Page 7 of Cockpit
“True.” It’s the best I can come up with.
More clicking of her keyboard. “What’s with his picture?” She must have gone to the contest site. “How has he been voted into the top twenty? The picture is taken from such a distance you can barely see him. He’s in a flight suit while all the other guys are shirtless. He has a helmet and goggles covering his face and everyone else is smiling big. Where’s the skin? Where are the abs?”
“Yeah. Well. Flight suit? Nothing says sexy like a rescue pilot. I guess the lack of a visual leaves it all up to the imagination, and that’s what some women like.”
“Rescue pilot may say sexy to some. I’m sure the dad part says hell-to-the-no to you.”
“I’m not that bad,” I muse as I turn down a tree-lined street, the perfect picture of suburbia with manicured lawns and bikes on driveways. I don’t think this neighborhood was built when I left, but then again, I was very limited in the places I ventured back then.
“Ha!” She exaggerates the sound. “A man tells you he has a kid and you leave smoke tracks trying to get away from him.”
“Whatever. You’re lucky I love you, or else I wouldn’t put up with this crap from you.”
“You do love me.” The line falls silent, and I wait for her to say whatever she has to say. “Look, I know you’re there because of me. I know you missed the interview because you were taking care of me instead of taking care of yourself. Thank you.”
“No need to say it, Zo. As long as you promise me to never see that bastard again, then I’m okay.”
“Done. Lesson learned. Moved on.”
“You good, though?” I ask, knowing full well how bruises fade on the skin but not on the mind.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you more.”
“Look, I’m almost there.”
“Let’s hope he has the je ne sais quoi you’re looking for.”
“Doubt it. I’m a hard woman to please.”
“Like I said . . . you’re a picky bitch.”
I pull up to the curb and park, a sigh falling from my lips. “You’re right. I am being a bitch. I feel like I’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since my dad gave me this assignment. I miss you. I miss home. I miss my bed—”
“Your bed is amazing.”
“I have no roadmap here. I work in an office with a bunch of people who aren’t sure if they should help me or hate me, and the only thing I know is that I can’t let my dad down. We’ve gained some publicity for the magazine with this contest, but it’s nowhere near where I need it to be . . . so yeah, I’m just exhausted and bitchy.” I laugh because I really do sound like a prima donna.
“Well, fingers crossed this Grayson guy will be the one.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck, and may your thighs be sore from clenching them together by the time you leave.”
I end the call and stare at the address on my GPS and then back to the same numbers on the front of the house. The structure sits back from the road. Its stone veneer is various colors of brown, and the veranda spans its length with a big porch swing to the left. The grass is green, the beds are full of blooming flowers, and a bike ramp of some sort sits along the side of the house. A pickup truck is in the driveway, and a basketball hoop is off to the left of it.
I take one more long look at suburbia run amuck and wonder what will be on the other side of the door when it opens. What will Grayson be like? His wife? His son? Will he remember me?
As I make my way up the front path, laughter floats through the air, and the distinct sound of pots and pans comes through the open windows. I hesitate for some reason, and then I knock.
A voice inside yells, “Dad!” More dishes clink. Then there is the vibration of footsteps across the floor.
The door swings open.
My first thought: what the hell? I’m met with an oversize silver colander sitting on the head of whoever is opening the front door. No face, just the rough cut of a jaw, the stubble on his chin, and silver holes hiding everything beneath it.
