by Max Monroe
Somehow, my brain had already memorized his most striking features like this was someone I would see more than once in my life.
Before my feet could move an inch, a passenger cockblocked me from engaging in another ten-second ogle session.
“Miss,” a middle-aged woman called my attention from the last row in first class. “I am supposed to be in Birmingham by tomorrow morning. I have an important work meeting. I need you to make sure I have a flight available immediately.”
Oh, man. It was already starting.
I walked the ten steps it took to get to her row, the bottoms of my heels crinkling against the carpet of the aisle, and stopped right beside her seat. “We’re very sorry for the inconvenience.” I erred on the side of apology first. “But the weather conditions are no longer safe for us to be in the air. You’ll just have to be patient until we get to Atlanta, and a gate agent will be able to assist you with rescheduling your flight.”
“Do we really need to take this detour?” she questioned, and I watched as her hands adjusted and fiddled with the fanny pack strapped across her waist. “I think everyone on the plane can handle a little bit of turbulence in order to get to our planned destination.”
I wanted to let her know her idea of a little bit of turbulence didn’t actually account for hurricane-force winds and unpredictable storm paths, but I bit my tongue. “I understand your frustration, but I can assure you this is not a matter of convenience, but safety. Our top priority will always be the safety of our passengers.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed at the same time. “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit safety spiel. This early landing is going to fuck up my whole schedule. I’ll be lucky if I can find a flight to Birmingham by tomorrow night.”
I’d only been a flight attendant for about six months, but I’d flown the majority of my flights with Captain Billy. He had nearly thirty years of flying under his belt, so it went without saying that he didn’t just make an early landing for the hell of it. If he was landing us in Atlanta, it was because we needed to fucking land in Atlanta.
I looked at the woman, her blond hair resting high on top of her head in a severe, ballerina-style bun, her hazel eyes squinting in disdain, her fanny pack constricting her abdomen, and I put her in her place—via mental telepathy.
Listen up, Fanny Pack. I have no desire to fall thirty thousand feet from the air in a metal deathtrap just because you need to be somewhere, thank you very much. We’ll be landing in Atlanta, so just keep your mouth shut and your ass in your seat and deal with it.
Once I’d gotten that off my chest, and she still continued to stare at me like her eyes had the power to physically stab me, I proceeded to give her the sugary-sweet, RoyalAir “customer is always right” bullshit answer, but out loud this time. “Again, I’m very sorry this happened, but let me assure you this isn’t by choice or a matter of convenience. It’s for everyone’s safety. Air traffic control has requested that all planes within two hundred miles of our current location land as soon as possible to ensure the safety of everyone in the air.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. And then stared. She was still visibly pissed, and her hands vibrated with irritation as she readjusted herself in her seat and started rummaging through her fanny pack.
Instantly, I noted she no longer had her seat belt on.
God, could this lady just do as she was told?
We weren’t trying to be assholes here. We were trying to, you know, make sure no one died in the case of an emergency.
“I’m also going to have to ask you to take your fanny pack off and buckle your seat belt,” I instructed with a saccharine smile. “For your safety, of course.”
“This is my fanny pack.” She huffed out a breath, and her bangs billowed above her forehead from the forced air. “I’m not taking it off. I never take it off. Ever.”
I couldn’t stop my face from scrunching up in confusion. Obviously, we’d missed this thing during takeoff. No way in hell Casey wouldn’t have blabbed about the Battle of the Abdominal Bulge.
Wow, Cat, I mused, impressed. Seems you did manage to maintain a little bit of high school history knowledge.
And what did she mean, she never took it off? Like, she showered with the fanny pack? Had sex with the fanny pack? Everything with that fucking fanny pack on?
“Listen, ma’am,” Casey chimed in as he started his overhead bin checks up the aisles. “Unless you want to be escorted off this plane by the air marshal for disruptive behavior when we land, you need to take that fanny pack off. We are not going to ask you again.”
Oh boy. And he called me the feisty one…
The woman blustered. And huffed again. Until she unclicked the fanny pack from her waist and properly buckled her seat belt just in time for Captain Billy to begin our final descent toward Atlanta.
Casey and I double-and triple-checked our passengers, the overhead bins, the lavatories, and the aisles. Once we ensured everything was as it should be, we strapped ourselves into our jump seats for landing.
“Sheesh. Fucking fanny packs,” I muttered toward him, and he laughed.
“Yeah, the shit you have to request to keep people safe on a plane,” he agreed with a grin. “Listen, sister, the instant we land, just move your ass. I’ll do the final check and make sure everything is clean as a whistle before I go.”
“You’re the best,” I whispered. Luckily for both of us, I was the only one who needed to make a return flight in the next twelve hours. Casey had two days off to get his schedule situated.
Casey blew me a kiss. “I know.”
The instant we landed, I did exactly as I was told.
Legally, I had to wait as the passengers filed out, but as soon as they were done, I abandoned my responsibilities and moved my ass.
I grabbed my black carry-on and walked as fast as my navy patent leather heels would take me. After a serious delay and then a goddamn detour from the original planned flight, I was in Atlanta, should’ve been in Birmingham, and I had no idea what my next steps were.
Only six months into the flight attendant game, and without my flight attendant bestie by my side, I was a newbie. A little fish in a big ole airport pond trying to find her way back to Birmingham. Not to mention, RoyalAir was currently severely short-staffed, so the odds of being taken off my Birmingham to NYC flight completely were probably slim to none.
As I took the tram from Terminal D to Terminal A, where RoyalAir’s hub was located, I silently prayed the flight manager on staff this evening could find a way to help me.
The airport was insanely busy for the hour of the day. Eleven at night was generally blessed with calm and quiet, but not tonight. Tonight, the usual hustle and bustle of airline employees and people rushing about to reach their terminal or their next connecting flight had been put on steroids because of all of the detours and weather delays.
I weaved in and out of the crowd, doing my best not to bump into anyone, and my heels click-clacked across the tile at a rapid pace.
The flight manager’s office, located on the opposite end of the terminal and tucked into a small, obscure and darkened corner of a hallway, looked like something out of a customer service horror film. The phones were ringing off the hook, and two out of the three agents were already talking to other flight attendants. Paperwork littered the floor to the back and side of the long desk and blood was smeared all over the walls.
Okay, there wasn’t any blood, but it felt like there could have been.
A rescheduling war had been fought here.
“Name,” a woman with a short, jet-black bob and the darkest, thickest eyebrows I’d ever seen—the only person not occupied—demanded as soon as she noticed me stepping through the door.
Oh, fantastic. This should go well since she’s obviously in such a great mood…
“Cat, uh, well, Catharine Wild,” I responded and slid my carry-on bag to a stop with a little help from the counter. The bang of wheels against wood made The Eyebrows draw together,
and I winced. “Oops. Sorry,” I apologized. She glared. “Most people call me Cat, though.”
“Well, it looks like RoyalAir calls you Catharine.”
Sheesh. This woman. She’s a real sweetheart, huh?
I glanced at her name tag. Carol, it read.
Well, Carol, you can blow me, I thought. You’re not the only one who’s had a long night.
“I’m supposed to be in Birmingham for a nine a.m. flight,” I explained, and Carol raised one eyebrow high on her forehead.
Looking more like black caterpillars than facial hair, those eyebrows of hers were distracting as hell. They had a power that rivaled the sun, and it took all of my willpower to not stare directly at them.
“Well…” She looked up from her screen and pinched her lips together in a firm line. “You’re not in Birmingham. You’re in Atlanta.”
Wow. Thanks. I hadn’t realized I was in a completely different city and state from where I was supposed to be. I mean, I had been on the flight that took the detour, but I just had no fucking clue what was going on.
I kept my sassy in check and bit my tongue. “I realize that.”
“I have no flights to Birmingham tonight,” she muttered and pursed her lips. “The next flight to Birmingham isn’t until noon tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t really help me,” I attempted to explain my dilemma…again. “I’m supposed to be on the nine a.m. Birmingham to JFK flight tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a problem.”
Ya think?
“Is there any way I can get off that flight, then?” I asked, too hopeful for my own good. This was why they had backup flight attendants stationed at various airports, for situations like this. Right? “I mean, I’m not sure how I’m going to get there in enough time…”
She shook her head, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her eyebrows. Good Lord, those things were an anomaly. Big, bushy, and yet, well-maintained somehow. They were distracting. And ironic. And, considering I was in a bit of a situation, I honestly had no idea why I was even analyzing Carol’s fucking eyebrows like there was a quiz on them later.
“They need you in Birmingham,” she stated firmly. “There is only one other flight attendant for your flight to JFK, and all of the backups are accounted for thanks to the shortage. You’re just going to have to find another way to get there.”
And how in the heck was I going to manage that? A goddamn hot air balloon?
I looked at Carol, and Carol looked at me.
And, after another twenty or so seconds passed, I realized Carol and her eyebrows weren’t going to offer up any solutions. I glanced at the mess of paper on the floor behind her and then back to her cold eyes. Any fuck she’d had to give, she’d given out a long time ago.
“So,” I started in an attempt to carefully pry a solution out of her, “if you were me, how would you get to Birmingham?”
She shrugged. “The train, probably.”
There’s a train? Like, a real one? Or is she just bullshitting me?
“So, I could take a train?” I asked to confirm. Her eyebrows weren’t pleased, turning down on the ends. “A train from Atlanta to Birmingham?”
“Yep. Amtrak.”
Amtrak. Remember that, Cat…
“Okay… Well… Do you happen to have any information for me?” I asked and rested my elbows on the counter. “You know, like, where is the train located? How do I get there?”
C’mon, Carol. Work with me here.
She sighed, long and exaggerated, and then sat there, wordless, for what felt like an eternity.
Whose will would break more quickly?
To my surprise, I won that round, and she eventually opened a drawer on the left side of her desk and started to rummage through its contents.
“How long have you been with RoyalAir?”
“Six months.”
“That explains it,” she muttered under her breath.
Wow. Another point for Carol, I guess.
I bit my tongue for the second time. I feared if I didn’t get out of Carol’s office in the next five minutes, I might bite the damn thing straight off.
“Here,” she said and slapped a white envelope onto the counter.
Done with our game and done with me, Carol didn’t provide any instructions after that. I silently prayed she hadn’t just shoved an old Chinese food menu into an envelope, lifted my elbows from the counter, and grabbed the handle of my carry-on.
Fingers and toes crossed, I strode out of the office, sat down on an empty bench, and opened up the white flap of paper on the back.
My eyes scanned the text, and relief filled my stomach, heavy and warm. Carol had actually given me information that could help me find my way to Birmingham before my nine a.m. flight.
Hallelujah, praise Jesus.
Unfortunately, when I got a load of the nightly Amtrak train schedule, the relief quickly dissipated.
Next train to Birmingham: 12:00 a.m.
I looked at my watch. 11:30 p.m.
Google was my bitch as I typed in the train station and plotted a foot route from my current location. Estimated time it would take for me to get to the train: twenty minutes.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and hopped out of my seat at a dead sprint.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked my previous seatmate, Luke, as he slid into the line at customer service ahead of me. Me and the thirty people behind me had been patiently waiting our turn to try to reschedule our way to Birmingham after being diverted to Atlanta about half an hour ago.
The airport was pure chaos with a slew of Deep South flights that had been rerouted due to weather, and after a failed attempt to get anything accomplished at the gate counter and twenty brain-bleeding minutes spent on hold with the airline via the phone while I’d been waiting in line here, I wasn’t in the mood for bullshit from anyone—and certainly not from Luke.
Luke looked back over his shoulder, slipping one of his grins into place to try to charm me and the rest of the crowd, but we had leg cramps, dehydration, and severe frustration on our sides—we wouldn’t be swayed. “I’ve got an important business meeting to get to. I’m sure you understand.”
“No,” I said instantly. “I don’t.”
His grin turned condescending as he focused on my black track-style pants and the plain white T-shirt stretched over my chest. “Right. Well, trust me. This business is important—the kind of thing that can’t wait.”
I stepped out of my place in line, fully prepared to suffer the consequences of rejoining it at the rear, and made my way past the few people between myself and Luke.
I towered over him, and a dull roar of whispers picked up behind me.
“No,” I said quietly to Luke. “What can’t wait is the thirty-five people you cut who have business to attend, families to see, sick to care for, and babies to get to bed. So why don’t you and I take a walk to the back of the line where we belong and let them get their rightful turn.”
Luke’s grin slipped into a hard mask. “I see you’re intent on making a scene, but I’m hardly inconveniencing them. I’m just one person.”
“Holy shit, dude,” I heard one of the guys directly behind me whisper. “You’re right. It is him.”
Like a sixth sense, I could feel the phones being held up and switched on to record instantly. My publicist for sure wouldn’t like that I’d made a scene, but the idea of putting Luke in his place in front of millions of people didn’t bother me—I’d just have to make sure I made it worthwhile.
“One person, sure. One very self-entitled person.”
“I’m not sure what your problem is—”
“You really aren’t paying attention, then,” I interrupted him. He glared. “You and I,” I explained, “are gonna head on back to the back of the line and let these nice folks go before us. I’ll even sacrifice my own spot just to keep you company. Now, come on.”
“Do I need to call security?” he threatened, seemingly noticing my size for the firs
t time but too self-righteous to back down.
“Oh, how I wish you would,” I told him sweetly, batting my eyelashes as I did.
He sneered and moved to step forward as the service desk employee called the next person up, but I caught him with a gentle hand to the shoulder and pulled him back. “Not so fast,” I told him, turning to usher the guys behind me forward with a jerk of my chin.
They looked at me in awe but made no move to scuttle by in the space I’d freed.
“Get your hands off me!” Luke yelled. I took my hand off of his shoulder in an effort not to push it. My publicist would whine about a scene, but he’d straight break my kneecaps over an arrest.
“Dude. Epic,” the guy whispered to his friend who still hadn’t moved, and then raised his voice to address me directly. “You’re Quinn Bailey, right?”
I nodded.
“Fucking hell! Quinn Bailey fighting for our spot in line! You’re, like, a football god. I’ve had you on my fantasy team for the last three years in a row.”
I glanced up to see that Luke, opportunist that he was, hadn’t used my fans gushing as a lesson in respect for others, but had instead bellied up to the counter to try to solve his own issues as quickly as possible while my attention was otherwise occupied.
I felt momentarily disappointed at my failure to protect these strangers’ honor, but the rest of the line didn’t give me long to think about it as a ripple quickly informed everyone as to who I was.
In no time, I had a group of fifteen people around me, all waiting with scraps of paper they’d dug out of their belongings and passing around a pen for me to use to sign.
“Don’t worry about that dude, Quinn,” one kid said. “Karma will make him her bitch soon.”
“Jeremy!” a woman I suspected was his mother snapped. “Language!”