Love Connection (A Feel Good Romantic Comedy) Page 2

  “On the house, along with the free advice.”

  “All right. One ticket’s for San Francisco and the other one for Chicago. There’re two weddings today, I need to choose which one to go to.”

  A female flight attendant with long strawberry hair interrupts me.

  “Please don’t talk to me about weddings. Not today.” She plonks herself on the stool next to mine and says, “Mark, can I have a drink? Make it strong, please.”

  She’s remarkably beautiful. Tall, with amazing lips and flawless skin. But her blue eyes are filled with so much sadness.

  “What’s up with you ladies and drinking so early in the morning?” the bartender asks.

  “I don’t give a damn about the time,” the flight attendant says. “I’ve changed so many time zones in the past week, I’m not even sure if it’s day or night for me.”

  “Did I miss something?” Mark asks in mock shock. “Is I-can-drink-at-7-a.m.-because-I-have-jet-lag the new black?”

  “I just need something to calm my nerves and survive the day,” the flight attendant pleads. “Make it a shot, please. Quick and painless.”

  “What happened to you, love?” Mark asks her. “You’ve got a dark aura today.”

  They seem to know each other well.

  “The whole of Miami Airport almost went into shutdown today. An idiot started a fire, but the firemen caught it before it spread and everything was solved quickly. Otherwise, I would’ve been stuck in that swamp for the entire weekend.”

  “Oh, come on, darling. Miami’s hardly a swamp. What’s really up with you?”

  “Nothing. Is my drink ready?”

  “Give me a sec.” Mark starts fumbling with various bottles and a shaker. Who knew you could put so much work into a shot? “Aren’t you supposed to go home, honey?”

  “Too depressing. I might drink myself to death if I go home now. At least here you can keep tabs on me.”

  “Will do, but for now… here’s your drink. A pink starburst shot for the nerves.”

  I’m kind of jealous. My Sambuca, albeit with coffee beans, looks a little beginner problems-of-the-heart-at-7-a.m.-drinker next to the pink starburst. At least, I’m assuming the flight attendant is going through a heartbreak. Nothing else could drive a seemingly non-AA woman to drinking so early in the morning. I should know.

  Anyway, I don’t have much time to admire the pretty pink starburst. As soon as Mark puts the glass on the bar, she grabs it and drains it in a single swig.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “A little bit.”

  The vodka did add some color to her previously ghastly cheeks.

  “Is this dark mood about your professor?” Mark prompts.

  The word professor has barely left his lips before the flight attendant starts sobbing her heart out. She’s hiccupping one word for every two or three sighs.

  “Never… if… mine… engaged all along… wedding… today… she blonde…”

  Mark looks at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “You may have to repeat that, sweetheart.”

  I should be offended that my own wedding troubles have taken a back seat in the conversation, but this girl seems to be doing a lot worse. Plus, I could use a break from my ticket staring.

  “Tissue,” she pleads.

  Mark offers her a paper napkin, and she blows her nose loudly. After a few more sobs, she seems calm enough to speak.

  “William,” she says, spitting the name in a way that tells me she hates and loves the guy at the same time. “He’s been engaged all this time. Never had the guts to tell me until he was practically at the altar. Too bad men don’t wear engagement rings. We should shackle a band on their fingers—an irremovable one—the moment they propose. At least that way they couldn’t walk the world free to string along perfectly innocent, stupidly over-trusting naïve girls like me.”

  Ouch. She’s really having it rough.

  “Engaged?” Mark asks. “But how’s that possible? You’ve been with him… how long?”

  “A year!” the flight attendant wails. “Twelve months down the drain. Bam, just like that. A year of my life, wasted. I was already seeing him as the father of my unborn babies, and he’s probably going to make one with another woman. Tonight!” If she were a cat, she’d be wheezing. “He always said he couldn’t stay in New York for the weekends. Remember how he always flew back to London the minute his last class of the week ended? It was because he had a fiancée to go back to. And she’s blonde.”

  “Do we hate her?”

  “No, we don’t hate her. She doesn’t have any fault in this. She’s getting married to a lying, cheating, sorry excuse for a man, and she doesn’t have a clue.”

  “Don’t you think she should have a clue? It sounds to me as if she’s marrying a man she doesn’t know. How could she not suspect anything?”

  “Same applies to me. I didn’t suspect anything. I didn’t have the slightest clue. Believe me, he’s that good.”

  “Esther, I’m so sorry,” Mark says. “I thought the professor was The One.”

  “Me too.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “The bastard told me. Two weeks ago. He just said it: ‘I’m sorry, I’m getting married in two weeks. I thought I’d have the strength to call it off, but I don’t. I love you, but I can’t see you anymore.’ That’s what he had the guts to tell me. More or less. In one awkward conversation, I was gone from his life.”

  “But you really never had a teeny tiny suspicion? Didn’t you check his Facebook profile?”

  “He doesn’t use Facebook. He says it wouldn’t be dignified for a professor.”

  “Ah, never trust a guy who doesn’t have a Facebook profile.”

  What a bastard. How can anyone do something like that? Why get married if you’re already cheating? It doesn’t make sense. It’s like adding Mexican chili peppers to a dish when you can’t digest spicy food.

  “And he said he loved you.”

  Esther nods.

  “Do you think he was lying?”

  “The worst part is that I’m almost sure he wasn’t.”

  “But, darling, this whole story doesn’t make sense. If he says he loves you, why would he go get married to another woman?”

  “He said he’s been with her for a long time. He said he tried to call it off, but every time he was about to tell her, he panicked. In the end, he said he just couldn’t do it. So today, he’s marrying her in Chicago. She’s from a small town nearby. I Googled her. She does have Facebook. Her name’s Amelia. She’s blonde and beautiful. And today she’s going to become Mrs. William Reilly.”

  Amelia and William Reilly. As she says the names, a bolt of electricity runs through me. Amelia, my blonde best friend, is getting married today in Chicago to William Reilly. He’s a professor at London Business School. He also has a job at Columbia University where he teaches Financial Markets one week every month. And he doesn’t use Facebook because he thinks it wouldn’t be dignified for a scholar. It’s one coincidence too many.

  I try to stay calm and not show the shock on my face when I oh-so-casually butt in.

  “What did you say this guy, the professor, taught?” I ask.

  The bartender and the girl turn toward me as if they’ve both just remembered I’m here.

  “Excuse me. Who are you?” the flight attendant asks, unable to keep the hostility from her voice.

  “Gemma Dawson, nice to meet you,” I say with a warm smile. “I apologize for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

  “Esther Porter.” She offers a manicured hand, which I shake. “And I should apologize. I’m being rude for no reason.”

  “Mark Cooper,” the bartender chips in.

  We do an awkward round of nice-to-meet-yous.

  “Why did you want to know what he teaches?” Esther asks. “What difference does it make?”

  Since I can’t exactly tell her t
he truth, I blab the first excuse that comes to my mind. “I read this study once, which said people who work with numbers—finance people in particular—have a tendency to live duplicitous lives.” I can’t believe the load of crap that’s exiting my mouth. But I need to know for sure if she’s talking about Amelia’s William.

  “That’s absolutely true!” Mark exclaims. “Didn’t your professor teach Financial Markets at Columbia?”

  “Yeah,” Esther confirms. “I’m glad to know there’s a clinical explanation for his being a cheating, double-crossing bastard.”

  My heart sinks. How many William Reillys commuting from London to New York to teach Financial Markets at Columbia could there be? Just one, I’m afraid.

  “All passengers. Flight UA 730, with destination San Francisco, is beginning boarding at gate B 25. We’re going to start boarding families with small kids and passengers with special needs. Then, we’re going to board first and business class passengers. And finally all other passengers…”

  I hear the announcement for the San Francisco flight and my heart plummets. I can’t go. I can’t abandon Amelia and let her marry that scum. If I needed a clearer sign Jake and I aren’t meant to be together, this is it. I’m not going to San Francisco; I’m not stopping his wedding. I feel my heart break in my chest and I lean on the bar countertop for support.

  “Are you okay?” Mark asks me. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I just need to use the restroom. How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

  “Everything?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” he says with a big smile. “Hey, we never finished our chat about those plane tickets.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I tell him, tearing the ticket for San Francisco in two and throwing it in the bin at the end of the bar. “The universe just decided for me. Thanks again.” I wave goodbye to Mark and turn toward Esther. “I know it’s not much, but I hope you’ll find someone who deserves you.”

  “Thank you,” she sighs. “Have a safe trip.”

  I wave goodbye again, grab my hand luggage and shuffle away from the bar toward the screens with the Departures information.

  “This is the last call for Flight UA 730, with destination San Francisco. All passengers please go to gate B 25 for boarding. The gate will be closing in five minutes. I repeat, this is the last call for flight UA 730 with destination San Francisco.”

  Hearing the announcement is like having a jackhammer pointing to my chest and digging into my heart. It’s shattering everything it finds in its way, leaving nothing behind. Just a giant empty hole. I’m letting Jake go, I realize with a flip of my stomach. I wipe a single tear from my cheek and stare at the screen, shaking the heartbreak away. I don’t have time to mourn the loss of the love of my life right now; I have a job to do. There will be plenty of time to cry later—like, the rest of my life.

  Right. I stare at the panel. The flight for Chicago departs from Gate A 47. I head there. While I walk, I take out my phone and search on Google for the phone number of Columbia University. Before I crash into Amelia’s wedding screaming, “He’s a cheater!” I need to have my facts straight.

  After some pushing around of privacy laws, I finally manage to speak directly with the Business Department Dean. He confirms that only one William Reilly teaches Financial Markets at Columbia and commutes from London once a month.

  I sit on a plush chair at the gate and text Amelia to tell her I’ll make it to her wedding. I tell her to wait for me at all costs before she starts the ceremony. She texts back a shower of smiling emoticons and I can’t help but feel miserable for being about to ruin her life. Only, I’m not the one ruining her life. The bastard is. Right. I’m saving her from living unhappily ever after. This is the attitude I need to keep for the rest of the day. There’s no way stopping her wedding isn’t the right thing to do. She will understand. She has to. I just hope she’s not going to hate me for it. I was never a believer in, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Three

  Speak Now

  ♥♥♥

  Saturday, June 10—New York, JFK Airport

  “Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’m glad to inform you we’re about to take off. The weather’s clear today and we should be able to land in San Francisco right on time. I wish you a pleasant flight.”

  I relax back in my seat, relieved to hear we’re on-schedule. I don’t have much of a buffer as it is—if I want to get to the winery before the ceremony starts, everything needs to go smoothly. I just wish I weren’t trapped on a plane for six hours with only my crazy thoughts to keep me company. My body might start a rebellion. I haven’t slept in a day, and the idea of crashing Jake’s wedding is pumping so much adrenaline in me, I’m ready to explode. I feel worse than a beer can in an automatic shaker. I grab the armrest as the plane gathers speed on the runway and takes off.

  As soon as the seatbelt sign switches off, I fish in my bag for a notepad and a pen. I like to organize my thoughts in writing. When I have a speech to give, I always prefer to follow a script. Speaking off the cuff makes me nervous, so I start jotting down some marry-me-instead speech ideas.

  Dear Jake,

  Mmm, I’m not really writing a letter, though.

  Jake,

  Yeah, that’s better. A strong, assertive start.

  Jake,

  I’ve known you my entire life and I’ve been in love with you for most of my adult life.

  Adult life? Who says adult life? It’s not romantic enough. I need to remind myself I’m not writing a harangue but an undying love declaration.

  Jake,

  I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy…

  Overkill? Maybe I should keep it simpler and less cheesy.

  Jake,

  Ditch the biatch and marry me instead!

  Short, concise, says all one needs to know. Pity I can’t really use it.

  ***

  By the time we land in San Francisco, I’ve reached speech draft number eighteen and I’ve still no clue what I’m going to say to Jake. On the other hand, my brain’s positively fried. As I don’t have to claim any luggage—I’m traveling light—I head straight to the car rental to pick up my car.

  At the concierge there’s a bit of a line—five people before me in total. Damn. I hate waiting in line. Especially after the traveling and lack of sleep. I hope all the good cars won’t be gone by the time my turn arrives. The clerk seems a super slow and fastidious one. It takes her forty-five minutes to sort through the customers before she finally gets to me.

  “Good morning. I need your name, driving license, and credit card, please.”

  “I’m Gemma Dawson; I’ve made an online reservation.”

  “Yes, I have your booking in the server for a three day rental. Is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Just a second.” She types away at her keyboard. “Would you like to add insurance, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right, your credit card has already been charged for the rental amount when you booked online. I’ll add insurance and charge a deposit fee of five hundred dollars. The deposit won’t be withdrawn from your account, but it’ll be on hold, meaning it won’t be available for you to spend. Once you return the car, the amount will be made available to you in two business days to a week. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Deposit, plus insurance, plus the rental itself, plus the plane tickets. These will max out my credit card. I should have brought more cash.

  “Okay, the credit card’s taken care of. You can have it back.” She slides it across the counter. “I just need to input the last few details for the insurance…”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh? What is she oh-ing about? I want ‘very well’ or ‘here are your keys’, not �
��oh.’

  “Is there a problem?” I ask, on edge. This is taking way too long.

  “I’m afraid so, madam. I apologize; I should’ve checked before. Your driver’s license appears to have expired.”

  “What do you mean, ‘expired’? That’s impossible!”

  “Madam, it says here it expired a month ago.”

  I check the expiration date. “Oh, gosh!” My palms get clammy at once.

  “Have you been driving with this?”

  “No, no. I live in London. Nobody drives there.”

  “A U.K. driving license would be fine too.”

  “I don’t have a U.K. driving license; I’d never be able to drive on the wrong side of the road with no casualties.”

  “If you don’t have a valid license, I can’t rent you a car.”

  “But I need to go to Napa! How will I get there without a car?”

  Why is this happening to me? Today of all days.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a cab outside. It shouldn’t cost you more than the rental. I’ll need your credit card back to issue a refund.”

  “Here.” I take the card out of my wallet and pass it to her.

  A minute later, she hands it back. “The refund has been issued and the funds will be available to you in two business days to a week.”

  “Two business days?” I exclaim, bewildered. “You mean to say that my card’s still maxed out?”

  “If today’s charge maxed it out, yes. It will stay that way until Tuesday at the very least.”

  “Can’t you issue a refund in cash?”

  “No, madam, we’re not an A.T.M.”

  “So now I don’t have a car, and you’ve taken the money to pay for the cab. What am I supposed to do?”

  “There’s a train to the city, and I’m sure you’ll be able to find a bus to Napa, but we’re not a tourist office. Now, I kindly need you to step aside so I can serve our next customer. Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” I say. Rot in hell, I think.

  ***

  Two trains, three busses, and four hours later I finally arrive in Yountville, the town in Napa where my final bus stops. With all the connections, I barely managed to close my eyes for half an hour here and there. I’m exhausted. But I’m not giving up. I’m a woman on a mission.