Layover Read online

  I passed through Atlanta at least once a week, almost every week, heading for another city to take care of the same customers I’d been working with for five years. I arrived and left on the same flights, always the same times. One week I might fly to St. Louis, the next to Dallas or Little Rock.

  On that Tuesday I was headed to Tampa.

  I traveled all over the eastern third of the country. There was a never-ending blandness and sterility to the concourses and planes. On more than one occasion, I’d found myself in an airport, walking briskly through the terminal, and couldn’t recall exactly which city I was in or where I was heading. I slept better in hotels than in my own apartment.

  But that Tuesday, the day I met Morgan, something different happened. That day something put the two of us right next to each other.

  I’d been working in commercial real estate development for five years, ever since I graduated from college. My life felt like an endless merry-go-round. I’d hopped on when my dad helped me get the job, and the carousel had been spinning since then. Everything around me had blurred.

  My apartment.

  My friends.

  My life.

  I passed through airport gates across the country, handed over my boarding passes, thanked the flight attendants and pilots. I didn’t notice faces anymore. I didn’t connect with the people I passed in my travels. We transacted things. Business. Commerce. Money. I bounced along with the rest of them like cattle in a chute.

  My dad always told me to keep my cards close to the vest when negotiating. I’d taken that advice too much to heart. I’d started doing it everywhere.

  But then she ended up in line next to me in the gift shop.

  I wouldn’t have noticed except she almost dropped her purse.

  Something rustled and shuffled behind me. When I turned to look, she made a sudden movement, lunging to catch the leather bag before it fell, but her iPhone tumbled to the floor, bouncing and ending up next to my shoe. Since she was clutching the bag with both hands, I bent down and picked the phone up.

  “Good thing you have a case,” I said.

  Her left hand shook as she took the phone back.

  Nervous flier?

  But she didn’t thank me. I couldn’t say I blamed her, since I’d been tuning my fellow travelers out for years. I’d adopted a glassy-eyed stare, a cold, determined look that warded off conversation.

  But when she took her phone back, I really noticed her. The shaking hand—the vulnerability—somehow slipped past my defenses.

  I looked right at her.

  She wore her dark brown hair in a loose ponytail that hung below a tan bucket hat with a red band. Her eyes and a good portion of her face were covered by oversized sunglasses I knew she had to have taken off before she got through security.

  She was almost as tall as I am—a couple of inches under six feet—and wore black leggings, black running shoes, and a gray Lycra hoodie. She had a carry-on over one shoulder and clutched the purse against her body. Her flushed cheeks looked delicate, the skin nearly flawless. We appeared to be the same age, mid-twenties.

  She looked away from me as I studied her. At least she seemed to be looking away from me, as much as I could tell with the sunglasses on.

  Some holdup occurred ahead of us, drawing my attention to the front of the line. An elderly man wearing clunky shoes with his pants hiked up almost to his chest started arguing about the price he was charged for his newspaper. He felt like he’d been asked to pay five cents too many. The cashier listened with a strained look on her face.

  I almost reached into my pocket to get the nickel, but I hadn’t carried loose change with me since I was a kid.

  So I turned to the woman behind me again. The one who had dropped her phone and taken it back without thanking me. The one with the shaking hand. The one who had managed to pierce the stoic determination I adopted when I traveled. It actually felt good to sense that small opening, to have the façade of cold impersonality cracked ever so slightly. That was a surprise.

  “We might be here a while,” I said, nodding toward the elderly man in front of us.

  The woman ignored me again. She opened her purse and started rooting around inside of it. Her movements seemed frantic, as though she thought she’d lost something.

  “I don’t think anything else fell out,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  She whipped her head up toward me. “What did you say?”

  Her voice came out sharp and possibly louder than she intended.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just saying . . . you look like you thought you lost something. When the purse fell.”

  She considered me for a moment from behind the glasses. Her mouth was small, the lips plump. A tiny beauty mark sat on her left cheek. A silly thought crossed my mind: She’s a celebrity. After all, we are in Atlanta, and they film a lot of movies here. I occasionally spot celebrities in the airport, actors I recognize from TV shows. That explains the sunglasses. That’s why she’s so pretty.

  It looked as though she was going to say something, but then she tucked her purse against her body, tossed a pack of gum she was holding back onto the display, and, grunting with exasperation, turned and walked away.

  2

  That should have been it.

  I should have gone on with my Tuesday layover routine—paid for the paperback thriller I’d picked up off the rack, stopped in the bathroom and swallowed another Xanax, headed to the bar for my preflight drink and maybe something to eat.

  But it didn’t work out that way.

  I did buy the book. It bore an embossed foil cover and the black, shadowy outline of a man who carried a gun and appeared to be running away, turning slightly to look over his shoulder. And I did head toward the bathroom near my gate. My flight boarded in ninety minutes, so I had plenty of time to kill. I moved through the crowds on the concourse, dodging my fellow travelers and their heavy bags, their recalcitrant kids, the beeping courtesy carts ferrying the elderly and slow from one terminal to the other.

  It was all the same. Everywhere I went, always the same . . .

  Except . . .

  I found myself thinking about her as I walked. Her face—those full lips, those delicate cheeks. The beauty mark, the brown hair. Her shaking hand. Her apparent shock when I spoke. Her coldness toward me before she walked away. What did she think she’d lost that made her so frantic?

  My love life had been floundering recently. Six months earlier, I’d broken up with Renee, who’d been my girlfriend for almost a year. I liked her quite a bit, although I’m not sure I loved her. We broke up because of that. And because I traveled so much and worked so many hours, leaving little time or energy for anything else.

  Renee and I had been talking off and on again, had even slept together one night two weeks earlier. But neither one of us seemed ready to jump into a full-on reconciliation. At least not yet. But the thought of being with Renee back in Chicago had started to become more and more appealing to me. I was tired of being on the road, of sleeping in hotels and using tiny soaps and shampoos. I’d eaten too much room service, knew the names of none of my neighbors in my apartment building. The thought of being home seven nights a week, of having someone to come home to, of sharing a meal and conversation about the day just past or the week to come, made my heart swell with anticipation.

  And then Renee texted me as I walked to the bathroom:

  Hey, guy, have a great trip!

  Was that all marriage was? A lifetime spent with someone who cared about whether you had a good flight? Someone who’d notice if you didn’t come home or check in when you were supposed to? Would that same person make sure you took your pills in old age? Would she make sure you didn’t eat foods that disagreed with you and bring you an antacid if you did?

  It was starting to sound pretty good.

  I stopped o
utside the bathroom door, tucked the book under my arm, and started to write back. An announcement came over the PA, telling someone they’d left their passport at the main security gate. The odor of baking cinnamon rolls and brewing coffee reached me from one of the restaurants, stirring a faint rumble in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten before I left home that morning for my first flight, from Chicago to Atlanta.

  Thanks! At the airport but

  Then she came out of the bathroom. The woman from the gift shop.

  She still wore the hat and sunglasses, had the carry-on over one shoulder, the purse in her left hand. And she froze in her tracks when she saw me. I stopped midtext. It felt like our gazes locked, but I couldn’t be certain because I couldn’t see her eyes. But I saw the brown hair and the beauty mark and the long, athletic body as our fellow travelers moved past us and around us, their suitcase wheels squeaking, their conversations creating an endless hum of human chatter.

  And what must she have thought of me? I wore a sport coat and a button-down shirt. Khaki pants and lace-up oxford shoes. I looked like any other young shmuck going off to some boring, uninspiring job. Airports and planes and offices were full of them. A dime a dozen. What made me stand out? My kindness in picking up her phone? My gentle mocking of the elderly man and his five cents?

  She took two steps toward me, and her lips parted as though she was about to speak. But she didn’t. I put the phone away, sliding it into my inside jacket pocket. I’d get back to Renee later.

  For a brief moment, I wondered if the woman before me couldn’t hear well or was wearing headphones I couldn’t see. It would explain why the only thing she’d said to me in the gift shop had been “What did you say?”

  Rather than scare her off again, I waited, making what I hoped was something close to eye contact.

  Finally she spoke.

  She said, “I’m sorry about before. I . . .”

  Again, I waited, hoping she’d finish the thought. But she didn’t.

  “What about before?” I asked.

  “I was distracted. My mind was somewhere else. So when you spoke to me, I was lost in my own head.”

  Her voice carried a tinge of hoarseness, as well as the trace of a Southern accent.

  I nodded, relieved to see she could hear me and that she didn’t seem to think I was a total creep who harassed strange women in airport gift shops.

  “I get it,” I said. “I get lost in my thoughts sometimes too. Especially before noon and especially in airports. About the only thing to do is think.”

  She nodded as though she understood.

  I relaxed. We’d connected, even if only to a small degree.

  We could have gone our separate ways then, having reached an understanding and knowing that the hiccup in the gift shop line was nothing to worry about.

  Then I saw something in her hand, something that hadn’t been there before.

  “That’s a good one,” I said, pointing to it.

  “What’s that?” She looked down, saw the book in her hand as though she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, this. Yeah, I was looking for something to pass the time.”

  “I read it last week while I was flying.” Some of the details about the story came back to me. A woman who used to be a spy was being pressed into service after a terrorist attack in Europe. “It moved really fast.”

  “Good. That’s what I need. Distraction.”

  She stopped speaking but didn’t move. She didn’t rush off or head for a gate.

  And I wanted to know what was behind those sunglasses. I really did.

  Maybe I wasn’t aware back then of how desperate I was to connect with someone, to share something on a deep level. To be surprised by what someone else was thinking or doing. Or feeling.

  In the gift shop, the door had opened a crack. I wanted to kick it open farther. I needed the fresh air, the bright light.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “You were texting someone—”

  “It’s early,” I said, ignoring her comment, “but I always get a drink before my flight or when I have a layover. Would you like to join me?”

  I pointed behind her in the direction of a little airport bar, something called the Keg ’n Craft. I’d stopped there many times for a beer or a sandwich or to watch a football game. I’d started thinking about a career change when one of the bartenders recognized me and began calling me by name.

  Again, I thought I’d overstepped. I’d pushed harder than I should.

  She looked behind her and then glanced down at the Fitbit Surge on her wrist, checking the time. “My flight . . . I’ve got . . .”

  “If you’re in a hurry—”

  “You know what?” she said. “I shouldn’t, but I could really use a drink today, more than any other day.” She nodded, confirming her decision. “Let’s do it.”

  3

  I went to take a seat at the front of the Keg ’n Craft, on the side closest to the concourse. It happened to be the most crowded side at that time of the morning, and sitting there afforded an easy view of the flight boards and a better chance to hear the announcements.

  But when I pulled a barstool out, she kept walking. She didn’t say anything or look back as she went to the side of the bar where no one else sat. The stools there offered a view of the parked planes, and you could sit and watch runway workers driving back and forth in their little carts, their giant hearing-protection headsets guarding against the noise.

  I followed her.

  She hopped up on a barstool, and I slid onto the one next to her. She put the carry-on bag on the bar in front of her and then placed her purse next to it. She seemed to want to keep those things close to her at all times, even though no one was sitting nearby and it didn’t matter whether she took up a lot of space.

  Although we’d connected briefly on the concourse and she’d agreed to the drink, she seemed to have regressed. She was acting the same way she had in the gift shop. When I sat down, she kept her face straight ahead, as though I wasn’t there. And she still wore the sunglasses.

  The bartender made drinks for a couple of travelers near the front, giving us a few moments to sit next to each other without any distraction except the muted TV above the bar. A daytime talk show played on the screen, with a panel of women gesturing back and forth at one another, apparently arguing over something the president had said on Twitter.

  My phone dinged in my pocket. Twice in quick succession.

  “You better get that,” she said without looking at me. “Someone really wants to talk to you.”

  I knew it was Renee. I reached into my pocket and pulled the phone out.

  Did you get this?

  Just worried your flight was delayed and you’ll miss your connection.

  I wrote back quickly, finishing the thought from earlier.

  Thanks! Made it to Atlanta. Going to eat during layover. More later.

  I silenced the ringer.

  “Sorry,” I said, putting the phone away.

  “It’s okay,” she said, still looking ahead. But her voice became lighter, almost flirtatious, when she said, “Somebody cares about you.”

  Could she tell by the way the phone chimed that a woman was writing to me?

  Emboldened by the new tone in her voice, I decided to seize the moment. “I’m Joshua,” I said. “Joshua Fields.”

  I held my hand out.

  She nodded but still didn’t look at me. “Right,” she said. “We’re going to have to do this, aren’t we?”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  She turned, the sunglasses still on. She reached out and took my hand, her skin soft against mine even though her grip was firm. “I’m . . . Morgan. Nice to meet you.”

  “Where are you headed?” I asked, ignoring the strange pause before she told me her name.

  Again, a
pause. She reached up and took her sunglasses off, revealing eyes that were a cool blue and tired-looking. At just after ten a.m., a number of the travelers in the airport probably had sad, weary eyes, including me.

  “You’re awfully curious for so early in the morning,” Morgan said.

  “It’s either ask about you or watch the television. And there’s no sound. Actually I was kind of worried you couldn’t hear me back there in the gift shop.”

  She smiled just a little, and some of the weariness left her eyes. “Oh, yeah. That. Well, it’s been a long few days. I’ve been dealing with some . . . let’s say family complications.” She paused for a moment, looking me over. “But now I’m going to a friendlier place.”

  “And where would that be?” I asked.

  She paused again, her tongue working around inside her cheek. “Where I went to college. In Kentucky. About an hour and a half from Nashville. Have you heard of it? Henry Clay University? It’s in a little college town called Wyckoff.”

  I had heard of it, so I nodded. “I live in Chicago now, but I grew up in Indiana. I got brochures from Henry Clay when I was looking at colleges. And I learned about him in school. What did they call him—?”

  “‘The Great Compromiser.’ Yes, I know all about it.”

  “Right. Exactly.”

  “I grew up in Wyckoff,” she said. “It was easy for me to decide to go there.” She pressed her lips together, tapped her fingers against the top of the bar. “Yeah, that’s home, more or less. A lot of memories.”

  “Are you going for a reunion or something?” I asked. It was early October, the time of year for homecoming weekends and football games. “Getting together with college friends?”

  “I wish it were that simple. Sure.” She smiled without showing her teeth, and beneath the smile I detected a strain. She seemed eager to turn the question back on me. “What about you? This is work travel for you?”

  “Is it that obvious I’m not going to have any fun?” I asked.

  She nodded at me. “The clothes kind of tipped me off.”