Page 107 of Burning for You
Levi
The captain announces the overview of the flight ahead, saying that Bozeman is sunny, seventy-five degrees. I stretch my neck to catch a glimpse of the business class section. My Wing Girl isn’t with me, and I’m feeling like a man who’s been transported off Earth and dropped onto a strange planet. Maybe I shouldn’t leave, after all.
“Mr. Holt?” A stewardess approaches, and then raises her eyes to check my seat number.
“Yes?”
She hands me an envelope. “For you.”
Z. Moss
The Street Messenger
I almost don’t want to touch it, as if afraid it contains anthrax powder.
As the crew prepares for take-off, I brace myself to open the envelope. I peep inside.
Photos.
Photos.
And more photos.
* * *
I wasspotted checking in solo at La Guardia Airport, and rumors about my break-up with Carolyn have been dominating the entertainment magazines and papers. I’ve anticipated them, but the news about her pregnancy has become even more rampant, with growing speculation that the baby is Mendez’s—after photographs of Carolyn and him in front of a women’s clinic emerged.
The envelope Zac Moss sent to me is still in my suitcase. I haven’t had the courage to see what those photos are of, exactly. Although deep down, I know.
Jesse hands me a beer. “Why are you doing that to yourself?” he says, glancing at my phone.
“I’m just checking her flight status,” I reply, despite the fact that her flight doesn’t depart until tomorrow morning.
“Aren’t you happy that she’s coming?” Jesse frowns. “Wanna be a bachelor for a while longer, huh?”
“Of course I’m happy she’s coming!” I scowl at him.
“You look like a fucking piece of coal.” He takes another big gulp of his beer. “Still worried about that Mendez bitch? Hell, you and I can be spotted in front of an STD clinic. What’s so special about that?”
I wish I had his brain—the world would be a better place.
I fiddle with the pull tab of my beer can, filling the room with clicks every two or three seconds.
“Stop that,” Jesse protests.
Sighing, I abandon the can and pick up my phone again. This time I’m scouring through weather reports and any possibilities of delays or cancellation. I’m exhausted just by counting down the hours.
Jesse gets up, likely to get another beer. When he passes me by, he pats my shoulder, “She’ll be here. Have faith in American Airlines.”
My brother comes back with a bottle of rum in hand and an unlit cigarette clipped between his lips.
“Jesus, Jesse, you really need to take it easy on those.” He had left rehab a week early, and since I came back, he’s been chain-smoking and drinking morning, noon and night.
“The art of distraction,” he says. “I’m not cured of my coke craving, man. These things make it all more manageable.”
“Just don’t try to kill yourself again.”
“Can’t fucking promise you that.” He lights up his cigarette.