Flying Read online

Stella sighed, no longer interested in this drama, not wanting to engage, wishing everyone would stop staring so she could sit down and stop being some kind of rom-com heroine. “Whatever. Do you see the enormousness of the fuck I do not give?”

  He blinked rapidly, his chest rising and falling. Shit, was he pushing himself into a heart attack? She’d be forced to be some kind of freaking first responder, saving his life after she goaded him into a near-death experience. Stella cut her gaze from his and took up her carry-on so she could sit, praying he’d give up. Go away.

  “My son is dying,” the man said.

  Stella froze. Around them, there was a collective intake of breath. A sense of waiting.

  “He has terminal cancer. We thought he’d have another few months. My wife called to tell me they moved him to hospice care last night. He’s going. I have to get home.” His voice broke, but not in grief. Rage drove this man, evident in every droplet of sweat, every clench of his jaw, in his fists.

  She waited for sympathy. For empathy. It should have come, swift and sure, to her of all people after hearing his words. Instead, all she found was anger of her own.

  “Using your dying son as an excuse to treat anyone else like crap only makes you an asshole.” She spoke quietly because she really wanted to open up her mouth in a siren-strength scream. Because she wanted to shatter him with the force of it like an opera singer breaking a glass.

  “I just want to get home,” he said.

  “Sir?” The clerk’s hesitant voice turned him away from Stella. “If you step over here, I’ll be able to help you.”

  He leveled a stare at Stella. She waited for more anger. He shot her a look of triumph that turned her stomach so fiercely she thought, instead of screaming, she might spew hatred and bile all over his expensive, kicking shoes.

  Everyone was staring at her and pretending not to, and she did them all the courtesy of letting them think she didn’t notice. Instead, she stared at her feet so intensely she thought she might rupture something vital. She stared so hard she didn’t hear the clerk calling to her until the little old lady sitting behind her tapped her shoulder and pointed it out.

  Warily, Stella hefted her bag onto her shoulder and went to the desk. The plane had already been canceled, and she knew they were going to try to put her on another just as she knew she was going to be polite about whatever they offered no matter how irritated she was. The clerk smiled at her, and Stella managed to smile back.

  “Thanks,” the clerk said in a low voice. “For... You know.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry, but your flight’s been canceled, as you know. We were able to book you on a 5:00 p.m. flight and upgrade you to business class for your trouble.” The clerk smiled and again lowered her voice. “And for what you said.”

  It did pay to be nice to people. “Five will be okay. Business class is great, thanks.”

  “No problem.” The clerk busied herself with making the arrangements, then handed Stella the updated paperwork with a small frown. “Though, with the weather...”

  Stella put a finger to her own lips. “Shh. Don’t jinx us!”

  They shared a laugh. Five o’clock was a few hours away, and Stella didn’t feel like sitting at the gate for that long. She pulled out her phone and sent Tristan a text message telling him she’d be home later than she’d thought and for him to send her a message when he got in. Typically, he didn’t answer. She tried telling herself he was busy with his friends, that it didn’t mean anything, that the bad weather keeping planes on the ground in Chicago didn’t mean bad roads in Pennsylvania. It didn’t mean their car had spun off the road into a ditch or any of the other hundred bad things her mind wanted her to imagine.

  She found a bar the way she usually did, this one more crowded than usual. Probably because of the weather. People tended to seek out liquid refreshment when they were forced to wait longer than expected. That’s why she ended up sitting at the bar instead of at one of the heavy round wooden tables set with chairs that looked like wagon wheels. What the hell? Since when was Chicago the Wild, Wild West?

  The bartender looked vaguely familiar, but then they all sort of did. White shirt, black pants, black bow tie. He gave her a smile that made it seem as though he might know her too, but only if she was willing to acknowledge him. Shit. Had she slept with him? Stella eyed the dark, slightly too long hair, the crooked smile. It was entirely possible. Sometimes she couldn’t find a businessman.

  Of course she’d showered this morning at the hotel, but she hadn’t straightened or even blow-dried her hair, and she’d barely bothered with makeup. Just a swipe of mascara and some powder. Her lipstick had long ago worn off on the rim of her coffee cup. Her slim-cut jeans and oversized cardigan were clean and comfy, but in no way anything close to the outfits she would wear on her turnarounds. Even if she had fucked this guy now sliding a paper napkin and a bowl of pretzels toward her, even if she looked as vaguely familiar to him as he did to her, there was no way he was going to remember her exactly.

  Still, he kept staring at her even after she’d ordered her unsweetened iced tea and a plate of cheese fries. He wasn’t subtle about it either. No cutting eye contact or anything when she caught him.

  Finally, when he came over to freshen her tea, she said, “Do I know you?”

  The bartender grinned. “No. But I think I know you. Diane Lane, right? You were in that movie with Richard Gere.”

  “And The Outsiders,” Stella said after a pause. “Don’t forget that one.”

  “Wow! Wow, that’s right!” He did a small, shuffling dance of excitement.

  “I’m not Diane Lane,” Stella told him, half wishing she was.

  “No? You sure?”

  She laughed, giving him credit for trying...whatever it was he was trying to do with the comparison. “I’m sure.”

  “You look just like her.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, though sometimes she got Julianne Moore and sometimes she got Kate Winslet, “that girl in Titanic.” She supposed it was better than only being compared to Lucille Ball. “It’s the hair. We both have red hair.”

  “Huh.” He wiped at the counter, not looking convinced, as if maybe she really was Diane Lane and was just trying to trick him. “Well. You really look like her.”

  “Thanks.” Stella lifted her glass.

  The bartender moved to take care of another customer. Stella sighed and dipped a fry in the cheese sauce. It was disgusting, and she grimaced. Served her right for ordering junk like that in an airport bar. She should’ve stuck to the onion rings.

  “You don’t look like Diane Lane.”

  Stella turned to the man on her left, who had a whiskey glass in front of him that hadn’t been empty since she’d sat down. “Sorry?”

  “You don’t look like her,” he said. “Not really.”

  Half a laugh snuck out of her. “I wouldn’t mind if I did. She’s gorgeous.”

  He hadn’t looked at her when he spoke, both his hands wrapped around the glass and his gaze focused on it. Now he twisted, just a little, to settle his gaze on her face. It moved over her hair, tied in a messy bun. Briefly over her body. Then back to her face.

  “So are you,” he said.

  Heat, all through her, just like that. Stella opened her mouth to speak but found no words. Her breath hissed out like a slow leak.

  “I’m Matthew.” He held out his hand.

  She took it. “Stella.”

  Her real name slipped out without thinking, surprising herself.

  He didn’t seem to notice. He smiled. “Stella, can I buy you a drink?”

  This was far from the first time a man in a bar had offered to buy her a drink. She almost always said yes. But that was when she was someone else, some other woman with a different name and hairstyle