Page 10 of Mile High Coach

Chrys calls me the moment I’m in the Uber, headed to my short-term lease in the city. The moment I see her name on the caller ID, I’m certain she’s felt the shift in the atmosphere, some sort of loud, universal pronouncement.Lovie did something impulsive and stupid, and it is clearly a cry for help.

Last night didn’t feel like a cry for help. It felt like, for the first time in months—years—my mind finally went totally, blissfully silent. My mystery man was in control, and he definitely knew what he was doing, which meant I could relax and just feel good.

It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to.

“Hey, I saw your location marker come back online,” Chrys says, when I bring the phone to my ear. Her voice doesn’t sound imploring, like it might if she actually felt a call from the universe. She sounds like her normal, slightly tired self.

“Yeah, just landed,” I say, watching the old brick buildings move silently outside my window. The city of Baltimore is waking up for the day. When we pass a bakery, it smells so good my stomach actually growls loudly, earning me a glance from the driver.

“It was a bit off schedule, right?” Chrys asks.

The storms delayed us, so we landed an hour after we should have. And when we did, I realized I was still cuddled against the handsome man from the night before, his cock already hard again behind me.

Shamelessly, if we’d been anywhere other than on that plane, I might have woken him up then and there, taken advantage of it. Taken one more for the road.

But instead, I delicately disentangled myself from him, shooting back to my seat as quickly as I could. The old woman sitting next to my original seat gave me a strange look, likely wondering how I disappeared for the entirety of the flight.

I’d ignored her and gathered my bag the moment the plane landed, turning into one of those people who stands in the aisle while waiting to get off. Normally, I wouldn’t bother getting up until things cleared out. But, then again, normally I wasn’t very anxious about avoiding someone in first class.

I just wanted to get out of there before I saw him again. Clearly, a man like that isn’t good for me and can urge me into stupid, stupid decisions. Luckily, I made my way off the plane, to the baggage claim, and straight to the Uber without seeing him once.

Now, my sister’s voice comes through the line, bringing me back to the present in the car. Outside the window, people hurry along, wearing messenger bags and holding steaming cups of coffee.

“Okay, good.” Chrys pauses for a moment, clears her throat, and says, “Dad already misses you.”

I bite my tongue, thinking about every awkward silence between us when I was a kid, even as I grew into being a teenager. Growing up in the Waters household as a Type A meant I was the only one who thought the way I did.

Chrys, Mom, and Dad were always a lot more flexible. Creative. Far less interested in STEM or making color-coded chore charts.

Finally, knowing I’d taken too long to say something, I go with, “Tell him I said hi, and love you.” I pause again, then add, “Does he know that I’m doing this for him? That I only left to take the job?”

The last thing I want is for our dad to think I’m abandoning him.

“Yeah, he knows,” Chrys says, her voice low. “But you know you don’t have to, right, Lovie?”

“Right.” It’s completely wrong. Of course I have to. Our dad needs the money, and I’m the daughter equipped to make it. That means I will come here, learn about the sport, cash in on this ridiculous salary, and send all the money home to pay for his medical bills.

Whatever is left over can pay for my IVF. And when it doesn’t quite stretch, I’ll just start putting expenses on credit cards.

The call drops with Chrys as we go through a tunnel, and I text her that I’ll talk to her after my first meeting. Luckily, the Blue Crabs have put me up in a historical building downtown. It’s not a very big place, just a studio on the second floor, but it’s enough for me, for now. And it’s fully furnished, so I don’t have to worry about finding an air mattress.

I look around as I wheel my suitcase inside, loving the large, square windows facing the water. If I squint, I can see it shimmering through the spaces between buildings.

There’s a little sofa, a TV on the wall, and a stacked washer and dryer. It’s the kind of clean that most people are okay with, but when I look, I see plenty that needs to be done. Many cracks and crevices are full of gunk and dust that should be taken care of.

It will give me something to do when I’m not at work.

I open my suitcase, take out my outfit for the meeting, and hang it in the bathroom, spraying it down with a wrinkle releaser before I step into the shower and steam up the room. By the time my hair is dry and styled, the pantsuit is wrinkle-free, and I step into it, feeling the surge of confidence that comes with a good outfit.

These suits have seen plenty of action. Back in Portland, after earning my MBA, I started working as an operations strategy consultant, first at a firm, then independently. I whipped businesses into shape, cut away the excess, made sure employees were trained properly and treated fairly, all while improving the company’s bottom line.

I made good money, but not the kind of money a consultant could make somewhere else. With the salary I had, I was able to invest in a few nice suits. I still wore these pieces of clothing that paid dividends in the respect that they earned me.

I’d need those suits in a place like New York City, with the big jobs and the big paydays. Coming here had always been the next step.

Until the accident.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I check my makeup—simple, neutral, natural—and step into my heels. My bag is packed with my tablet and my notes, and the car has been scheduled since the day I found out I had the job.

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