“Of course, it does.” She put her hand on her chest, laughing. “You’ve got until the end of the week.”

GATE C40

JAKE

Present Day

Penguin Acquires $2M Rights to Meta-Fiction Account of Elite Airways Stewardess’ Steamy Affair with Pilot

—The New York Times

I stared at the black and bold headline—wanting to believe the words were some type of joke, but the accompanying article held no humor.

Gillian Taylor, formerly published as “Taylor G.” was quoted as saying, “It was a very turbulent affair that occurred between the two of us. And yes, we did risk a lot by being in some of the places we were together. But through the ups and downs, I fell in love with this man and I wouldn’t change anything about the experience for the world. Well, minus our own personal ending in real life, of course.”

When asked if the subject of her novel had any fucking idea about what was happening, any idea about the fact that she was about to tell this story, she gave a short, “No comment.”

I couldn’t even finish reading the article in its entirety, not when I managed to make it through her short bio that detailed her previous time in publishing. Time she didn’t even think to share with me on the night I told her everything.

Everything...

Here I was, once again, reading about someone’s actions in my life via the ink of the press instead of getting the words in person. Once again, I was used and quickly betrayed, and someone I actually loved became another disappointment. Just like everyone else.

GATE C41

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

I took a cab to Jake’s apartment around three in the morning, my heart unable to stand being ignored by him for another week. As the driver carelessly sped across the city streets, my anxiety rose with every click of the running meter.

“You alright back there?” the driver asked. “You like you’re about to vomit in my car.”

“I’m not going to vomit in your car.”

“You better not.” He eyed me through the rearview mirror. “I’ll have to charge you double for that. No, triple.”

I let out a sigh and kept my head turned toward the window, attempting to focus on the sight of Manhattan instead of my emotions.

When the cab finally pulled up in front of The Madison, I handed the driver a couple twenties and rushed right up the steps.

“Wait a minute, Miss.” Jeff held up his hand, not opening the door for me. “How may I help you tonight?”

“I’m here to talk to Jake.”

“I don’t know a Jake.”

“Mr. Weston, Jeff,” I said. “You know who I’m talking about. I need to see him.”

He gave me a sympathetic look and slowly shook his head. “He put you on his ‘Not Welcome’ list.”

“What?”

“You’ve been on it for weeks. I’m not supposed to let you in, and you’re actually banned from the property. Would you like me to arrange another cab for you?”

I was silent. I wasn’t even sure what to say.

Near tears, I took a couple steps back, but Jeff began to open the door for me.

“Hurry up,” he said, looking away and giving me a chance to rush inside.

I headed straight for the elevators, using the key Jake had given me to get up to his floor—hoping like hell it still worked. When the car began to move, I breathed a sigh of relief.

With every floor that passed, I attempted to calm my nerves, but it was no use. By the time I arrived to his level, I was an even bigger mess of emotions.

I walked over to his door and knocked five times.

No answer.

I knocked five more times, a little louder.

No answer.

I kicked at the door a few times—saying his name, and Jake finally answered, wearing nothing but a pair of lounge pants. Looking as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, water from his hair dripped onto his bare chest, and the familiar, intoxicating scent of his body wash wafted toward me.

“Thank you for finally answering the door,” I said, noticing the imprint of his cock through his pants.

He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me.

Clearing my throat, I glanced behind him, noticing the television in the living room was on and blaring loudly. “Am I bothering you and someone else on a late-night date right now?”

“What the fuck do you want, Gillian?”

“I want to talk.”

“Are you sure about that? Perhaps you mean you want to write.” He sounded angry, but I could see a world of hurt in his eyes.

“I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Well, can you step out here so I can—”

“Record it? Tape it? Use it for Turbulence Part Two? Or will the second novel have a different name?”

“I’m really sorry, Jake, and I really tried to tell you that night,” I said softly. “I told you it was important.”

“You told me it could wait.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You knew damn well something like that shouldn’t wait. Was that your motive all along? Was all this shit just a fucking project for you?”

“No, it wasn’t. I promise. I signed that deal when we weren’t talking for weeks, when I thought we were truly over. I don’t reveal anything specific about you. I don’t state your name anywhere and I—”

“You didn’t have to.” He clenched his jaw. “You didn’t have to give details about shit, Gillian, because guess what? Now you’ve got HR sitting every employee down and asking about how often we all fuck in-flight. What happens when they discover the other relationships that actually have substance? For the people without FCEs or million-dollar-book deals? What happens to them?”