Page 20 of Flying

I add ‘check passport expiration date’ to my to-do list, then ‘find passport’ on the next line.

Score! An email from the former client who has to cancel or reschedule 99.9 percent of the time.He’s already aware that I don’t think his wife and daughters want my services, but he keeps shelling out the 75 percent deposit anyway. Honestly, that sounds like a perfect situation so I quickly send a reply, with a heads up that my prices were raised due to completing a new training. I hear my phone vibrate against the other items in my bag, and take a look.

River:

BTW this is River

Oh no, oh no.I type out a reply without overthinking, but possibly over speaking.

Lily:

We exchanged numbers three days ago, I didn’t delete it yet . But, thank you. For the place to crash and everything else. See you and Petey later.

Hope he’s good for you today!

That took an embarrassingly long time to come up with, so I have to jog towards the studio doors in Hudson Yards. A sleek white marble with gray veins counter serves as a security desk and I hand my ID over to the surly attendant. There are steel turnstiles to enter the building that require swipe badges, and while I know this is intended to make people feel safer, it just makes me tense. It all feels so sterile. The vibes are off today and part of me wants to just run out the doors and forget about this conversation. Pulling my spine straight and rolling my shoulders back, I remind myself I do not back down from challenges before entering the elevator.

I’m ready to give this incredibly popular fitness streaming service the best Lily Long interview. I’m wearing my nicest workout outfit, another item I ‘liberated’ from a trip where someone with too much disposable income didn’t try on their new wardrobe before packing. My leggings are buttery soft and in a coppery terra cotta, the longline bra matches perfectly. I’ve topped the outfit with an unbuttoned flannel that looks like Taylor Swift’s Evermore cover. Anything with a subtle hint of Swiftie’s is low hanging fruit for easy chit chat in these settings.

I check my reflection in the mirror and my gaze lands on the Stanley dupe water bottle covered in stickers of all the places I’ve been: second conversation starter check. The stickers have been a really inviting way for people to share little bits of themselves with me. My ponytail is the perfect mix of cute-but-undone, my understated makeup is test camera moments ready. I’m prepared. The word around the instructor circuit is that if your conversation goes well, they’ll ask you to be in the back of a class to see how you are in the studio before leaving. I’m ready for almost anything today.

When the elevator doors open, I’m greeted by glass encased by black iron welding and a large neon logo. Reception checks me inand guides me to a waiting area that is immaculate. There is a beautiful open kitchen area, complete with an oversized island and barstools. There are taps built into the behemoth in the middle with a mix of cold brew and Kombucha available next to drip coffee makers and mugs neatly stacked nearby. In the glass front fridge I see rows of pressed juices, waters, and electrolyte drinks. In separate wicker baskets are a variety of healthy snack options. I could move into this kitchen and be a happy camper.

A phone rings and the receptionist excuses themselves to head back to the desk. I grab a green juice and sit on an oversized armchair—also in highlighter yellow, like the signs, the mugs, and some knickknacks. I’m snapped out of my thoughts when a man says my name with a large hint of irritation. Placing the juice into the fridge, since I hadn’t opened it anyhow, I follow him down the hall.

He spends the next forty-five minutes having me go through a series of tasks that feel like onboarding. There are photographs, measurements, and forms to fill. When I get back to the armchair, I’m already overwhelmed by this place and retrieve the juice I eyed earlier. Opening it up, I slowly sip hoping to make the rumbling in my stomach subside.

This is when the founder and CEO, Kara, a leggy and beautiful blonde woman strides in wearing her signature head-to-toe white workout gear. I’ve idolized her entrepreneurship from the beginning and often felt like I was chasing her tailwinds. Believing my nervous energy contained, I stand up to shake her hand, only to trip over my own bag and watch as the opened green juice lands down the front of her outfit.

This is bad.

It looks like she played outfield for a baseball team, or was dragged across the field by the outfielder. My face is hot and I can hardly meet her eyes before apologizing.

The twenty minutes that follow are terse and I know this will be my last time here. Before I’ve fully exited her office, she’s paging the assistant to push her meetings out this afternoon and bring her a change of clothes. I slip out the glass doors, down the elevator, and back to the busy street level.

There are so many people bumping me out of their way,everything smells vaguely of trash, and there’s too much noise.This is why I’m not a Manhattan person, I think to myself. It just never has been what the movies made it out to be. Not for me at least.

If I hurry, I can catch the next train home then go back to the open air. Far from all of this here. My luck seems to turn a corner, because I make it through the station, down to Track 9, into a car, and plopping myself into an open seat. I didn’t think today could get worse, but then I look at my seatmate.

“Grant?”

sixteen

Lily

Ten Years Ago

I’m looking at the large manila envelope on the dining room table of the Jackson Hole, Wyoming staff suite. I left home six months ago, first staying at Stef’s dorm for a few weeks before her roommates insisted that I’d overstayed my welcome. Next, I headed to trim cannabis plants at a California farm. With winter rolling in, I followed an acquaintance to a ski resort gig here.

The address on the envelope is nauseating: to the former Mrs. Lily Morgan. He had to get another dig in, huh?

I’ve been silently placing bets on whether this will finally be the signed divorce papers or another attempt to force me home. Maybe instead of guilt trips this will be a crazed freak out that I “stole” his car. He tried to cite me for domestic violence and destruction of his property. Thank god Nessa’s dad, Gabe, is a lawyer and got the charge dropped. I’ve been sitting here stirring honey into a cup of tea for so long it’s practically iced tea.

Do I want to know?

Today, NJTransit Train

The panicI felt then is the same panic I feel sitting here. Today. In this train car in New York City. My inner monologue morphs into the lyrics Blink-182 quoted from George Carlin,shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker…

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