The Flight Attendant(22)

Buckley lifted her hands and kissed her fingertips.

“So,” she said. “Are we going to my place or yours?”



* * *



? ?

In the morning she awoke and saw a strip of the Empire State Building through the vertical blinds of her bedroom window. She sensed Buckley beside her in bed, and for a moment she held her breath to listen. She recalled initiating their retreat to his place or hers at the bar, viewing it as a dare of sorts: regardless of where they wound up, she wanted to see if she had become some sort of alcoholic assassin as forty neared, and suddenly she was killing the men with whom she slept. It had been a private challenge of sorts, a deliberate provocation of the soul.

He exhaled and she felt him move, and a little wave of relief left her momentarily giddy. He reached his arm across her hips and belly and pulled her against him.

“Good morning,” he murmured. “But don’t roll over. I have a feeling I have serious morning breath. Serious hangover breath.”

“I probably do, too,” she said, and rose to get them both Advil. She knew he was watching her.

“You’re beautiful naked,” he said.

“I’m glad you think so.”

In the bathroom mirror she looked at the red lines in her eyes and the bags below them. She didn’t feel beautiful. But at least this hangover was a piker compared to the one that had welcomed the morning after in Dubai. She wondered if Buckley would want to go to brunch. She rather hoped not. She liked him, but she really wasn’t hungry. The fact was, she was almost never all that hungry. After years of boozing it up, it was as if her body craved its calories from alcohol. There was a reason she was likely to have canned soup and stale crackers for dinner.

She considered bringing him two or three of the red pills, but then wondered if he was similar to her and downed them like peanuts or the sort who followed the instructions on the label and would begin with just one. So she brought the whole bottle along with a glass of water. She opened the blinds and squinted at the way the cone of the New York Life Building shimmered in the sun, and then crawled back under the sheets. She watched a plane as it crossed the skyline outside her window, flying north before banking east to LaGuardia.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sound sad.”

“One syllable gave all that away? Nah. Just not hungry.”

She heard him put the glass and the bottle down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“When you’re in Germany, do you ever begin the day with eggs in mustard sauce?”

“No. Never. And what in the name of God made you think of Germany just now?”

“You were in Berlin yesterday.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re a fan of eggs.”

“Not with mustard.”

“They’re hard-boiled. And delicious,” he insisted. Then: “I like your apartment.”

She wished she could will into existence the woman she had been last night. The one who danced barefoot and made this very gentle actor happy. The one who wasn’t repulsed by the idea of brunch and his hints about eggs and food. But that person didn’t exist in the morning. Most of the time, that person didn’t exist sober. It was almost fascinating how rapidly her resolve not to drink could dissipate: it was like the thin coat of ice on a Kentucky pond in late January, there one day and just gone the next. And yet she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t drink today. That wasn’t how it worked for her. She’d send Buckley on his way, go to the animal shelter and nurture the depressed cats—the new arrivals that had just been deserted by their owners for one reason or another and were shocked to be living in a cage in a loud, strange world—and then finish the day at the gym. Tonight she would cocoon, her body clock happily adjusted once again to Eastern Daylight Time. She would read and she would watch TV. She would see no one tonight. She would be fine. She had until Tuesday here. Then, with a crew full of strangers—not even Megan and Shane would be on the plane—she would fly to Italy. The August routes she had bid on were Rome and Istanbul. Both were direct flights from JFK. No Dubai.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked. She needed to scare him away to get on with her day and, more importantly, with her life.

“Sure. But this sounds ominous. Will it be as sad as all that melted ice cream?”

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t know yet what I’m going to tell you.”

“Wow. It sounded like you had something in mind. Usually when a person begins, ‘Can I tell you something?’ they’re thinking of some pretty specific revelation or pretty specific bit of news.”

She was still on her side. She brought her knees closer to her stomach and rested her hands together under the pillow as if she were praying. “I was just thinking about my day and what I’m going to do this afternoon. The main thing is I’m going to the animal shelter. I love the shelter. I go when I’m home because my mother wouldn’t let me have pets as a girl, and now I’ve managed to pick a career where I travel too much to have one—at least in good conscience.”

A moment ago, he had sat up to swallow the Advil and drink the water. She imagined if she rolled over, she would see he was watching her. Perhaps he was propped up on his elbow, looking down at her.