And actually, I really do know how to play. You soak up a lot when you live in the neighborhood, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, I bet you know how to eat Sunday brunch like nobody’s business.”
“What?”
“Living on the Upper West Side. Forget it. I was trying to be funny again.”
“Oh.” I cracked a smile.
“I should probably give up my dream of starring in my own sitcom, right?”
I laughed.
So did he. Then he said, “Actually, I’m serious.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I really do want my own sitcom someday. Dream big, I always say.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, so I just shrugged and said, “Yeah.”
“But for now, I’m working entry level at an ad agency. What do you do, Beau?”
“For a living? I’m a production assistant.”
“What kind of production assistant?”
“You know that show J-Squared?”
“Janelle Jacques? Yeah, I know it. You work for her?”
“Yeah. I’m a production assistant on the show.”
“You’re in the industry?”
“The Janelle Jacques industry? You bet,” I quipped.
He was already reaching into his pocket. “Here,” he said, and pulled out a small pale blue rectangle.
“What is it?” I asked, though it was obviously a card. His card.
“My card,” he said unnecessarily. “So you can get in touch with me if…”
“If Janelle becomes a sitcom producer and is looking for somebody to star in a new show?”
He smiled. “Yeah, or if you just feel like, you know…”
I did know, and I again wanted to blurt out that I was in love. With somebody else. Some other Mike.
But we weren’t talking about love.
“…getting in touch with me,” this Mike finished with a shrug.
I felt guilty taking his card, but I did. I shoved it into my bag without looking at it.
“Thanks,” I told him. “For the card and for the drink.”
“You’re welcome. What time does your friend’s flight get in?”
“Any second now,” I lied, and looked around as though I almost expected to see Mike—my Mike—lurking behind a potted palm, spying on us.
Not that there were any potted palms in the airport lounge. Even if there were, Mike wasn’t the spying, lurking type. He totally trusted me.
Poor sap.
No, just kidding. I was entirely trustworthy. I had no intention of cheating on him.
Yet.
“Oh, my God…look at that,” said the guy with whom I would not be cheating on Mike.
Yet.
I followed his gaze up to the television over the bar, where a special news bulletin was unfolding. The room had fallen silent as everybody seemed to notice the television at once. In mute horror, we watched a passenger jet crash-land and burst into a fireball.
“Where is it?” I heard somebody ask.
“Somewhere in the Midwest,” came the official-sounding reply.
My stomach turned over. Mike was flying over the Midwest.
Calm down, Beau. Thousands of people are flying over the Midwest right now. What are the odds that it’s his plane?
“What airline is it?” somebody else was asking.
“Looks like United.”
I gripped the arms of my bar stool to keep from toppling over. Mike was flying on United.
“Beau…are you okay?”
I looked up to see my companion watching me worriedly.
“My…friend is on United, flying from California. What if—?”
“Shh, listen…” He reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly as the news bulletin proceeded.
I was too frantic to focus; I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I wanted to bolt, but I was afraid to move. I was afraid to breathe. It was as though the slightest movement could carry the tragedy home.
Still fixated on the television screen, Mike told me, “That plane was headed to O’Hare from Denver. Your friend was flying from California? Was it a direct flight?”
“Yes. But what if—”
“Do you have the flight number?”
“Yes.” Somehow, I managed to produce the scribbled information from the bottom of my bag, and handed it over with a trembling hand. My heart was racing and it felt as though a giant rubber band were compressing my chest.
Mike compared the scribbled flight number to the television screen, double-checking a few times before telling me, “The plane that crashed was flight 232. Your friend was on flight 194.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I could feel tears springing to my eyes. I’d never been so relieved in my entire life.
Then I remembered that I had just held hands with a stranger.
Shit.
Reaching for my glass, I drained what remained of my drink in one long gulp, thinking it might steady my nerves. I plunked the glass back on the bar, heaved a shuddering sigh and imagined hurtling myself into Mike’s arms in the near future.
“The friend you’re meeting here…is she a she, or is she a he?”
I looked up to see the other Mike watching me. It dawned on me that even in my panic a few moments ago—my hand-holding panic—I couldn’t bring myself to say the B word in front of him.
“Boyfriend.” I said it now, then spelled out for good measure, “She’s a he, well, he’s a he, and he’s my boyfriend. Not my friend. I don’t know why I called him my friend.”
“Maybe because you
