Truth, Lies, and Second Dates

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  (bad for the environment)

  bliss

  (soooo coooool)

  of the hotel’s central air-conditioning system.

  “Y’know, when I asked about your next move, I have to admit I was talking about the case. This is fine, though,” she said, indicating their clasped hands. “But we’re being pulled into Hannah’s tractor beam, so this is your last chance to play the ‘strictly work-related’ card.”

  “Noted,” was the dry reply as Hannah jumped up and down and waved at them from the other end of the lobby; Abe, holding her other hand, waved, too.

  “Oh, man, look at that smirk on Abe’s face.”

  “He spends an inordinate amount of time fretting over my dearth of female companionship.”

  “Well, everybody needs a hobby. Hi, guys.”

  “Captain Ava.”

  “Hi, Ava! Are you hungry? Grandpa and I are famished. We’re going to dine. Will you dine? And if so, will you do it with us?”

  “I am, I know, I will, and yes.”

  “Productive day?” Abe asked, and he definitely wasn’t staring at their clasped hands. Nope. Not at all.

  “Depends on how you define productive.”

  “I asked Ava to join us for dinner. Suggestions?”

  There were several. But one clear winner: Bertucci’s, just a short hop from the hotel. The minute they walked in, Ava took an appreciative whiff. Hand-tossed pizza, house-made tomato sauce, fresh cheese, wood-fired ovens. They found a table in short order—something of a miracle on a Saturday night—ordered, drank, talked.

  “Stanford and MIT and Princeton all talked to you?”

  “More like glommed on, Tom,” Abe said. He was slouched back in his chair, fingers curled around a beer, and looked as content with life as anyone she’d ever seen. Hannah was clearly feeling the day, too, yawning while she scribbled anagrams on the kids’ menu. “I was worried I’d have to set a fire or something, distract them so we could get some distance.”

  “A fire,” Hannah said, switching out crayons, “would have been a bad plan. It could have become a blaze. A conflagration!”

  “No one’s saying there’d be no downside to setting a fire, Hannah.”

  “She’s far too young to be talking to recruiters,” Tom protested. “It’s inappropriate!”

  “She also loathes it when grown-ups talk about her like she isn’t sitting right here and hearing every word while she colors.”

  “Ava’s creeped out by people who refer to themselves in the third person. See? I know some smart stuff, too. Stop smirking,” she added, giving the girl a poke in the ribs, which elicited a giggle.

  “Besides, it was a waste of time. I was—Ava!—happy to talk to them but—don’t poke!—I’m going to be a forensic pathologist, like Uncle Tom.” Ava relented while Hannah straightened her bangs. “And once I get my juris doctorate, I’ll do autopsies to catch killers, then prosecute them.”

  “Then maybe invest in private prisons, so you can also keep an eye on the killers you exposed, prosecuted, and incarcerated?”

  “I think you’re being sarcastic, but it’s not a terrible plan.”

  “I was, Hannah. And it is.” Ava shrugged. “But what do I know? I only ever wanted to be one thing.”

  Well. Mostly. Once upon a time, she and Danielle were going to travel the world buying eclectic nonsense for their online store, AvaDan (“AW-vuh-dawn”, because pretension and their teenage selves went hand in hand). The plan was to first run it out of Danielle’s basement and, once they were internationally famous and profitable—which they assumed would take no longer than thirty-six months—they’d move their headquarters to Paris, expanding to London and San Francisco as required.

  It was a measure of how much she still missed her friend that, even now, the online-store idea didn’t sound completely ridiculous. Even if she had only kept to one part of their plan.

  “You’re missing your friend.”

  “All right, Hannah, how’d you do that?” She probably should have been annoyed, but dammit, the kid was impressive. Ava wasn’t too proud to learn new tricks. “I could have been thinking about anything. Pizza. Climate change. How I’m ordering the tiramisu just to gross out your uncle.” Also your uncle’s mouth, which is goddamned sinful.

  “Incorrigible,” Tom commented, smiling.

  “You were smiling and happy until you talked about only wanting to be one thing. Then you looked down and went very quiet, and you snuck peeks at Uncle Tom, who’s helping you catch the killer. So the only thing would be flying—were you going to fly together?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hannah,” Tom began, but Ava reached out and touched his wrist.

  “It’s fine. Yes, I was thinking of her. Yes, I still miss her.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not laughing at you,” she said, sounding solemn for her years. “I miss my mother. I think about her sometimes. A lot, today. She would have thought the MAGE conference was hilarious. Right, Grandpa?”

  “That’s just right, hon.”

  “She would have teased my uncle because I’m more like him than I’m like her. And the oatmeal bottles.”

  “I’m sure she would have—what?”

  “When I was a baby, Mom would make the holes in the nipples of my bottles a little bigger and put oatmeal and pureed fruit in with my formula.”

  “Helped her sleep all night,” Abe added.

  “Peach was my favorite.”

  “You remember being bottle-fed?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t boring, though,” she added, as if she thought Ava was going to accuse her of being a lazy baby who contributed nothing to society while she sucked down bottles stuffed with oatmeal. “If I tried it now, I’d be tremendously bored. But back then, I didn’t mind just being there. That’s what I remember best. Just being there. And the taste.”

  “Remarkable. You’re remarkable. That’s—wow.” Ava shook her head. Outclassed, outgunned, outsmarted by a kid younger than my favorite bra. “My first memory is getting my hands on a tube of cookie dough, gobbling it down in front of the fridge, then throwing up, also in front of the fridge.”

  “Eeee-yuck!” Hannah giggled. “But I didn’t say it was my first memory. Just that I remember my bottle phase.”

  “Holy sh … shawarma.”

  “I know the word ‘shit,’ you guys.”

  “That’s enough,” Abe said mildly.

  “It’s just, I’m not sure why you’re doing that. I know profanity is socially unacceptable in children, especially in public places. Which is why I don’t swear. But whether you say ‘shit’ or ‘shawarma’ doesn’t change that knowledge, or even reinforce it.”

  “Hannah, what have we said?”

  A put-upon sigh, followed by, “That when I’m running the world, I get to make the rules. But for now, you and Uncle Tom are the bosses of me.”

  “Right. So that gives us at least ten years where we’re the boss.”

  “Five,” Ava said. “Tops.” And at Hannah’s delighted beam, she thought, Wow, she smiles just like Tom! Which was good, because it was one of the last pleasant evenings she was going to have for a good while.

  Hindsight: always a bitch.

  Thirty-Seven

  “Just a heads-up, I’m not going to bang you tonight.”

  “I’ll update my schedule accordingly.”

  “I know there’s a stereotype about pilots having a girl and/or guy in every port, but I’ve never had girls in any port, and only seven guys. Wait … six. And I haven’t seen two of them in over a year.”

  “You cannot scare me off with your sex statistics.”

  “Who’s trying to scare you off? Also, I’ve just decided that Sex Statistics is going to be the title of my autobiography.”

  He laughed, then gasped as his hip banged into the side of the check-in desk and he almost went sprawling. She had to plant her feet to keep him from dragging her down as well.

  “Luckily for you, I’ve decide
d your rampant klutziness is endearing.”

  “I have several things to keep track of,” he said with faux haughtiness. “Where parts of my body are in relation to random large objects is not high on my list.”

  “I like that you’re embracing it, too.”

  He had insisted on walking her home, which in this case meant walking her to the nearest T station and taking the Blue Line to Airport Station, then walking her to her hotel.

  “I don’t have anyone in any port,” he confided as they stepped into the elevator. “I trust that isn’t a mark against me.”

  “Nope. Just the opposite.” Argh, cards! Was no one allowed to use an elevator without jamming a card somewhere? And it couldn’t be a random credit card. (She’d tried.) Had to be the room’s key card. Not to pull a Pretty Woman (for any number of reasons), but she liked keys better.

  Once they were off the elevator, she fumbled for five or six hundred hours until the thing was plucked from her fingers by more nimble fingers (nimbler fingers?), inserted, green light, click, in. “Show-off.”

  “Mmmm … no. This is not a rare skill set.”

  “Speaking of skill sets, you’re a first-rate kisser.”

  “Where am I on your list of six? That’s rhetorical,” he added, as if worried she had a ranking system and was about to show him graphs she’d made to chart his abilities or the lack thereof.

  “Right now, you’re number one on a list of one: people I really, really need to kiss right now.” The door swung closed behind him and he was on her at once, his mouth slanting over hers, his left hand gently cupping the back of her neck. His right arm went firmly around her waist as he pressed her against him, and he shivered a little when her tongue gently sought his. This went on for five seconds. Or years. Who cared? What, she was a referee who had to keep an eye on the clock?

  He sighed, pulled back, went in for another kiss, this one more chaste, then pulled back again, his dark eyes filling her world for those few seconds. “When can I see you again?”

  “In what capacity? Are we talking about more murder research? Because I’m okay with that. But if we’re talking about … what? A one-night stand? A series of one-night stands? Dating? Friends with benefits? I know I blew you off the night we met, but a lot’s happened since then and…” He’d leaned in again and was nuzzling her neck, which made everything (heh) harder. “Erm. What were we talking about?”

  “Whether I would see you in your self-appointed capacity as my murder clerk—”

  “Oh my God. Never refer to me like that again. It’s co–murder clerk or nothing.”

  “—or my self-appointed bodyguard, or in the profoundly to-be-hoped-for capacity of a couple exploring social interactions to hopefully embark on a relationship.” He’d been gently backing her into the room until she could feel the bed just behind her. “It’s both, I hope. But if I had to choose one, I would choose the latter.”

  “Aw, you’re sweet. I’m not being sarcastic, by the way—that’s really nice.” I don’t share that exact sentiment just now, but it’s still sweet. “As it happens, I’m on board for most of it, too. But … we don’t know each other very well. Are you sure you want—it’s just, long-distance relationships are tricky.” Careful. Don’t get ahead of yourself. “Not—not that we’re in one. I meant in general. Y’know, statistically speaking, long-distance relationships are tricky. I’m sure there’s a study somewhere that’s gonna back me up.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “I cannot understand why you’re single.”

  “Well, I’m grumpy, I like having my own way, I used to gobble down sleeping pills like Tic Tacs, I hate my home state, I use humor and sarcasm to hide, and the miasma of death follows me around.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Yeah, that last one was just dumb. You have to put up with way more death miasma than I do.”

  He laughed. “You’re charming, intelligent, lovely to look at and listen to—”

  “Aw.”

  “—and you have an exciting and demanding job that only 0.002 percent of the population are qualified for.”

  “You looked up what percentage of the population are pilots?”

  “Of course,” he said, because … well … it was Tom. So: of course. “Further, you make self-deprecating jokes about being unintelligent or unkind, when neither of those things are true. Your flight crew holds you in high esteem. My niece, who does not take well to strangers, adores you. So does my bud, Abe.”

  “Ooooh, are you trying that? Bud? Is it because I called you his bud and Abe didn’t burst out laughing or throw up?”

  “Trial run,” he admitted. “My point: I feel extremely fortunate to have met you. I wish to see you again—and again and again and again—in a socioromantic capacity.”

  “All right, I’ve got questions about what constitutes ‘socioromantic’ which we’ll circle back to later. But you’re okay with this, even though we’re both weirdos who live fifteen hundred miles apart?”

  “You’re a pilot. Who better to be in a long-distance relationship with?”

  “You have won me over with your practical outlook and gold medal make-out skills. Let’s do it—let’s see if we can something-something socio-something. I’m not seeing a downside at the moment. Not a bad omen in sight.”

  Tom started to say something when the room instantly went dark. “Whoa.”

  Too late, she remembered the room was set up so that if the key card wasn’t in the slot by the light switch, the lights would go off after a couple of minutes.

  “We’re not reading into that,” she said in the dark.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s meaningless.”

  “Laughably so.”

  “All right. Just making sure we’re on the same page.” She gripped his arms and fell back onto the bed, pulling him with her. “And on the same bed. I meant what I said earlier. I never fuck on the first whatever-this-is. But I love kissing and I love your mouth and your hands and how you smell like clean cotton, so let’s do terrific above-the-waist things to each other for a while and then get ice cream.”

  “I think you might be a genius.”

  “That’s how low you’ve set the bar now? Hey! Ahhhhh!”

  As it happened, in addition to being a Gold Star kisser, Tom Baker was also a devastating tickler.

  Thirty-Eight

  Terminal C Logan International Airport

  THE LIST

  Sign suspension paperwork

  Return texts

  New vibrator

  “Sherry!”

  “No. Oh, no. Not you. Not again.” But she was smiling. “Seek professional help, Ava, and I say that as a pseudofriend.”

  “Back atcha. Gimmee.”

  Sherry sighed, feigned reluctance for a few seconds, then grinned and unfolded her cane with a snap of her wrist.

  “That always looks cool. You’re like Hela in Ragnarok.”

  Sherry, fake sighing, held it out as Ava put her sunglasses on. “Once again you’ve drawn me into one of your dark schemes.”

  “Oh, please. Like anyone has ever drawn you anywhere you didn’t want to go. Tell it like it is: we’re copranksters who occasionally team up when all the astrological signs align.” She let Sherry take her elbow and began tap-tap-tapping her way to gate C34. “There’s no way you can pin this on me. Well, not entirely. This prank literally doesn’t work unless you’re in. And you’re always in.”

  Meanwhile, various passengers were staring at Ava’s uniform and the white cane and looking degrees of shocked, worried, flabbergasted, freaked, amazed, dumbfounded.

  “Wait, she’s—”

  “Is that a—”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah, but … she’s a flight attendant. Right? I mean, it’s still weird, but at least she’s not flying the—”

  Sherry giggled. “You’re a cruel fuck, Captain Capp.”

  “Again: back atcha. Three gates to go.”

  “This is literally the bli
nd leading the blind. Except for the part where you have twenty-twenty vision. Did I just hear two people smack into each other because they were so busy staring at you?”

  “Us. They’re staring at us.” She raised her voice. “I’m so excited about my first flight!” Tap-tap-tap. “The simulator was great but nothing compares to the real thing.”

  “Hell. Straight to hell for you, no waiting.”

  “Us, Sherry. We’ll burn together.”

  “Again with this, you sick idiots?” Before she could turn, G.B. gave her a light smack on the back of her head. For a large man, he moved like a cat in socks. “What is wrong with you? That’s not rhetorical, by the way. I’m genuinely wondering what the hell your damage is. And Sherry! Complicit again! I’m disgusted by both of you, but you, Sherry … Ava’s hopeless, but you’re better than this.”

  “She’s really not.”

  “I’m really not,” Sherry agreed.

  “I can barely look at you.”

  “I feel the same way,” Sherry deadpanned.

  “Oh my God, this is hell.” He moaned.

  “Pretty sure we’re all going to hell,” Ava observed, handing back Sherry’s cane and taking off her sunglasses to the relieved sighs of various onlookers.

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point.” He focused on Sherry. “Are you getting off in Minnesota or going all the way to L.A.?”

  “The latter.”

  “Want to get a drink after we land? I’ve got nothing on at LAX until 0500 tomorrow.”

  “Are you going to pay this time?”

  “This time and next time.”

  Sherry shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Yes!”

  “He just did an actual fist pump, Sherry. In front of God and everybody. I’m appalled. Jeez, G.B. Play it cool.” The way she wasn’t with Tom. Hopefully G.B. wouldn’t pick up on the hypocrisy.

  “Why? It’s Sherry!”