Page 2 of Taking It To Overtime
“Awe.” I can hear Tandy’s smile and can almost see her silhouetted against the sliding balcony door in her SoCal apartment. “You could have told me. I’d have slid a Xanax into your morning coffee.”
“I didn’t want the added pressure.” I tell her, because Lord knows I’ve walked off flights before, and the best way to mitigatethat humiliation is to not tell anyone it happened. “Besides. It was a last-minute decision.”
“How last-minute?” I can hear Tandy’s swallow and I picture her lips curling in a forced smile as her lashes blink and blink and blink.
“I’m on a commercial flight.”
There’s an audible gasp in my ear.
“In coach.”
“Vera. No. You know Cooper would let you take the jet. His schedule’s pretty open right now, but especially to see your family. I bet he’d tag along. You know how he loves field trips.”
“Environmental and ethical concerns I have around private flying aside,I repeat: last-minute decision.”
“Yes, honey, eat the rich, but I promise traveling is a lot more comfortable in first class or without being surrounded by strangers who like to make inappropriate conversation with a famous model. Are you even safe?”
“That’s happened—”
“At least six times I can think of,” Tandy says and I sigh. She’s right. The curse of success in my line of work isn’t just the travel. It’s the lack of anonymity. Everyone who recognizes my face feels like they know me. That they have a right to my personal thoughts, feelings, anecdotes.
“Well, no one has bothered me today. This is going to be a low key visit. I’ll celebrate with my parents and then,” I take a breath, “catch a flight back home.”
“Fine,” Tandy sighs. “But if you need a travel buddy, I can be to you in a day and we can fly back together. I’ll book the tickets myself.”
I can’t ask my grieving friend to come be a witness to a family—no matter how small—reunion. It doesn’t matter how “fine” she pretends to be, it would be like pouring salt in a gaping wound. Messy, stinging, scarring.
“I’ll be okay.” I say, promising myself it will be true. “This is just the vacation I needed. I’m fine now that we’ve landed.”
“You’ll call—”
“I’ll call you if that changes.”
“Good,” Tandy says. “Now. Tell me what you got for your dad’s birthday.”
“Um…” I hadn’t thought that far in advance. Right now, I’m kicking myself for not packing a raincoat or boots. Rookie mistake. “I’m the gift?”
“Vera.” My name is a long-suffering sigh. “It is rudeto show up empty-handed.”
“Even to my—”
“Yes! It’s still rude!” There’s some muttering that sounds an awful lot like Tandy asking if she needs to do everything for everyone, and I feel myself smile. The first real one since I checked in at LAX.
“I’m going to miss you T. I’ll only be gone a week, but I’m going to miss you.”
It’s true. As long as I’ve lived in California, Tandy Davis has been my family. She’s Cooper Wells’ personal assistant and I’m his most well-known face. We go to the same workout classes—yoga on Mondays, Pilates on Tuesday and Thursday, kick boxing on Friday. Grab lavender lattes and drink them on the Culver Steps, watching the locals walk their dogs and kids scurry off to dance class in frilly pink tutus.
She’s the one I call when I see a cute puppy, or lose my mind and read the hate comments on any of my social media posts. She’s the one who answers every phone call. The one who came and held my hand at the hospital when I got heat stroke after falling asleep on my beach towel in Santa Monica. She’s set me up on dates—good ones—when I fall into the old hole of pining for my ex. If that isn’t a true friend… a sister… I don’t know what is.
“I know, darling. I’ll miss you more. Now a quick google search told me there’s a small bookstore in a tiny town called Gracious that has a special edition copy of that trilogy your dad collects. I’m putting the books on hold for you now and you can pick them up on your way home. There’s a florist next door. Grab a bouquet for your mama, too.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, the last of my tension slipping away like the raindrops sliding down the plane windows. I glance at the aisle to discover it’s mostly empty, which means it’s time to grab my carryon and get the hell off this deathtrap. “You’re the best friend ever, Tandy. I’ve got to go.”
“Love you, darling. Have a wonderful week!”
“Love you more.”
I end the call, slip the phone back into my purse, and stand. Planes are not built for height, and I have to hunch to avoid slamming my head into the flight attendant call button.
