Page 60 of Cookout Carnage
Tristan looked out the window as the plane made its approach to O’Hare airport. Down there, somewhere, was Sherilyn Boden. He drummed his fingers on the arm rest, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.Job interview my arse. They’d offered him the transfer the moment he’d suggested it. This visit wasn’t about the job, it was about her. Nearly a year had passed since he’d met Sherilyn on the team call. Despite her junior position, she’d made an effort to make him feel included, was confident and conscientious about her work and was clearly liked by everyone. Since that moment the pain and pressure of a new job seemed to vanish. His motivation to get up in the morning was partly the challenge of work, but mostly his interactions with her. She was thoughtful, kind and funny. She made him laugh on a daily basis and inspired him to make her laugh. She had a spark about her that reminded him of his kid sister. But whereas Tasha’s look was currently blue hair, red dungarees, yellow Doc Martens and as many piercings as would piss off her father, Sherilyn never had a hair out of place.
Tristan frowned as he pressed his nose against the glass. Sherilyn was perfect. Far too bloody perfect for him. He’d only ever seen her from the waist up via a computer screen, but knew she had brown eyes from the company headshot he’d stared at incessantly. Her light brown hair was always tied back in a bun and her blouses were either white, cream or navy. Not that he’d made a note or anything. She wore a watch, didn’t paint her nails and didn’t appear to wear make-up, despite always looking flawless. If he’d seen her picture without knowing her, he would have noticed she was pretty, but wouldn’t have thought anything more. But when that face was animated by her personality, she came alive and so did he. Within a week at his new job, he was leaving the office at eight rather than six each evening. Two months in he stayed till ten most nights. By the end of his probation period, he rarely left the office before eleven. Fitzpatrick & Doyle had got an employee working double the hours they were paying for and couldn’t be happier. They thought he lived for the company, but he really lived for an employee in the Chicago office.
He shuffled in his seat, impatient for the plane to land. Normally, sweatpants and a scruffy old T-shirt would be fine for a flight, but in his first week, Sherilyn had remarked on how smartly he dressed and how she liked his ‘vests’, so from then on, he only wore a three-piece suit. He grinned. He had a lot to learn about the English language once the Americans had got hold of it. His waistcoat was a ‘vest’, his shirt was a ‘button-down’, his trousers were ‘pants’, and his vest was a ‘tank top’. If he turned up to the office wearing the British version of vest and pants, he’d be sacked on the spot. Nerves started to bite at him.Chill out. He was like a teenager with an overwhelming first crush, believing the object of their attention was the only person in the universe right for them. He’d spent the last eleven months trying to be cool, trying to act like he was thirty-five, not fifteen.Fuck. He was too old for her. She was twenty-six tomorrow. Ten years younger than him. He’d only found out her age by accident, when he’d joined a call early and heard her chatting with a co-worker. And he only knew it was her birthday because their line manager had invited him to join them for celebratory drinks. Sherilyn hadn’t mentioned this on the colour-coded spreadsheet she’d created for his trip. Tomorrow night was simply marked ‘Welcome to Chicago drinks with the team in honour of Mr Fawcett-Underwood’.
He ran his hand over his newly cut hair and sighed.Just fucking land.Then he could message her. He now had her phone number. A small victory, but it felt like winning the lottery. This was another way to get to know her better and see if she was interested in being more than just his friend.Fuck.Did she have a boyfriend? Was she even interested in men? Had he totally misread everything? Was she just being polite? Was he being a typical male presumptive arsehole? ‘Hey, I like you, therefore youhaveto like me.’ Ugh.
The plane landed with a little bump and his phone was in his hand. He stared at the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign, willing it to disappear. As they taxied to the terminal, pings, dings and vibrations sounded all around him as his fellow passengers got back online.Fuck it. He turned his phone on. It started buzzing immediately as message after message came through from Sherilyn. His heart soared as he started reading.
Hot Sauce: I hope you are having a pleasant flight and aren’t sitting next to a weirdo or an angry baby. Remember that if it looks like there are NO weirdos on the plane then it’s highly likely that YOU are the weirdo. Just putting that out there…
Hot Sauce: Remember that the food is FREE. You don’t have to steal it from the fridge in the galley. If you want something, just press the button over your head. NOT THAT BUTTON! THAT’S FOR THE OXYGEN MASK! Just kidding. Ha ha.
Hot Sauce: Hope you’re watching some good films. I’ve never taken a long flight before, but if I did that’s what I’d do. A movie marathon with deep vein thrombosis on the side because I won’t leave my seat ONCE.
Hot Sauce: I’ve been following the progress of your flight from my desk. It’s like watching NORAD’s Santa tracker online at Christmas. I‘m pretending I’m an air traffic controller elf.
Hot Sauce: I’m small but not elf sized. If I was an elf, then I would be described as vertically gifted.
Hot Sauce: Not long now till you get here!!!!! Everyone is so excited to meet you. Well, those people who know you are excited. Some more than others…
Hot Sauce: I’m not a crazy person. I promise. I’m just psyched to meet you in person. And I’m also really nervous you now think I’m a weirdo. I’m not a weirdo. I promise. Or an elf. Right, I’m going to leave you alone. Gotta go finish your activity timetable spreadsheet. See you in a couple of hours!
Hot Sauce: Tristan, I’m so sorry. I’m sick and can’t see you. I had to leave the office and go home. I’ve emailed you the itinerary I had planned. I’m so sorry.
Tristan stared at the phone screen as people jostled around him, gathering their belongings. Was this a joke? He dialled her number. After he was expecting it to go to voicemail, she picked up.
‘Hello?’ She was so quiet, it sounded like she was whispering.
‘Sherilyn, it’s me, Tris. Are you okay?’
There was a long pause before she replied.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
He pressed the phone tighter against his head, his finger in his free ear to try and hear her better.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sick.’
‘What kind of sick?’
‘I’ve got stomach flu. I’m not allowed to see anyone for forty-eight hours.’
This is not happening.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said, trying to sound casual as his stomach turned over. ‘I’d quite like an interesting illness as a souvenir from my trip. Better than a T-shirt.’
Silence.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked. ‘Make you chicken soup with extra hot sauce?’ He squeezed his eyes closed. ‘Can I see you?’
‘No, I don’t want you—’
He heard a male voice in the background, calling her name.
‘I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.’ The call cut off.
