Fly Me to the Moon (36 page)

I sat there sipping my latte with what I hoped mimicked a thoughtful expression, and then I uncrossed my legs, leaned toward him, and, resting my elbows on his desk, said, “Hey Larry. Do you remember when we first started flying to Europe, and how you used to take, well, not just bottles of water, but also mini bottles of liquor, unopened bottles of wine, leftover cheese trays, rolls of crackers, and all those boxes of assorted chocolates that you lifted from first class? And how you’d set it all up real nice in your hotel room and invite everyone to come party with you? Remember that? And then that one time when you were too hungover to work the flight back from New Orleans, so we put you in an empty coach-class seat, gave you a pillow and a blanket, and let you sleep it off while we covered for you? Do you remember any of this, Larry? Or how about the time when you showed up forty minutes late for that midnight flight to Las Vegas, and you called scheduling from your cell phone, assuring them you’d been there the whole time, but just
forgot to sign in? And how we all vouched for you? Or that time when you sicked out during your Rome layover because you met some guy you wanted to spend more time with? Do you remember any of this, Larry? Do you remember back when you were one of the
very worst offenders?”
I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

“I could fire you,” he whispered, face red, hands shaking, eyes filled with fury.

“Go ahead.” I shrugged. “And then maybe I’ll take a little stroll over to the base manager’s office, have a little chat with Shannon, and see if I can’t take you with me.”

And seeing the panic on his face made me smile even wider. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said, though it sounded more like a question than he probably intended.

But I just sat there sipping my coffee.
Would I do that? Probably. Yet, why should I bother? Why should I waste my time challenging this dweeb to a duel? I mean, I am so over Lawrence, and I am completely over Atlas; so wouldn’t it be better just to walk away with my dignity intact, secure in the knowledge that while he may be the big cheese down here in the bowels of JFK, upstairs, where it really counts, he’s just another pale peon?

I lifted my ID from around my neck and dropped it on the desk between us. And when he looked up, his face bore a priceless expression of shock and fear.

And wanting that to be the way I always remembered him, I stood, finished my latte, and then leaving the empty cup on his desk said, “Good luck to you, Larry.”

Then I walked out of his office, and away from Atlas.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the back of the cab, and crossing the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, that I felt like I might throw up. What the hell had I just done? I mean, was I insane? Everyone knows that a debut novelist has no business quitting their day job, and now I’d gone and done exactly that. Taking my flight benefits, health insurance, and free Met Museum entry, and kissing it all good-bye in one well-executed yet poorly planned moment.

I shook my head and gazed out the window, wondering if there would be a SWAT team of Atlas supervisors all lined up on the other side of the bridge with guns drawn and ready as they directed me to put my hands in the air and surrender my wings, uniform pieces, and flight manual, nice and easy.

When I got to my apartment, I headed straight for the kitchen, and having run out of wine, champagne, or anything remotely festive (since I wasn’t allowed to drink while on Ready Reserve), I poured some Pellegrino into a champagne flute and sat on the couch, where
I listened to Hope’s message over and over again. Then I looked at Jonathan Franzen swimming laps in his tank, and thought how ironic it was that after working so hard to rebuild my life, I had no one left to share it with.

And after calling my mom, Kat, and Clay, and telling them the good news, I’d just poured my second celebratory glass of water when my cell rang.

“Congratulations!”

“Um, thanks. Who’s this?” I asked, recognizing neither the voice nor the number.

“Dane.”

“Oh, hey,” I said, wondering why he was calling and what he could possibly be praising me for. I
mean, it’s not like he’d know about the book deal; it just happened.
“So, congratulations for what?”

“Your two-book deal!”

“Oh,” I mumbled, wondering if Clay had somehow contacted him, since he was always trying to get us together.

“You don’t sound all that excited,” he said.

“I am, really. I’m just wondering how you know, that’s all.”

“I saw it on Publishers Marketplace.”

And since I had no idea what that was, or why he’d be reading it, I didn’t say anything.

“So who’s handling the deal for you?” he asked.

“Um, I am,” I said, while thinking
Here we go again.
I mean, he always made me feel like I had no idea what I was doing. I mean, maybe I didn’t. But, still.

“Do you have anyone to read over the contract?”

“No,” 1 said, rolling my eyes. Jeez, this guy was a total buzz kill. Couldn’t I just concentrate on being happy, and leave all the small print for later?

“Well, it’s something you should consider. Those contracts can be pretty confusing if you don’t know what to look for. I’d be happy to help,” he offered.

“We’ll see,” I said, shaking my head and sipping my sparkling water.

“So, any plans to celebrate?” he asked.

“Well, my friends are flying in from Greece this week, so we’ll probably go to dinner or something,” I told him, suddenly feeling like a total loser, despite my recent success. “And my mom’s coming into town as well.”
Lame, Hailey. Sad, pathetic, and lame.

“Well, what about tonight? Flying off to any exotic locales?” “Does the corner of Twenty-third and Eighth count?”

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “How about dinner? With me. Tonight. I’ll take you anywhere that’ll accept a lastminute reservation.”

I sipped my sparkling water and gazed at Jonathan Franzen.
Well, at least someone wants to celebrate with me. And even though Dane totally gets on my nerves, it still beats takeout. Besides, it’s just one meal, so how bad could it be?

“I know just the place,” I told him.

I could smell the rich aroma even before Dane opened the door.
“Entrez,”
he said, motioning me into his apartment. “Welcome to Chez Dane.” And when he smiled I noticed he was cuter than I’d allowed myself to remember.

“Nice dress,” I said, eyeing the stained and wrinkled white apron he wore over his faded jeans and striped cotton shirt.

“You remember Jake?” he said as the friendly chocolate lab hurried over to greet me.

I leaned down to pet Jake, patting him on the head and scratching under his chin, thinking how nice it would be to have a dog like this to come home to every day.

“So, I hope you like champagne?” he asked, popping the cork and filling two flutes, stopping just before the bubbles ran over the top and down the sides. Then, handing me my glass, he lifted his. “To Hailey Lane, New York City’s newest literary sensation!” He smiled, tapping his glass against mine.

“Uh, let’s not get carried away here.” I laughed.

“Don’t downplay it. It’s a huge accomplishment. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a book deal?”

I thought about the months of struggle, isolation, and self-doubt. And how at one point I’d been so desperate I ignored my better instincts and completely sold out. “Yeah, I think I know.”

“Most people are never offered a deal. And those who are work for years before they get it,” he said.

I remembered how I’d been given similar statistics when I became a flight attendant.
Only two out of every thousand applicants makes it this far,
they’d told us at orientation.
Now look around you and know that several more won’t make it through training.
“Well, I guess I got lucky.” I shrugged, thinking how funny that sounded. “Though it does feel pretty incredible. I mean this entire day has just been so surreal. First I got a rejection letter that made me feel two levels below rock bottom; then I got the call from Hope that sent me soaring so high I marched into my supervisor’s office and quit my job.”
And now I’m having dinner with you,
I thought, taking a sip of champagne.

“You quit Atlas?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Um, yeah.” I shrugged. “I guess I had no business quitting my day job, but, well, it’s a long story.”

He looked at me and smiled, but I could tell he was worried. “Hailey, I’d really like to help you navigate your way through all of this if you’ll let me.”

I finished the rest of my champagne, set my glass on the counter, and looked at him, knowing it was now or never. “Look, no offense, but what makes you think you know your way around any better than me? I mean, you’re not actually a writer, are you?”

But he just looked at me and smiled.

“I mean, I’ll probably just look it over, and if I have any questions, then I know where to find you,” I said, feeling bad about the tone, but sheesh, if this guy really wanted to be my friend then he was gonna have to stop butting in all the time.

“Sounds good.” He nodded, heading over to check on the stove. “We have standard boilerplates for all the major publishers, including Phoenix, so just let me know if you need anything.”

I watched as he checked under lids and stirred something in a pot as my stomach filled with dread,. “Wait,” I said, moving around the counter till I was standing next to him. “Why would
you have a boilerplate for Phoenix?
”

“Because I’m general counsel for McKenzie and Thurston,” he said.

I just stood there looking at him. I had no idea what that meant. “You’ve never heard of us?”

I shook my head. Once again, he was making me feel completely uninformed. But apparently I had a lot to learn.

“We’re a literary agency. You’ve been to my office, so I just assumed you knew.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I handled Cadence’s contract, and most of Harrison Mann’s—”

“And now you’re offering to handle mine,” I said, feeling so embarrassed for all those months of brushing him off and thinking he was arrogant and pompous, when actually, he was only trying to help.

“It’s up to you,” he said, reaching for the knob and turning down the heat.

“Well, if you’re good enough for Harrison Mann. . .” I laughed, feeling my face warm and redden. “But I should apologize,” I said, shaking my head and looking at him. “For blowing you off all this time. I guess I’ve just wanted this for so long, but I wanted to do it myself, without any help. And now that it’s finally happened I feel like I’ve just been invited to join some exclusive private club, only I don’t know any of the rules.”

“That’s where I come in,” he said, smiling and holding my gaze, making me so nervous I quickly looked away.

“So, do you need any help?” I asked, motioning toward the simmering pots.

“It’s under control.” He smiled. “But you can put on some music, if you’d like.”

I browsed through his CD collection, surprised to see we had such similar tastes. And after choosing the
Garden State
sound-track, I wandered over to some shelves where a group of colorful ceramic Mexican folk-art pieces were displayed.

“Where’d you get these?” I asked, lightly running my finger along the edge of a brightly painted animal that looked like a coyote, but I couldn’t be sure.

“I traveled through Mexico for three months the summer between grad school and law school,” he said, grabbing his wineglass and coming over to join me.

“What’d you study in grad school?”

“International affairs. Here, this one’s my favorite,” he said, lifting a ceramic piece depicting a classroom scene where the students all had horns and the teacher was sticking her tongue out at them.

“Oh my God, that so reminds me of high school.” I laughed as he looked at me and smiled. “Um, so where in Mexico did you go?” I asked nervously.

“All over. Oaxaca, Chiapas, Michoacan—”

“Sounds awesome.” I said, moving on to another interesting piece.

“Have you been?”

I shrugged. “A few short layovers in Mexico City, some day trips to Tijuana, a couple long weekends in Cabo—you know; all the usual haunts when you grow up north of the border.’