Can't Touch This (4 page)

The apartment is a conglomerated mess of surplus milk crates from my college days, plaid rugs and blankets from one roommate’s aunt in Nova Scotia and a Victorian couch my other roommate inherited it from her cousin in The Azores.  An eclectic mix of styles.  Shitty chic.

“Here’s that black shirt you were looking for,” William says, tossing it at me.  “I wore it the other day.”

William McEwan is twenty-five, like me, simply adorable, and is the typical fabulously clichéd gay best friend.  It is Boston, after all.  I met him at a bar literally crying into his beer about a relationship gone bad.  He needed a place to crash, so my other roommate, Mia Pimental, agreed he could stay.  Mia’s awesome whenever she’s around, which is never.  So, William and I have sort of become a “couple” ever since.  He’s the Will to my Grace, and he lands much more action than I could ever think of getting.

I look at him standing in the doorway, a waif of a man.  “It sucks that you can wear my clothes.  I thought I’d lost this shirt in the murky underbelly of my room.”

William cautiously enters and climbs over the gaping maw of my empty suitcase to plop a stack of clothes on my bed.  “I just took these out of the dryer,” he says.

“You’re the best, Wills.”

“And I accidentally dried this.”  He holds up one of my lace mesh underwire bras.  “I wasn’t supposed to, was I?”

I shake my head, take the flimsy material, and pop him on the behind with it as he runs from me.  He squeals like a little girl and I hear Mia pound on the wall to her room.  “Shhh,” I say.  “Mia’s studying.”

William stands outside my door—out of harm’s way—and fingers one of the two diamond studs he wears in his right ear.  “I’ve got to get to work soon, so if you need help, ask now.”  He works at Harvard University during the day and bartends at night at The Gray Gander (he calls it the Gay Gander) downtown.

“Wanna pack all this up for me?” I ask.

“Not on your life.  This room reminds me of the trash compactor scene in ‘Star Wars.’  I’m afraid something will pull me under.”

I throw a pillow at him.  “You’re a dick.”

“No, I’m not, but I do love them.”

I roll my eyes and then gather up another load of clothes and go down the back stairs to our storage area in the basement where we have a washer and dryer.  The basement looks like the one from the “The Blair Witch Project”—creepy as hell!—and I always expect to see someone with a video camera in the corner screaming bloody murder.  I hate going down there after dark.  I try to focus on kittens, bunnies, and puppies as I switch on the overhead light and pull the knob to start the water flowing into the washer.

Furry creatures hop and scamper out of my mind and a clear visual of Kyle Nettles morphs into plain view.  He looked so incredible walking down the hall at work yesterday in his Tommy Hilfiger slacks and a black button-down.  Images of those strong, masculine arms wrapped around me instigate tingly sensations in my stomach and below.  What am I thinking?  He’s a colleague.  A manager.  Someone I have to
travel
with.  Besides, no matter how amazingly handsome he is, he’s Jiles’ corporate lapdog and I loathe suck ups.  I can’t be entertaining fantasies of...

There’s a scurrying sound in the back corner and my heart starts hammering away.

Shit!  What was that?

I choke on my scream when I hear a shuffle behind me followed by a creepy Hannibal Lecter-type, “Hello, Vanessa.”

It’s our landlord, Dan Paulsen, a fifty-year-old work-from-home accountant with obsessive-compulsive disorder.  He lurches toward me holding a garden hose in his hand.

“Holy mother of God!  You scared the hell out of me!”

“Such language, Vanessa.”

“Sorry.”  The guy took three years off my life.  What did he expect?  “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Paulsen?”

“Just looking for this.”  He holds up the hose in an ominous I-could-choke-you posture.

At nine o’clock at night?

I jam my clothes into the washer, slam the lid, and take off for the stairs without a word.

“William!” I scream when I get back upstairs.  “Never, ever again am I going back down there.”

“Mr. Paulsen?”

I nod profusely.

William snorts. “I don’t even want to know.”

“I’ll never go into the basement again.”

William wraps his arm around me and escorts me back to my room.  “You won’t have to.  I’ll do your laundry from here on.”

The pounding of my heart returns to normal and I set back to the task at hand.  The hell with creepy Mr. Paulsen.  It’s all about my career now.  Impressing the boss.  And impressing Kyle.  Why did Griz put such thoughts into my head?  I’m not losing my job for flirting with the new guy!  I need to do a bang up job and prove they promoted the right girl.

Although flying makes me want to wretch into an in-flight paper bag, this Marketing Coordinator is ready for wheel’s up.

T
ed Spencer and
I share a cab from our Cambridge office to the airport.  Bumper-to-bumper traffic hampers our commute on I-93 south to the Callahan tunnel.  And I’m stuck with someone who can’t stop complaining about every single thing.

“This traffic is
retahded
,” Ted says in a thick New England accent, not even looking up from his Android.  “We should have left earlier.”

“We left in plenty of time,” I say.  “Traffic’s traffic.”

“I hate this town,” he mutters.

The cabbie just looks in the mirror and glares at us.

Ted’s typically an okay guy, but because he’s so into himself, it’s hard to like him.  Poor guy’s got more hair on his face than on the top of his head.  As the sales manager for The Compass, he’s one of those dying-to-be-a-millionaire types.  Always scuttling of to his cell phone to check online stock prices.  He’s quite pretentious, but then I’d expect no less from a guy with an eight-by-ten glossy of himself teeing off at some famous golf course on his cubicle wall.

Twenty-eight minutes later, we pile out of the cab at Logan Airport.  We get our boarding passes at the kiosk and check our bags.  Then, we slip over to the Samuel Adams Pub to meet Kyle, who was smart enough to take the T instead of a cab.

When I first see him in his blue dress shirt and baggy jeans, I feel like my tongue almost lolls out of my head and licks him up one side and down the other like a dog that has been without love and affection for years.  I need to stop gawking at him like this.  It will get me nowhere and I don’t need to be distracted while I’m representing the company.  As if my nerves aren’t already an unsettled mess at the thought of engine failure at 35,000 feet, twisted steel, and babies crying.

“Hey guys,” Kyle says when he sees us.  “I got us some seats.”

“Great,” Ted says.  “I need a beer.”

Maybe I can get away with one glass of wine.

As Jerry the Bartender hands over an eight-ounce glass of white wine he calls a “lahhhge Chah-duhnay,” Ted and Kyle chat as if I’m not there discussing a client issue they’ve been working on together.  I try to sip the wine, but the thought of the impending flight makes me take much bigger gulps that I usually would.  I signal for another glass of wine while the guys keep talking about the quality assurance we need to do for the customer.  I’m just hoping the ground crew here at Logan did
their
quality assurance on the airplane I’m about to get on.

“You okay, Vanessa?” Kyle asks.  He grins at me and then tips his beer in my direction.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

He nods and gives me a sidelong glance that somehow tempers my frazzled nerves.  As the wine settles into me, I grow calm knowing Kyle will be on the flight with me.

Ted slurps the last of his beer and slams the glass down on the bar much to the chagrin of good old Jerry the Bartender.  I down the last sip of my Chardonnay and signal for the tab.

“No, this is on me, Ted says as his hand moves for the bill.  “We’ll turn in the receipt and get reimbursed after some creative accounting.”

I specifically remember the employee handbook reads there will be “No monetary compensation for alcohol-related expenses while traveling on company business.”  Is Ted bucking the rules?  How come guys can do that and get away with it?

I pick up my things and follow my co-workers through the scrutinous security check, trying not to think of the thousands of germs on the airport floor that I just had to walk on in my bare feet.  Ted is randomly selected for a thorough search, so Kyle and I go on ahead to the gate.  The plane is boarding as soon as we get there and we quickly move to our seats.  I take my place by the window and let out a long, pent-up sigh as I look out over the wing.

“Looks like we’re sitting together,” Kyle stretches out in the aisle seat of row twenty-seven.  I notice that his hands are large and tanned as they rest on his thigh.  Not that I should be looking or making a mental comparison to other parts of his body.

That’s when the skivvies kick back in.

The small compartment.

The close quarters.

The airtight door that will soon seal me into this flying coffin.

I’m on an airplane.

Oh God.

My hands begin to shake and sweat at the same time.

I try some deep breathing exercises to try and calm my nerves for the impending flight.  The plane is abuzz with activity and energy of people making last minute phone calls, checking their texts and e-mails, or just playing a game.

Why do I feel such sudden doom?

A loud slam brings me upright in the seat and knocks me into reality.  My tingling nerves wipe out thoughts of anything other than faulty landing gear and malfunctioning flaps.

Should I warn Kyle that I might hurl my morning biscuit once this 737 starts rumbling down the runway?  I try to think of normal, everyday things like how much is in my 401(k) or if I paid the cable bill, to calm my frazzled nerves.  I snag the
Skymall
magazine from the back of the seat just to have something to do with my hands.

Kyle interrupts my inner musings.  “Sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk more since the company meeting.  Jiles kind of swept me away these past two weeks to teach me the ropes.  But, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Aislin.”

The products in the magazine fade into obscurity as I notice Kyle’s stunning eyes.  We’re talking traffic stopping beautiful.  Crystal clear.  I focus on his ultra-white teeth and that Hollywood smile of his.  The creased dimple on his face gives him an air of rakishness that hints to a rogue side to him.

 “That’s okay.  Things are crazy at the office these days,” I say.  Then, I breathe out and extend my hand to him professionally across the vacant middle seat.  “I’m Vanessa Virtue.  Welcome to DigitalDirection.  You’ll make a great part of our team,” I manage to get out through my sure-to-be-soon panic attack.

He takes my hand and shakes it slightly, yet playfully.  I relax into the seat and luxuriate in the warmth of our skin touching.  Damn, he’s cute.  Why couldn’t I have met him in a club when I was out with Griz?  Why does he have to be a not-for-consumption co-worker?  No way am I jeopardizing my job due to a set of sexy eyes.  I certainly don’t want the high schoolers in the research room to add me to their list of people they backstab and crucify weekly.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you to lunch,” he says, removing his hand.  I slump a little when he pulls away.

Did he just say lunch?  “Oh yeah?”  I try to wrap my mind around his words while the wine numbs my senses a bit too much.  Is he asking me out?  This can’t be happening.  Hasn’t he read the handbook?  “I simply adore lunch,” I hear myself say.

“We can talk just as easily now,” he says.

I angle my body in the seat toward his, as much as I can with the seatbelt on, and keep my mouth shut for fear of saying something in appropriate.  Talking to Kyle will distract me from my fear of this flight.  I’ll concentrate on the smooth texture of his face, letting it calm me.

He withdraws a battered legal pad from his leather carry-on.  “It’s essential as we move forward, that we set up a customer plan of action.  Tradeshows are a great way to reach out to our client base and let them know we’re the leader in the marketplace.”

Disappointment hits me like a Tae Kwon Do chop.  Kyle Nettles has Corporatitis.  Too bad.

I shake my head.  What exactly do I mean by “too bad?”  Obviously he
has
read the handbook and is keeping things strictly business.  Like I should.

Over the loud speaker, we hear, “Flight attendants cross check and prepare the cabin for takeoff.”

Lights flicker.  Doors swoosh shut.  The air conditioning stalls.

I can’t breathe.

I’m trapped.

There’s no way out.

I need that air.

Shit!  Now the plane’s moving.  Why didn’t I mention to Aislin that I have an unhealthy fear of flying?  Why won’t the wine kick in more?

I squeeze my eyes tightly.

Oh please, oh please, oh please...

Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.

“Are you okay, Vanessa?” Kyle asks with concern.

My chest is heaving like I’ve been underwater too long and I’ve just broken the surface for some precious air.  I dart my gaze to him, then look away, ashamed.  “Umm…  Yeah, sorry, the taking off part freaks me out a little.”  I swallow hard and look him square in the eyes.  “I have pteromerhanophobia.”

He smirks a little.  “Is that contagious?”

I take a swipe at him, but return my palms to grip the armrest.  “Don’t be a jerk.  It’s not funny.  Pteromerhanophobia is the fear of flying.  I’ve been tested for it.”

“I thought fear of flying was called aviophobia.”

I shake my head.  “My dad says it’s pteromerhanophobia.  And he should know.  He used to be an Air Force pilot.  Even took me up in an F-16 once when I was a teenager to help me get over it.”

“That sounds amazing,” he says.  “What happened?”

“I puked in the flight mask.”

Kyle politely covers his snort and laughter with his fisted hand to his mouth.

Why am I telling him such a gruesome and embarrassing memory?  And why hasn’t the pilot turned the air conditioner back on?  I’m turning into a huge ball of sweat and my heart’s going to come bursting out of my clothing at any moment.