Page 72 of The Woman in 3B
She shook the excess water from her hands back into the sink. “I have a flight to catch,” she said. Her tone was tense and dismissive.
She didn’t bother drying her hands before exiting the women’s bathroom.
I stared after her. I knew I should have run after her, chased her down the entire terminal if it came to that, to try to explain what she’d overheard. But my feet were stuck.
“That was her?” Gemma said in a voice little more than a whisper.
I tried to swallow down the lump that had formed in my throat. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded.
My friend looked close to tears. “I ruined it.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said when I was finally able to speak. “I did this all myself.”
+ + +
My phone calls went straight to her voicemail. She wasn’t responding to my texts. I had her home address, so I could have stood in her front yard with a boom box,Say Anythingstyle, but I probably would have had the cops called on me.
I couldn’t be angry with Gemma for talking publicly about the bingo card. The only person I could be angry with was myself. This was my fault. I was the one in the wrong. I’d used Anissa to get a few steps closer to the game’s winnings. All I could do was apologize for the circumstance under which we’d met. But if I was correctly interpreting her refusal to answer my calls or reply to my text messages, she wasn’t accepting my apology.
She couldn’t ignore me forever, however. On Wednesdays she flew out of Detroit to Philadelphia, and I would be on that flight.
I stood in the first exit row in First Class, not wanting to appear too eager to pounce on Anissa the moment she stepped onto the plane. I was in the wrong; I could admit that. I’d had plenty of opportunities to come clean about the bingo game, but I’d been equal parts embarrassed and ashamed. The game was only a means to an end—an end to my student debt—and I needed to make clear that what I was feeling for her was real and not part of those juvenile pranks.
I waited with an emotional rock in my stomach as the First Class passengers boarded the plane. I did my best to smile as each passenger passed through the cabin door and found their seat. My stomach flip-flopped each time a dark-haired woman boarded the plane. Anissa was typically one of the first to board, and I became more concerned as the plane filled up and seat 3B remained empty. Had she called in sick to avoid me?
A nondescript man in a dark blue suit boarded the plane and stopped within the first few rows to place a roller bag in the overhead bin Anissa typically used. I slipped out of the exit row and maneuvered my way around other boarding passengers to reach the front of the plane.
“Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted. “That area is reserved for passengers seated in our business class cabin.”
“This is my seat,” he said, motioning to the third aisle.
“Do you mind if I check your ticket?” I found myself asking.
The man fumbled with his briefcase momentarily before producing the electronic boarding pass on his cellphone. My heart dropped when I saw his seat assignment.
3B.
I forced a smile to my lips despite the wave of nausea that rolled over me. “Thank you for your cooperation. Have a nice flight.”
I turned and wobbled back to my position in the first exit row and manically grinned at each new passenger that walked by. My instinct was to immediately text Anissa to find out what had happened, but my phone was in my carry-on luggage in the rear of the plane.
The next twenty minutes slowly crawled by. I delivered cups of water to the passengers in my section and took their primary drink orders. I spoke to those seated in the exit aisle to make sure they were ready and willing to assist me in case of an emergency landing. I communicated with the captain on the interphone when he was ready to depart. It was only when I initiated the safety video that I had time to rush down the center aisle to the back of the plane to retrieve my phone.
Why aren’t you on my flight? Did you change your schedule?
My thumb hovered over the send button while I scrutinized my message. I meant the text as a show of concern, but the words by themselves might have read as demanding or accusatory when Anissa didn’t owe me any explanation.
I deleted the two questions in exchange for the more streamlined text I’d been sending ever since the incident.
I’m sorry.
+ + +
The overhead light that normally illuminated the hallway outside of my apartment door had burned out a few days earlier and my building’s supervisor had yet to fix it. I didn’t really need the light though. I’d lived in the building for nearly eight years. I could have probably walked from the parking lot to my front door blindfolded.
I hadn’t parked my car in its usual parking space though. I’d left it at the parking lot outside of a wine bar not far from the airport. I hadn’t wanted to go home after work that day, so I’d agreed to go out with Gemma. A single, respectable glass of wine and a charcuterie board had quickly descended into a bottle of wine and fast food delivery, but at least I’d had the good sense not to drive myself home.
I quietly cursed when my high heels caught on something in front of my front door, causing my already unsteady feet to stumble. I bent down and grabbed the offending object off the ground. It was dark in the hallway, but it felt like a t-shirt, probably an overboard passenger from one of my neighbor’s laundry baskets.
