Page 3 of Fly Boy
Walking over to my bedroom window, I peel back the curtains. The early morning sun casts a soft glow of yellow across the tops of the neighborhood houses, and I watch as Rebecca hops on one foot, haphazardly dressed, angrily shoving on her shoe. She pulls out her phone from her purse, which she must have left downstairs, to call a friend or, presumably, get an Uber.
Lifting it to her ear, she looks back toward the house and glares when our eyes meet, her middle finger thrusting sharply in the air. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she storms down the pathway toward the quiet street. Thankfully, it's too early for my neighbors to be out to see the irate woman pausing and kicking the wooden post at the end of my lawn, the red mailbox wobbling on the spot.
I let the curtain flutter back into place, shaking my head as I go downstairs. The house is quiet, the soft hum from the fridge the only sound as I walk into the kitchen. From across the counter, my phone buzzes, dancing across the granite with each vibration.
“You’re up early,” I say in greeting, tugging the device from the charging cable.
“And so are you,” my brother replies.
Opening a cabinet, I grab my mug and pod, holding my cell between my shoulder and ear as I begin to make my morning coffee. “Considering I start every Friday at this time, that isn’t surprising.”
Slotting the little disk into the top of the machine, I press the start button, and it whirs to life.
“Man, your shift pattern sucks. Working the entire weekend, only to be off Tuesday through Thursday? What if you wanted to go away for the weekend?”
“Then I request the time off like everyone else,” I reply sarcastically. “I’m not the only one on Mr. Cartwright’s flight crew.”
“Could you not swap rosters? It’s just shitty that your workweek starts when most people’s end.”
“I practically work three days a week, Bowie. Turn around trip to Colorado on Friday. Back and forth to Lake Placid Saturday. Then another Colorado trip Monday morning. And the odd one midweek if Mr. Cartwright needs to go somewhere last minute.”
“That sounds so boring.”
“Hey, it stops me from going out to a bar every Friday and Saturday night to pick up women.”
“Instead of that restaurant you always seem to find them at? Y’know, the one that the owners only need to see you walk through the door, and they start making the same damn thing you eat every time you go there?” Bowie snorts.
“I do not order the same thing each time I go there,” I argue with a roll of my eyes. “And they do not know who I am just because I’ve been there a few times.”
“Whatever, dude. I heard they’re going to put a plaque on a seat at the bar dedicated especially to you.” Bowie barks a laugh down the phone. “So what happened last night? End up leaving with a dessert you didn’t order?”
Leaning on the edge of the counter, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I swear, sometimes I don’t know if I’m talking to you or Teddy. But yeah, you’re not wrong. I popped intoGiannino’sfor myusual,” I say, emphasizing the last word, earning a snicker from Bowie. “And didn’t leave alone.”
“I knew it,” he says triumphantly. “So…”
I blow a long and tired breath through my lips. “I think I might be getting too old for one-night stands.”
Bowie’s chuckle tickles my ear. “That bad, huh? I thought playboys like you never got too old for them. It’s like the Peter Pan Syndrome or whatever.”
“Don’t think that’s what it is, Bowie,” I say, going to the fridge. Lifting a carton of milk from the door, I turn it around and stareat the use-by date. “I can still use milk if it’s three days past its expiration date, right?”
“Sniff it.”
“I’m not sniffing it,” I balk. Closing the door with my foot, I pour a healthy amount into my drink before throwing the rest down the sink. “I’ll just hope for the best.”
“Why are you letting it expire? Isn’t milk like a fridge staple?” Pulling out a drawer, I grab a spoon and stir my coffee as Bowie continues. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re a perpetual bachelor, so you probably never use all of it anyway.”
I frown. “I’m not a—”
“Are you using yourWorld's Greatest Pilotmug right now?” he asks, and I pause, the text on said mug catching my eye as I bring it halfway to my lips.
“No.”
He huffs a laugh. “Don’t bullshit me, dude. You have two mugs; that one and one you barely use because it doesn’t hold the right amount of caffeine you like to guzzle in the morning.”
“That’s a—”
“And...” he interrupts again, his voice teasing, “you have, like, two of everything else. Two plates, two forks, two knives. There’s no wonder you never have guests, Wyatt. You don’t have anything for them to use if you were to feed them.”
