

  “Anyone famous?” Someone yelled as the cameras clicked consistently. “Is she somebody?”

  “We’ll figure it out later. Just get the shot!”

  Holding my hand over my eyes, I moved out of their line of fire and into the ballroom’s main event, the re-launch of Cosmopolitan magazine.

  The room was drenched in beautiful silver and white decorations, and previous covers of the magazine were standing atop mini stages throughout the space. Waiters weaved through the guests with champagne trays held high, and almost all of New York’s elite were putting on perfect smiles for the press. Dressed in thousand dollar gowns and impeccably tailored suits, their astonishing wealth could be sensed from miles away. These were the type of people who looked for any occasion to show it off, the type of people who would show up to the opening of a gift bag if it meant there was a chance their face would make it into the papers.

  I smiled as I moved through the guests, saying hello to a few familiar faces as I searched for Ben. After several minutes of looking, I sent him a quick “Where are you?” text, but he never responded.

  Knowing that he was probably posing for endless pictures with local celebrities, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and walked toward the windows that faced the Brooklyn Bridge.

  I was halfway there when his parents, Mrs. Editor in Chief of Cosmopolitan and Mr. Wolf of Wall Street, stepped in front of me. As usual, his mother’s red hair was perfectly curled and coifed, her dress a slimming shade of blue that complemented her eyes. And his brooding father, with his copper-colored hair and dark brown eyes, looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of a political drama. Ben was a clear, carbon copy.

  “Good evening, Gillian.” His mother extended her perfectly manicured hand. “You look rather radiant tonight.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walsh.”

  “My pleasure. Ben was just circling the room looking for you. Have you seen him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll run into him eventually, I’m sure.” His father shook my hand. “He told me you were secretly interested in applying to work at my firm. Is that true, Gillian?”

  Hell no… “Maybe, Mr. Walsh. I’m not telling.”

  “Ha! I knew it! Apply this week and I’ll hire you whenever you want to start. No questions asked. I’ve told Ben from the very beginning that you were a great catch. I know you love working at that nonprofit and your technology start up, but if you joined the family business, I think you’d love it a lot more.”

  “What nonprofit?” I asked.

  “What nonprofit?” He laughed. “Oh, you’re so modest, Gillian. I love that about you.” He lowered his voice. “There’s no shame working for the less fortunate. I enjoy the few pro bono consults I do every year. It puts everything in perspective…Also looks very good on my taxes.”

  “I bet.” I forced a smile, wondering why the hell Ben had fed his father so many lies about me and my jobs.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” His mother grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray. “That’s the pop culture editor from The Wall Street Journal. I need to make sure she gets a few lines directly from me.” She gave me one last smile. “Enjoy the party, Gillian. Make sure you join us for the official toast in an hour.” She and Mr. Walsh walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  I checked my phone to see if Ben had finally texted me back, and when I saw that he hadn’t, I was more than determined to find him and insist we step out of this party to talk. Now.

  Circling the room, I checked every cocktail table, every champagne fountain, and every cheese and wine station. I even checked the bathrooms. I was almost tempted to have the DJ call for him over the music, but out the corner of my eye I spotted him standing in the corner by the windows. With another woman.

  I stepped closer, hoping my eyes were playing a trick on me, but with every step, his distinctive features came into clearer focus, and the same hands that touched me were caressing the ass of a brunette in a way-too-short grey dress. He was whispering into her ear as she leaned against his shoulder, as her bony fingers combed through his hair.

  “Am I interrupting something?” I stopped right next to them. “Ben?”

  They immediately tore apart, looking at me with wide eyes. The girl was a girl I’d seen several times before, one of Ben’s coworkers at his father’s firm.

  “Um...Hi, Gillian,” she said, red-cheeked. Without waiting for me to respond, she rushed away—leaving me and Ben alone.

  Ben cleared his throat. “I was looking for you.”

  “Did you think I was hiding up Allyson’s ass?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “How was your day today, babe?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Well, I’ll go first. My day was okay. I secured two new deals, thank you very much for asking. I also found a few new vacation places I’d like us to see next summer. Now, how was your day??”

  I blinked.

  “Okay, then.” He looked completely oblivious. “What took you so long to get here?”

  “You can’t honestly think that we’re simply going to bypass the fact that you were damn near fucking Allyson in public.”

  “I wasn’t fucking her, Gillian. If I was fucking her, trust me, you would know.”

  “Ben—”

  “I think I would know better than to do something like that in public, don’t you think?” He scoffed. “There’s a Hilton down the street for Christ’s sake and I get free roo
ms. I’m pretty sure I would take her there and not here.”

  I stared at him, completely taken aback.

  He laughed, stepping closer and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Lighten up, Gill. Learn how to laugh a little.”

  “Learn how to tell a joke.” I jerked away from him. “Why were you touching her like that?”

  He shook his head, looking as if I was being bothersome. “I told you I’d take you to Hemingway’s after this to discuss whatever the hell you wanted to talk about. Do you really want to have an unnecessary conversation like this now?”

  “Right now.”

  He groaned and grabbed my hand, tugging me past a group of suits and up a small flight of stairs. He opened the door and led me onto the half-covered roof.

  The rain had slowed to a light sprinkle, and the winds were whipping against the both of us. A man in a white tuxedo was sitting on the far side of the roof, singing aloud and lightly fingering the keys of a grand piano as if we weren’t around.

  “Lovers in New York…” He crooned. “Trying to find a place alone in New York…”

  “Okay, Gillian,” Ben said, standing in front of me. “I’m not going to argue with you because we’re above that. But whatever you want to talk about now and at Hemingway’s, I’m game.”

  “Are you cheating on me?” The question escaped my lips before I could completely think it through. It was a question I would’ve never even thought to ask until mere minutes ago.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you cheating on me?”

  “Gillian…”

  “It’s a simple yes or no question, Ben. Are you?”

  He was silent for several seconds, slipping his hands in and out of his pockets, all while looking at me as if he wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t until the pianist started a new song that he finally looked right into my eyes.

  “I’m not cheating on you,” he said. “Not technically.”

  “Not technically?”

  “Let me explain.” He stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s just sex, Gillian. Just sex.”

  “We have sex, Ben. Lots of sex. Have you been sleeping with Allyson?”

  “I haven’t slept with Allyson…yet.” He looked as if this was no big deal. “And you and I do not have ‘lots of sex.’ That’s the problem. Five to six days is a long time for people our age to go without sex. Not to mention that sometimes I don’t see you for weeks at a time while you’re out being a so-called flight attendant or working at that other ridiculous job that I won’t even call by name right now.”

  “Executive housekeeper,” I said it for him. “And what do you mean ‘so-called’ flight attendant?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. I’ve flown more than you have over the past year and a half, and to places that are more than one or two hours away.”

  “Is that why you’ve lied to your dad about where I work?”

  “No, I lied to him so he wouldn’t team up with my mother and pressure me to dump you. Having a girlfriend who cleans apartments and serves pretzels in the sky isn’t something that will necessarily go over well in our social circles.” He looked into my eyes. “All of that aside though, I really like you—damn near love you. I don’t want a little white lie and a few senseless fucks with a few girls I care nothing about to get between us.”

  I felt a tear rolling down my face, felt my naive heart beginning to break. “How many girls, Ben?”

  “You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” He rubbed my arm. “I just said that I damn near love you. This is where you say that you love me back and we go find somewhere to get reacquainted. Preferably someplace private and quiet.”

  “How many girls have you fucked behind my back, Ben?” I nearly yelled.

  “Lovers in New York…” The pianist’s voice carried against the wind. “Lovers fighting in New York…”

  “Ten or so,” he said flatly. “But I always come back to you, see? I don’t take any of them on dates, I don’t have long conversations with them on the phone like the two of us have, and I definitely don’t let any of them spend the night at my place like I’ve let you. That’s because I only use them for sex. I like you for you, and I actually care about you.”

  More tears fell down my face as he continued to explain his twisted logic, as I silently cursed myself for somehow missing all of the signs. The late night meetings across town, the buzzing of his phone coming in the middle of the night, the sudden growing obsession with wealth and “looking good for whoever else might see me today.”

  I started to wonder about all the dinner parties I’d attended with him, if the smiles and waves from other women meant far more than a casual hello. If he’d paraded me around as a part-time girlfriend who knew all about his side affairs.

  “Why are you looking like a deer in headlights, Gill?” he asked, his tone suddenly soft.

  “Because I honestly feel like one…Was there ever a time when you weren’t sleeping with other women behind my back?”

  “The first few months we were together,” he admitted. “I only slept with you then.”

  “We’ve been together for years.”

  “And we can be together for many more…If you can agree to let go of your current blue collar jobs and maybe go back to your old job—the actual, impressive one, or agree to work at my dad’s firm. Maybe we can be on the same schedule and I won’t have to resort to sleeping with other people. We’ve both had a hand in this, Gillian. Both of us.”

  I stepped back and held back a cry. I refused to let him see me break down.

  “Lovers in New York…” The pianist sang ten times louder than before. “Lovers crying tears of—”

  “Please shut the fuck up!” I shouted at him, misdirecting my anger and hurt. I took a deep breath and started to apologize, but he ignored my outburst and continued singing anyway.

  “Oh, babe.” Ben held up his arms and stepped toward me for a hug. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Come here.”

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

  “Fine. Let’s at least get on the same page before we go back inside to the party,” he said. “I don’t need you causing a scene in front of all my parents’ friends. How would you like to compromise on our issues?” He paced back and forth. “I’m willing you listen to your ideas, although I must admit, if you want to ensure that I only sleep with you, you’ll have to make some major changes and give me time to adjust to that again.”

  I didn’t say a single word. The last word wasn’t worth it. Not now, not ever.

  We were finished.

  I turned around and walked away, ignoring his pathetic, weak calls after me. Without looking back, I weaved through the party guests, plastering a fake smile on my face as they smiled and nodded at me. Not wanting to come face to face with the throng of photographers near the elevators, I took the stairwell down a few floors and caught the elevator from there to the ground level.

  Hot tears fell down my cheeks and my chest heaved up and down with every step. Each one was a reminder that I was abandoning a one-sided relationship that once seemed so promising. That the issues I’d planned to bring up later were minor footnotes compared to the pages of problems Ben revealed.

  When I reached the lobby’s doors, I noticed the rain’s sudden return. It was falling harder now than it was when I first arrived.

  “Miss Taylor?” A deep, masculine voice called from behind. “Miss Taylor?”

  “Yes?” I turned around and found myself face to face with the Walsh family’s driver, Francis.

  “Are you leaving the party now?” he asked. “Alone?”

  I nodded.

  “Will Mr. Walsh be joining you?”

  “No, and I don’t need a ride,” I said. “I don’t want to accept anything else from Mr. Walsh ever again.”

  Ignoring me, he grabbed a black umbrella and opened the front door. He let the umbrella up against the rain and gestured for me to go with him.

  “I
was ordered to take you home, Miss Taylor.” He wasn’t going to let me leave on my own terms. “I was told this was my priority hours before you arrived.”

  “If you insist…” I held back a sigh and walked with him to a waiting black town car.

  As he settled into the front seat and adjusted the air settings, I looked at my phone and saw an influx of text messages.

  Ben: Instead of going to Hemingway’s, I’ll have Francis take us to your place so we can have a real discussion about this later.

  Ben: I’m willing to come to your apartment in Brooklyn, Gillian… BROOKLYN! If that’s not trying to compromise and get on one accord with you, I don’t know what is.

  Ben: Did you leave the party? Did you REALLY leave before we could get a photo together?

  Ben: Answer my phone calls, Gillian. Now.

  Ben: Gillian…?

  Francis steered the car down Avenue of the Americas and I wiped away fresh tears. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was wake up to Ben knocking on my door for a conversation.

  The car approached a yellow light, and as it came to a complete stop, the perfect way to avoid Ben tonight hit me.

  “Francis?” I asked.

  “Yes, Miss Taylor?”

  “Would you mind dropping me off somewhere else instead of my apartment?”

  “Depends on how ‘safe’ this alternate location is.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror and furrowed his brow. “A bar is not an acceptable option.”

  “It’s not a bar. It’s The Madison on Park Avenue.”

  “Ah,” he said with a smile. “Yes. Your other place of employment will be safe enough. Should I I assume you won’t want me to tell Mr. Walsh that’s where I dropped you off?”

  “Yes. Please don’t tell him.”

  He nodded, and when the light turned green, he made a U-turn and headed toward the other side of Manhattan. Passing the grand front entrance, he parked near the rear of the building and stepped out to open my door, once again holding the umbrella up for me.

  As if he could tell that he probably wouldn’t be seeing me again, he handed the umbrella over to me and shook my hand, wishing me the best of luck.