“Can we sit?” Craig points to a metal bench overlooking the water.
They sit. Their knees touch every so often as they turn toward each other. Stella keeps her hands in her lap so she won’t touch him.
She wants to touch him so much.
“Look,” he says finally, after long minutes in which neither of them speaks. “I know this is one of those things that is supposed to be wrong. But it doesn’t feel wrong. Does it.”
He makes it a statement, not a question, but she’d have answered the same way even if he had. “No. It should. I want it to.”
For a moment, Craig looks unsure and sad. Then he nods, as though her reply has made something clear that had previously been cloudy. “Do you want me not to call you anymore, Stella?”
This is not at all what she was expecting. It’s not what she wanted him to say, not what she wants to hear. The thought of it, of never talking to Craig again...of never seeing him... This is when Stella can’t pretend anymore that this friendship hasn’t gone too far, and she gets up on numb legs to take a stumbling step away from him.
Her voice is far away and cold. She’s made herself an automaton. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
Craig looks stunned. Then he gets up from the bench. Neutrality slides across his expression, shutting her out, but she can’t let herself be upset. Stella lifts her chin. Tightens her jaw. Craig mirrors her stance.
He nods once, sharply. “Right. Okay, then. Well, Stella, thanks for lunch and...good...luck, I guess.”
“Goodbye,” Stella says, and does not offer her hand.
She watches him walk away from her, his back straight, shoulders square, but somehow, though not a single step he takes is in any way faltering, Craig is limping. There’s a moment when she sees herself run after him so clearly it takes her a minute to realize she hasn’t moved. Her hand’s raised, and Stella forces it back to her side.
She watches him climb the stairs to the sidewalk, and she waits for him to turn around, but he never does.
* * *
Hey, Stella typed quickly in the dark without letting herself think too hard about anything. Got your message, but it’s too late to call. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if you’re free.
She settled the phone back into the dock and wriggled deeper into her pillows and blankets, her eyes at last closing. She was just drifting off to sleep when her phone lit up—it didn’t make a noise because of her Do Not Disturb settings, but the glare tickled her eyelids enough to wake her. She already knew who it was before she rolled to check. But even so, she smiled at the sight of Craig’s name.
Looking forward to it.
CHAPTER NINE
Not all pilots fool around when they’re away from home, but this one is clearly DTF. That’s what the cool kids call it—Stella learned it from the Connex account she’s basically abandoned. Down To Fuck. Actually, the cool kids have probably moved on from that phrase now, on to something else she’ll have to look up on urbandictionary.com to understand. It doesn’t matter how it’s said, the man in front of her is clearly down for something.
This isn’t the first time she’s flown with Captain Truax, and it’s not the first time he’s checked her out when she’s boarded and unboarded. He has a wide, nice smile for everyone, but his eyes linger on hers when she gets on the plane. There’s recognition there, even though today Stella wears a blond wig in a chin-length bob. He’s seen her in all shades of blond before. Also brunette. She wonders which he likes better. Maybe he prefers redheads.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain says, and Stella smiles.
In the few minutes before they ask everyone to turn off their phones, Stella shares a few texts with Craig. She’d tried earlier to catch him in a call, as she’d promised, but missed him. Then he’d called back while she was in the shower, and then it had been time for her to get to the airport. She’s not sure how she feels about this new development in an old situation.
But she doesn’t have to think about it now.
Today’s flight is short enough that Stella barely has time to get through a few chapters of her book. She’s among the last off the plane. She pauses to pull up the handle on her wheeled bag, and while she does, Captain Truax passes her with his own carry-on. He stops when he sees her struggling.
“Need a hand?”
“The handle’s stuck, that’s all.” Stella steps aside to let him help her. “Don’t you have another flight to catch or something?”
Captain Truax, who stands at least six foot three, straightens. His teeth are very white. Very straight. “Nope. I’m off duty. This last little jump was my final flight for a few days.”
“Oh. Nice. So you’re going home?” They fall companionably into step along the corridor. “You live in Philly?”
“Oh. No. Just taking a little layover, do some sightseeing. Spending some time with my daughter. She goes to Temple. I live in Atlanta.” He gives her another grin. “How about you? You make this flight pretty frequently, don’t you? Travel a lot for...business?”
And there’s the problem with doing what she does. Being noticed. Recognized. She doesn’t want to talk to Captain Truax about why she’s in the standby seat every other Friday and Sunday. She doesn’t like anybody asking her questions.
“Yes.” Stella smiles but says no more, and Captain Truax doesn’t ask what it is, exactly, that she does.
“Have a great weekend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”
But it doesn’t take that long for her to see him again. Stella has also decided to do some sightseeing, mostly because there are sights to see in Philadelphia, and she always means to take Tristan for the day but they never end up doing it. It’s only a couple hours from home, but it took a plane to get her here. She’s picked Philly because it’s convenient and because one of her favorite bands is doing a show Saturday night at a bar downtown.
She sees Captain Truax at the Liberty Bell. He’s with his daughter, both of them standing far enough apart from each other to highlight the tension between them, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance. Stella, dressed casually, her hair in a ponytail, stands right next to him without him noticing her at all. She watches him try to woo his daughter into a smile, but it’s obvious that she’s not ready to let go of whatever traumas his parenting has given her.
The night before, Stella had found a much younger man who’d been totally amenable to taking her back to his apartment, if only she didn’t mind the fact that he had roommates. That wasn’t what bothered her as much as the dilation of his pupils and the too-firm grip of his fingers on her upper arm when he tried to convince her it would be the time of her life.
“I have a nine-inch cock,” he’d promised. “And a six-inch tongue.”
Stella as a blonde could sometimes be more easily convinced than as a brunette or with her natural hair, but something in the dent of his fingers
