Page 3 of The Disasters of Dating
“I stayed late, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to your ‘woo-woo’ horoscope talk.” She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m mold on a new block of cheese. “How you ever became the manager here is beyond me.”
There is so much to unpack in those few sentences, I’m not sure where to start. She doesn’t know how I became a manager? Try because I work my butt off. Not to mention I have the highest reviews of any other employee. And that counts the ones in the shop over in Terminal B, too.
Do I even get started on the ‘woo-woo’ comment? In two words—even if they are made-up words—Sheila has laid it all on the table. Not that it’s an accurate assessment. Sure, I read my horoscope and wear crystals—they are very pretty, if nothing else—and I might even dabble in chakras and essential oils. But does that make me woo-woo? I don’t think so. This onion has way more layers than that.
But, unfortunately, most people don’t take the time to find out what other layers are there. I mean, Sheila has only worked at the shop for three years. Three years! We never work together. We only see each other when her shift ends and mine starts. But apparently our five minutes together as we shift change is all she needs, to know the real me. The real woo-woo me.
CHAPTER 2
KEATON
Destiny wears a different name today.
Learn Chinese: ?? — Ni hao — Hello
Lucky Numbers: 12, 46, 3, 79
I grabmy messenger bag from beneath the seat in front of me and put it on my lap. I pick up the fortune from the restaurant at Logan International Airport that had fallen onto the floor and shove it into the side pocket as I wait for the people in front of me to clear out so I can grab my suitcase from the overhead bin.
I’m pretty sure if Evan were on this flight, he’d be flying first class—not coach. But he says that I have to earn that privilege. He doesn’t just give it out.
Earn it? Really, Evan? Doesn’t twenty years of noogies and wedgies earn a guy the right to fly first class? Besides, I’m the President of his newly formed company. Presidents of companies don’t fly coach, right?
I stand up and move my messenger bag into my seat. I’m by the window, meaning I have to stand in that awkward hunched-over position so that I don’t whack my head on said overhead bin. But the people in the aisle are moving, so I inch away from the window. The elderly man in the middle seat glares up at me. Apparently, he is perfectly content to wait until every last person is off the plane before he’ll even think about taking out his earphones. The movie he was watching shut off like ten minutes ago, but it seems the airline commercial is riveting, and he can’t miss the end.
I move to scoot around his knees because I’m not waiting for theplane to empty. I want off. NOW. I’m ready to get to my hotel and kick back. But not before I stop in the little airport shop and buy some gum.
“Excuse me,” I mutter at the old guy as I shimmy past him.
The man throws me another glare.
“I’ve got a connection I need to catch,” I say, to eliminate his irritation. It’s only a partial lie. I can count my Uber as a connection, can’t I? But the small fib seems to do the trick. His face relaxes, and he even moves his legs to the side slightly. I only feel a little bad about the lie. Does that make me a bad person? I just lied to my elder, and I don’t feel that bad. I think it might be one of the signs of a psychopath—if I remember correctly from my one gen-ed psych class. But I push that thought aside. I’ll analyze my psychological deficiencies once I’m at the hotel.
I shoulder my way into the aisle and grab my suitcase from the bin. As I lower it to the ground, I throw him a smile. “Thanks for letting me out. I really appreciate it.” It soothes my guilt enough. I hurry down the aisle. And not just to keep up the pretense that I have another flight to catch. I want to get off the plane...now. My knees ache, and I need to stretch them out. Plus, I have a terrible headache from the stale air/jet fuel smell. Sometimes it doesn’t bug me. But today, it does.
This is my third trip to Utah, but I have yet to see much of Salt Lake City. What I’ve seen has pretty much only been through the window of my Uber. When I come into town, I don’t stay in the city. My hotel is always close to where Evan’s new offices are. It’s in a place called Lehi. It’s supposed to be where all the tech companies have their offices. Every time I come, I swear this will be the trip that I do some sightseeing. But work always seems to get in the way. Maybe this trip—even though it’s shorter than usual—I can at least get out and go to dinner at a nice place instead of the fast food places near my hotel.
Either way, in an hour—hopefully less—I’ll be checked into my hotel and can relax as I go over the contracts before I meet with the building manager tomorrow morning. Then I need to go over some changes Evan wants to make to the plans. The four managers that have already been hired and I are housed in a small office until the floor we’re supposed to occupy is built out. By the first of December, we want to post jobs for the programmers and other office staff. It’s pretty much back-to-back meetings until Wednesday afternoon when I fly back to New Hampshire.
I rub at my eyes. They feel like sandpaper, and it’s only partly because the old guy on the plane knew how to turn his air on full blast but not how to direct it at himself. Like, who can’t figure that out? It’snot like airplanes are a new invention or something. Maybe they just didn’t have the air feature when he was last on a plane with Orville and Wilbur Wright.
I allow myself a long blink, hoping to infuse some moisture into my burning eyeballs. The old guy’s air blew on me for the entire flight from Boston. But I can’t blame it all on him. I haven’t slept great for the last few weeks. This is my first big assignment since graduating from Yale and coming to work for Evan. There’s a lot of pressure on me to get this right.
“Thanks for flying with us, sir. Have a great time in Salt Lake City or wherever your final destination is.” The perky blonde flight attendant smiles at me, and I wonder if she looks at all the single guys on her flights that way. It seems flirty, but maybe that is because my eyes are blurry from dryness. She looks like she is in her early thirties until you get up close. Then you can see she is likely pushing forty or more. Not that I’m judging. But I’m not looking for a relationship with a cougar—my dad’s words, not mine.
I step off the plane and hurry up the jetway to the terminal. I’d pause to take a deep breath, but the air isn’t much better in here. It’s jet fuel mixed with…what is that? Mexican food or Chinese? Maybe both? I know fusion cooking is a thing these days, but if that’s what’s happening here, I think they need a new concept.
It may not smell much better, but I do slow my steps a little as I near the little news shop about halfway down the terminal. There’s a cute girl who works there. I’ve bought a few packs of gum on previous trips—trying to build up the guts to talk to her—but it’s not gone anywhere. And it’s not on her. She has always been friendly—talking just the right amount. It’s totally a me problem. Man, when did I become such a chicken? I have never shied away from talking to a girl. But maybe it’s because this girl—her tag says her name is Poppy, which is a totally adorable name, right?—is not like any other girl I’ve ever dated. Or been interested in. There is just something about her…I can’t quite put my finger on it. But whatever it is, it’s turned me into a gutless wonder.
I step inside and start looking at the gum selection. Not because I don’t know what kind they have. It’s exactly the same choices they had last time and every other time I’ve been in here. The gum is strategically located where I can watch her from the corner of my eye without it being creepy and obvious. Okay, thinking back on that, it still comes across as creepy. But what else is a guy to do?
I lick my lips. They are so dry. It’s like my whole body has lost all ofits moisture. I hope I don’t look like a shrunken head by the time I reach the hotel. I slip my hand into the side pocket of my backpack and pull out my lip balm. I glance at her as I generously slather my lips. Again…that is unfortunate sounding when I replay it in my head. Could it be I am a creeper and just don’t know it? Maybe I’ll have to add that into my psychoanalyzing once I’m at my hotel.
Poppy watches me closely.
I straighten up a little, wanting to appear at my tallest. At barely six feet (with shoes on), I can use all the height advantage I can get. I mean, I’m still taller than most ladies, but not so tall that people assume I play basketball, which I kind of did for one year in high school. ‘Kind of” meaning I rode the bench.
I slip my ChapStick into the side pocket of my backpack because I’m pretty sure a guy putting on lip balm is not seductive. Like, at all.
