My dress inched up my thighs as I neared the no re-entry zone, but I couldn’t waste any time trying to pull it down. I continued running, bypassing the moving sidewalks until I made it to baggage claim.

With a few minutes to spare, I slipped into a restroom and locked myself inside a stall. Unfastening my flight wing pin and nametag, I tossed them both into my purse. I pulled my navy blue dress over my head, quickly replacing it with a vintage black cocktail dress and a strand of faux white pearls.

Leaning against the door for support, I took off my grey heels and slid into a pair of glittering red pumps.

Frantic, I stepped out of the stall—nearly tripping over my shoes as I took my place in front of the mirrors. I blinked a few times and saw that my eyelids were still evenly coated in the “friendly light pink” that was mandated by the airline, and my lips were still stained in a dramatic, sexy red.

It’s good enough...

I yanked my hair out of its chignon bun and let the black curls fall past my shoulders. I ran my fingers through them a few times and rushed outside to the transportation dock.

Pushing my way through waiting travelers, I ran as fast as I could to the bus stop. I waved my hands frantically, screaming “Please stop! Wait!” when my bus began to pull away from the curb, but it was no use. It pulled off before I could catch up.

Ugh...

Cursing, I pulled out my phone and ordered an Uber car. As I stepped back to wait, I spotted a group of women pointing and staring at something in the distance. They were blushing like little schoolgirls, giggling as if they were catching sight of a celebrity.

I followed their line of vision, but all I could see was a pilot. The back of him, anyway. He was walking toward a black car while staring at his cell-phone. His fingers were tapping away on the screen, his four gold shoulder stripes gleaming and commanding attention. From the very way he walked, I could tell he was cocky as fuck—the type of man who thought the world revolved around him and him alone. The type who probably never had to ask anyone for a goddamn thing. As he slipped inside the waiting car, I strained to catch a glimpse of his face—knowing that there was no way in hell that he could be as attractive as these women were making him out to be. Pilots were typically much older, and they didn’t come in the attractive package. Only cocky, arrogant, and philandering. Mostly philandering.

“Are you Gillian?” A man shouted at me from the open window of a red SUV. “You waiting for an Uber?”

I nodded and he stepped out of the car, opening the back door for me.

“233 Broadway,” he said as he returned to the driver’s seat. “You’re going to The Woolworth Building, right?”

“Right.”

“Alright, seatbelt.” He pulled away from the curb, right into the warm rain of New York City.

The car’s windshield wipers squeaked as they swiped back and forth, as the crammed pack of cars outside honked at each other for control of the road.

Knowing it’d take longer than normal to get to Manhattan, I sent a quick text to my boyfriend, Ben.

Gillian: Just landed not too long ago. Caught an Uber, but slight traffic.

Ben: An Uber? Jesus, Gillian. I don’t know why you won’t just use my family’s driver. We really wouldn’t mind.

Gillian: Maybe next time. How’s your mom’s launch party so far?

Ben: Great. Anyone who’s anyone is here, no nobodies anywhere, and the press can’t get enough.

Gillian: Right...Are you still taking me to Hemingway’s after it’s over? I was serious about wanting to talk to you tonight.

Ben: Of course, babe. Whatever you want :-)

I didn’t text back.

“Of course, babe. Whatever you want” almost always meant, “Probably not” because Ben hated confrontation. He also hated the fact that over the past few months, I’d begun to painfully point out the numerous changes in his personality. Even though he refused to admit it, he’d transformed from the sweet, down to earth guy I fell in love with years ago into a man of appearances, a man obsessed with wealth.

The simple dates we used to enjoy were no longer good enough for him, and since we hardly ever saw each other, the burning passion we once shared was now a flickering flame. Our conversations were now short and redundant—downgraded to “How are you?” “How was your day” and “See you soon.” We were like two lovers locked into a complacent marriage—hanging on for the sake of holding on, constantly trying to get on the same page. Problem was, we were in two completely different books.

Sighing, I leaned my head back against the headrest. Before I could completely doze off, I felt my phone buzzing against my fingertips. A phone call from my mother.

I debated whether I should answer it since her previous twenty calls were sent straight to voicemail, but I gave in on the final ring and answered.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello? Gillian?” She actually sounded concerned. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for weeks now.”

“Sorry. I’ve been really busy with work lately.”

“You can’t be that busy.” She clucked her teeth. “I’ve even called your office phone and it just rings all day. Did your work number change or something?”

“Not to my knowledge. I’ll have it checked out by the IT department this week, though.”

“Good,” she said. “Anyway, now that I’m sure that you’re alive, I wanted to give you some great news you’ve missed about everyone back here at home.” She cleared her throat. “Amy and Mia are soon to be inductees in the National Health Science Hall of Fame. They’re the youngest scientists to ever be invited. Do you have any idea how proud that makes me? How good it feels when my children actually achieve something significant?”

I bit my tongue, now wishing I’d sent this call straight to voicemail without a second thought.

“Claire is about to be published in next month’s Scientific Journal, and your big brother Brian won his hundredth case over the weekend. How amazing is that?”

“So amazing....”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you wish you’d accepted that scholarship to MIT like everyone else in the family? Who knows who you could’ve turned out to be?”

“You’re saying that like I turned out to be a drug dealer.”

“Are you a drug dealer?”

What the fuck... “What? No! Why would you ask me that?”

“I can never be too sure when it comes to you.” She sounded dead-ass serious. “The way you dodge phone calls and whisper talk from time to time gives me pause, honestly. Not only that, but the fact that you’re still living in New York and never call home to ask for money is quite—”

“Surprising?”

“Disappointing.” She paused. “Either you’re too proud to ask us for money because you know we were right about you moving to that city, or you’re engaging in some illegal activities to stay afloat until they inevitably catch up with you. When it happens, I’m sure you’ll have to call and ask us to post your bail.”

I shook my head, unsure of how to address that comment. I simply gave her my usual, “I’m sorry for not picking up as often as I should. I’m still working fifty plus hours a week since we don’t have any new interns” excuse since it was the truth. Well, it would’ve been the truth six years ago.