Turbulence

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  “Jake, is something wrong with you?” I asked.

  “No.” He adjusted his cufflinks. “I’ve told you no every time you’ve asked for the past couple of weeks.”

  “Well, why don’t you answer my phone calls anymore?”

  “I have nothing more to talk to you about.” He put on his blazer and walked over to the mirror. His eyes met mine in the glass and he raised his eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I just thought we were getting somewhere...” I shrugged. “That’s why I asked. I feel like we’re—”

  “We’re back to just fucking?”

  I nodded. “I thought we were becoming more, and now you’re...You’re moving backwards, and you promised not to burn me.”

  “How the fuck am I burning you?” He turned around. “I’m not doing anything different.”

  “You’re shutting me out. You won’t fucking talk to me about the simplest of shit, and you get agitated if I ask you about your goddamn day.” I didn’t mean to yell, but my loud voice echoed off the empty walls. “You can’t say you haven’t noticed a difference between now and a few weeks ago. You were almost a Prince Charming, letting us connect on all the great things we have in common, but now you’re on the verge of being an unbearable asshole. You’re colder, meaner, and I don’t think I like you anymore.”

  “You don’t need to like me to fuck me,” he said. “You just need to like fucking me.” He stepped closer, letting his forehead touch mine. “And from the way you still come every time we meet up, it’s clear you still like that.”

  “Watch the way you talk to me.”

  “Says the person who just said unbearable asshole?”

  “I’m sure your feelings weren’t hurt at all.”

  “I guess I’d have to have feelings for that to be the case.” He glared at me. “I’m not doing anything different. We’re fucking like we’re supposed to, you come every time, and I don’t think you can expect more than that. Yes, we share a love of crossword puzzles, traveling, and we both know plane design, but that’s as far as this will go, so if you want something more, tell me and I’ll walk away for good. Or since you always have to have the last word, you can walk away first. Do you want more?”

  “No.” I lied, keeping my face stoic as I looked away from him and down at the watch he’d given me. “No, I don’t want more from you.”

  “Good.” He grabbed the handle of his luggage and walked away. Then he looked over his shoulder. “See you in Chicago next Thursday.”

  I refused to admit that the tears falling down my face were real.

  ***

  “Honey, I’m home!” Meredith waltzed into our apartment several days later. “Oh god, what is that smell? Did you attempt to cook again?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She fiddled with pots and pans—turning off the food I’d burned. Then she lined up her shopping bags on the counter. “I’ve had interviews with Dior, Michael Kors, Furstenberg, and Coach. Oh! And you won’t believe the new line that’s coming from Hermes this fall. It’s edgier than anything they’ve ever put out on the market.”

  I stared straight ahead.

  “Gillian? Can you hear me?” She stepped in front of me. “Gillian, why aren’t you—Whoa...What’s wrong with you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Did you get fired? Again?”

  “No...” I shook my head.

  “Did you run into Ben?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, wait. Did your family finally find out that you live in a shithole and they have no idea who you really are?”

  “No.” A slight laugh escaped my lips, but a cry came after. “You were right. You were so right...”

  “About?”

  I sighed. “You know that guy I told you I was sleeping with?”

  “The pilot? The one you swore to leave alone after he embarrassed you at the gala?”

  “Yeah, but...” I sighed. “I didn’t leave him alone. I went right back and we’ve still been...”

  “Having sex?” She crossed her arms, confused. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “I see. Well, did he physically hurt you? Is that why you’re crying?”

  “No...” I shook my head, and then I gave up any attempt to pretty up my words. I told her everything, everything that led up to our last tryst in the bathroom. How his fucking was perfect, but his mind was elsewhere. How the warmth in his eyes didn’t match the coldness that fell from his lips.

  “You’ve argued with him how many times already?” She looked at me in shock.

  “Just a few.”

  “Is ‘just a few’ more than twice? More than five times?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Okay,” she said. “You need to break this off for your sanity. Casual sex is literally ‘casual sex’ It’s supposed to be casual and fun, and he should be able to at least hold a simple conversation with you. If he shoots you down like that again, let him go. Otherwise, you’ll just be fighting for him to pay attention and it’ll be a waste of your time.” She must’ve noticed the expression on my face because she held up her hands in a fake surrender and sighed. “What’s his name?”

  “Jake.”

  “Is he really that attractive?”

  I nodded.

  “And that good in bed?”

  “Yes.” I hated that the very thought of him kissing me again made me bite my lip.

  “Regardless, no more chances until he apologizes, Gillian. And only one more chance after that. Promise me that. You’re too good to be tied down to another asshole.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  “Good.” She stood up and picked up a stack of envelopes from our coffee table. “Oh and by the way, the new mail has changed faces a bit since you’ve been away. Let’s see what we have.” She flipped through the envelopes. “James Patterson, Stephen King, Janet Evanovich and as always—Kimberly B. So, the bill collectors are hoping you’re a fan of big name authors now?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know, I was actually getting used to the fictional characters.” She shrugged, tossing the envelopes into the corner. “One day you’re going to tell me how the hell you got them to treat you this way. Unless you tell ‘Jake’ first, that is.” She headed toward the kitchen. “I need a dinner date and I choose you. You want pancakes?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “What about crepes?”

  “That’s the same thing, Mer.”

  “Okay, so what about blueberry crepes and pancakes? With syrup?”

  I laughed, giving in. “Okay.”

  “Now, please tell me more about the sex because it better be off the Richter scale phenomenal for someone like you to ever put up with this type of guy.”

  GATE B28

  GILLIAN

  Denver (DEN)

  Subject: Us...

  Jake, I’m not sure what happened to you, or why you’ve been acting like you have lately, but I don’t like it and I want us to talk. I want “us” to go back to how we were.

  —Gillian

  Subject: Re: Us...

  I’m trying to determine if this message is about fucking or not. Does your “us” refer to the original agreement we made in the hotel stairwell?

  —Jake

  Subject: Re: Re: Us...

  It refers to the “us” where you actually talked to me, where I could consider you my friend. I miss that...

  —Gillian

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Us...

  Tuesday in Charlotte. E28.

  —Jake

  GATE B29

  GILLIAN

  Charlotte (CLT)—> San Francisco (SFO)—> France (CDG)

  Don’t cry...Don’t you dare cry...

  I stood inside the bookstore in Charlotte International, flipping through another Grisham novel—hating that my flight today was delayed by two hours. As I pinned my thumb between chapters twenty-five and twenty-six, I heard the sound of someone approaching me from behind.

&nbs
p; “Gillian?” Jake’s deep voice turned me on instantly, but I didn’t bother facing him. “Gillian, this is not E28.”

  “I know it’s not E28. It’s Charlotte Daily News, a bookstore.”

  “Did you come here hoping I would search the airport for you?” he asked. “Are you waiting on me to buy the book?”

  “No, Jake.” I felt a pang in my chest. “I think you know exactly what I’m waiting for you to do.”

  “I’m not fucking you in here.”

  “What?” I spun around, tears pricking at my eyes. “Are you being serious right now?”

  “My flight is in two hours. I would prefer if we fucked sooner than later.”

  “You are...” A tear fell down my face. “Jake, you’re not being you. What happened? We were fine and you just flipped the switch...You haven’t said anything at all to me this week.”

  “I just texted you an hour ago, Gillian.” He kept his voice low. “Yet, once again, you’ve chosen to ignore where I told you to meet me so we can argue for no reason.”

  A woman suddenly darted between us, quickly grabbing a book from the shelf before moving away.

  “You like me, Jake,” I said. “As much as you want to deny that fact, you like me and regardless of whatever the hell has happened to you, I deserve to be treated better than this.”

  “Is this the part where you demand an apology?” He was struggling to hide his anger. “Is that all I have to do to get you to fuck me today?”

  “No,” I said, setting my book down. “This is the part where I finally walk away. For good.” I rushed past him, slipping into the terminal—letting my tears fall as I blended between travelers.

  I felt my phone vibrating against my pocket, saw his name cross my screen when I finally pulled it out, but I simply turned it off.

  If he could act as if we never meant anything, I could, too.

  ***

  Several days later, I stared at my reflection in the restroom in San Francisco—failing to get my mascara to stay on my eye lashes. Each time I brought the wand up to my face, tears fell or a lump formed in my throat.

  Groaning, I snapped the cap shut after the fifth attempt. I pulled out my foundation, in desperate need of color, but the tears cracked through every coat.

  Ugh...

  I looked at my watch—a cheap, “I Love New York” one since I refused to wear the one Jake gave me anymore, and realized I had three full hours before I’d need to board for Paris. Only three full hours before I needed to get myself together.

  Grabbing a paper towel, I froze when I saw Miss Connors walking into the restroom.

  Without saying anything to me, she walked down the row of stalls, opening each door—checking to see if they were empty. Then, she took a spot next to me in the mirror, she pulled a small pack of Kleenex from her purse and handed it to me.

  I mouthed, “Thank you,” and dabbed my eyes.

  “I fell in love with a pilot once,” she said, pulling out a makeup compact. “I was about your age when it happened, too.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Things were slightly different then, though... It wasn’t as outright illegal as it now, but it was frowned upon.” She put away her makeup and pulled out a brush, turning toward me and fixing my bun. “Me and my pilot shared the same trips fifty percent of the time. We purposely set it up that way. The only place he insisted on going every three weeks or so was Detroit, but since I hated it, I never did make too many of those trips with him.”

  I felt more tears falling and she paused, wiping my eyes for a few seconds before re-pinning my hair.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t in love with this man. We were stupid and reckless, drooling, obvious idiots, just like you and Captain Weston.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror, but they weren’t full of judgment like usual. “I told all my friends I was going to marry him, that we were that much in love.”

  I winced as she drove a final bobby pin a little too hard against my scalp. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She stepped back and slid her bag over her shoulder. “Except his fiancée in Detroit felt the same way about him that I did.”

  I wasn’t even sure what to say.

  “Took me longer to realize that hot sex, lack of communication, and crying every few weeks about secret trips were all a dead giveaway from the very beginning.” She shrugged. “Hope it won’t take you that long.”

  I didn’t utter a word. I just watched her walk toward the door.”

  “Oh and Miss Taylor?” she said before leaving.

  “Yes?”

  “Train-wreck of a love life or not—” She looked me up and down. “When I see you three hours from now, your face better bear makeup, and it better be fixed to perfection.” She flipped her hair over her shoulders and walked away.

  GATE B30

  JAKE

  Dallas (DAL)

  Stepping off the plane in Dallas, I realized that Gillian had yet to respond to my last email. Not only that, but she hadn’t sent me a single message this week, and I wasn’t sure why I cared—or even noticed, but it made me upset for some reason.

  Jake: Bathroom near the Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B.

  Jake: The board says your flight landed half an hour ago, Gillian.

  Jake: This arrangement works better when you actually answer.

  Ten minutes passed.

  Jake: Have you somehow gotten lost in the airport?

  Twenty more minutes passed, and she never answered, never showed up. Frustrated, I figured she was still upset about our last conversation and sent her an email instead.

  Subject: Our arrangement...

  You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be, Gillian.

  —Jake

  Subject: Re: Our arrangement...

  I’m not making anything more difficult than it needs to be. I’m done. I can’t deal with how you treat me anymore. (Also, I’m pretty sure those ellipses weren’t necessary in your subject heading.)

  —Gillian

  Subject: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

  Seeing as though I don’t treat you terribly, you need a better reason than that. Feel free to tell me in the bathroom near Hudson’s Bookstore. Terminal B. (I’m pretty sure you should never challenge me on grammar.)

  —Jake

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

  You now treat me like a fuck-toy and a cum-bucket. You won’t even TALK to me about simple shit like the weather unless YOU feel like it.

  I. AM. DONE.

  —Gillian

  PS—This is exactly why I never wanted to fuck a pilot.

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

  You know seventeen letter words and twenty-one letter adjectives and you choose to use the words “fuck toy” and “cum bucket”? I don’t TALK to you because we agreed not to fucking TALK and unlike you, I would like to stick to the original rules.

  You are not done, you just want to play like you are, but I’m not chasing you again, Gillian.

  —Jake

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

  I’m counting on it.

  —Gillian

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Our arrangement...

  I’m giving you five minutes to get to the bathroom, Gillian.

  —Jake

  Subject: Failed Message. Auto Response.

  The recipient has blocked all further communication from this email address.

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  Present Day

  Fuck him.

  Comments disabled.

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  Present Day

  My phone has ten unanswered text messages from him, far more than he’s ever sent, each one acting as if things will eventually return to normal, as if I’ll still meet him for sex.

  I hoped like hell I wouldn’t have to see him for at least a month, but as luck would have it, we shar
ed a Monday night flight from New York to Milan, but I went the entire flight without so much as giving him a second glance. No matter the two times he attempted to confront me in the galley, or give me a look that made me want to screw him on the spot, I couldn’t do it. I called for a fellow flight attendant to come over so he would walk away.

  The ride on the hotel van held a tension so thick I wondered if anyone else could feel it. And when he came to my room later that night and knocked on the door, I only stared out of the peephole and waited for him to leave.

  As much as I desperately wanted to feel his hands on me again, as much as I needed to feel him inside of me again, I couldn’t let my feelings develop any further. I even called in sick today and am tempted to put him on my “no fly” list with the scheduling department. Very tempted...

  Write later,

  **Taylor G.**

  1 comment posted:

  KayTROLL: 36 posts in three days?! Your life isn’t THAT interesting...

  GATE B31

  JAKE

  JFK (New York)

  A line of cars slowly drove down Hampton Avenue in Brooklyn, honking their horns at me as I slowed my car in the right lane. A heavy rain was falling over the city, drenching every walking straggler in sight and damn near flooding the city drains.

  I looked outside my window at the address Jeff gave me for Gillian—a brick building that looked more like a haunted house experiment than an apartment, and shook my head.

  We hadn’t spoken since she blocked my email address, and the few times I’d seen her in passing, she’d done everything she could to avoid me. The more recent occasion, when I saw her boarding a tram in Atlanta International, she glared at me before rushing away. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was needed for a quick turnaround flight, I would’ve gone after her.

  Braving the rain, I stepped out of the car and shut the door. I walked up the steps at the front of her unit and pressed the call button for unit four. The panel let out a loud, screeching sound, and then the entire thing fell to the ground.

  Jesus...