Layover Rules

Chapter Seven



The next four months of my life were spent mending friendships I’d neglected since Trevor came along, and focusing on work. I was determined to remain successful in my career while saving up enough money to rent my own place in New York. Alicia was great and never made me feel like I’d overstayed my welcome, but I didn’t want to impose on her friendship for too long.

I traveled to several cities I’d never visited before: Seattle, Dallas, Cincinnati, Denver, and Minneapolis.

I made a trip to Boston and saw Steven and Ross two of the three nights I was there. They invited me to their new house the first night. I’d taken the train from New York and Ross picked me up at the station.

We were talking, mostly about the train ride up to Boston and how we both kind of enjoyed train rides as long as they were short, when Ross turned down a street, slowed down, and pulled into a driveway. It was long, tree-lined, and had a wrought-iron gate, beyond which I could see the house. Recessed lights in the yard illuminated what could only be described as a mansion—three stories, all brick, with large ground to roof columns along the front….

“Nice try,” I said.

“Dammit, I thought it would work,” he said, a look of minor disappointment on his face. He backed out of the driveway and took us to their real home, a modest but nice townhouse, certainly bigger than anything they—or I—would be able to afford in Manhattan.

Steven was very skilled in the kitchen, and that’s where we found him when we walked in. He was preparing a dinner of chicken with roasted red peppers topped off with a dollop of Greek yogurt and a black bean and rice side dish.

“This looks amazing,” I said.

“Ah, it’s just something I whip up now and then,” he said with a wink and a grin.

Ross rolled his eyes and asked me if I’d like some wine.

“No,” I said. “I’d love some wine.”

“I wish we had known what you’ve been going through sooner,” Ross said, pouring three glasses.

“I know. I’m sorry things got to this point. I’ve missed you guys.”

Steven brought three big plates of food to the table and said, “We’ve missed you, too. But in a way, I’m kind of glad I didn’t know what was going on with that dickwad.”

Steven was the larger of the two, which isn’t saying much because Ross was a small guy—thin and, to use his own description, “dainty.” Steven, on the other hand, was a little over six feet tall, and could easily be mistaken for a bouncer if you didn’t know his actual profession was drug rehab counselor.

Ross said to me, “You know he’s just saying that.”

“Not so,” Steven said. He reached over to me and put his hand on my forearm. “Remember when you said I was like the big brother you never had? Well, that’s what big brothers do. Knock the shit out of guys who treat their sisters like crap.”

Ross rolled his eyes. “Just eat up, tough guy.”

That is how they always were. The sarcastic banter never got out of hand, though, and they always ended each round with a laugh.

When I showed them a picture of Trevor, Ross said, “Oh, now I see why you fell so hard so fast.”

Steven took the picture, looked at it, and said to Ross, “You couldn’t get a guy like that.”

“I could.” Ross took the picture back and sighed dramatically. “I mean, if I hadn’t settled.”

It had been so long since I’d been around these two, I knew I had missed them, but didn’t realize just how much.

Steven was opening another bottle of wine. “Hey, you’re free to go at any time.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ross said. “You’d be lost without me.”

“It’s true,” Steven said, looking at me.

“Plus, I wouldn’t want a guy like that,” Ross said. “Picture him reading those books and making notes. How creepy is that?”

We promised we would all keep in touch, and that I’d come up to Boston whenever I could, and they’d come down to New York soon so we could do dinner and a show, something none of us had done since our last time, pre-Trevor.

I enjoyed life on the road. I was a complete unknown in cities that were unknown to me. I relished the solitude and the various adventures I set up for myself on each trip. I was determined to set aside a little time and take in the most interesting part of each city’s culture while I was there. I was always fulfilled by my work, but those little escapades made my life a little bit richer each time.

Beth called me into her office one day and told me I would also be in the running for the new Creative Director position. But that had been put on hold for a while—for reasons the higher-ups didn’t give us, but Beth figured it had to do with the economy—so there was nothing new on that front. Other than feeling increasingly like Corrine and I were rivals, that is. Good thing we weren’t around each other much. I put it out of my mind as much as I could, continuing to do my job to the best of my ability, putting in more hours to fill up a lot of my newfound free time.

However, being single in the city, every once in a while I got the urge to go out and cut loose. So two or three times per month I went out with Alicia to clubs. We were pretty much doing what she’d suggested that first night I got to her apartment—she was hunting for a guy, and I was her wing-woman.

I had no interest in dating at all, so sometimes this setup found me in uncomfortable situations, namely when Alicia was interested in a guy who was with a friend. I was always up front with the other guy and made it clear from the start that I wasn’t looking for anything. A few times I even lied and said I was from out of town and had a boyfriend back home. Not wanting to be in debt to anyone, and not wanting to lead anyone on, I always paid for my own drinks. I had fun, it was a nice diversion from the work week, and I actually met a few guys who offered great conversation.

The most memorable conversation, though, was one I had with Alicia about three months into my stay with her. She thought I was hitting it off more than usual with a guy one night. When I followed her off the dance floor to the restroom, she told me the guy she was with asked her if she wanted to take the party back to his place and that his friend—the guy I was hanging out with—was really into me.

“That’s as far as he’s going to get into me,” I said.

She laughed so hard she snorted. “Oh no,” she said, stopping herself. “That’s not an attractive sound at all. Anyway, we’re not talking about going with them and banging their brains out.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Although in your case…”

“What?”

“Come on, Blair. It’s been almost four months since you’ve even kissed a guy.”

“So what? It’s four months, not four years, and it’s not like I’m choosing to swear off guys forever.”

She got her lipstick out of her purse, looked in the mirror, and put some on. “Sometimes it’s not a choice.”

Three girls stumbled into the restroom, two of them laughing and bumping into each other, the third looking like she was going to be sick.

I stepped closer beside Alicia. We looked at each other in the mirror as we freshened up.

She sighed. “We’re in a drought. If we were farmers, our eggs would have dried up by now.”

We stared at each other in the mirror, and I said, “That’s the most disgusting analogy I think I’ve ever heard.”

Neither of us ended up leaving with those guys that night, or any other guys on any other night.

Two weeks later, I had my own place. It was small—just over five hundred square feet—but its location on the Upper West Side of Manhattan put me much closer to work. The rent was $1,850 per month. It would make for a tight budget, but I knew I could reduce my spending in other areas, including, ironically, clothing. Most of the boxes and bags that Trevor had sent over containing all of my clothes went unopened. One Saturday morning I dropped them off at a charity that helps battered and homeless women try to put their lives back together. The clothes would be great for job interviews.

I did keep ten outfits for myself, which I managed to rotate and mix and match creatively to get more use out of them.

I was rebuilding my wardrobe by going to sample sales, where retailers have great stuff at even greater reduced prices. Being connected to the fashion industry, I knew when and where these sales would be taking place and I hit every one I could.

Furnishing my new apartment was easier—living in a small studio, there was so little room to fill that it didn’t take long to get all the basic things I needed. I wouldn’t be throwing any parties in my humble little home, but I had everything I needed to be comfortable.

I was satisfied with where I was at that point, and hopeful about the future.

I thought about calling my parents to let them know I was no longer with Trevor. My relationship with them needed some serious mending, one that would involve a pride-swallowing explanation of everything that had happened, including the fact that they turned out to be right about him all along. I wasn’t ready to go through that just yet, so I didn’t contact them. It would happen in time.



. . . . .



On a September evening, I was taking a walk, enjoying a cool snap we were having. It was a nice break from the stifling humidity of a long summer, and a harbinger of the coming fall, something I was really looking forward to: crisp and clear mornings, ditching my summer clothes for cooler weather items, the changing leaves, all of that invigorated me.

I’d made the transition almost completely away from physical books to e-books over the last year, so I had little reason to go into bookstores anymore. But on this particular evening, I decided to pop in and grab a coffee before going home.

When I walked in the door, I saw a sign that almost made me turn right around and leave. There was a book-signing event in the store that night, and it was already underway. There was no author picture on the poster, just the name of the book—My Last Slide—and the name of the author: Sam Vonn.

An employee greeted me and asked if he could help me find something.

“Where’s the book signing?”

“It’s near the back of the store.” He gestured in that direction. “I’ll show you.”

I followed him.

“I’m not sure there are any seats left.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I see where it is. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” He walked away.

I ducked down an aisle adjacent to the area where the event was being held, went to the end of the shelves, and peeked around the corner.

There, in jeans and a black t-shirt, was Sam. There was an inviting smile on his face, and he was relaxed as he spoke—something that might have come naturally to him, or maybe it was the result of being on TV so much.

He stood in front of dozens of people who were packed into the small area. They seemed to be mostly older men, but there were a few women in the audience too.

He was speaking without notes, standing in front of a podium, holding a microphone.

I stepped back out of view in case he happened to look in my direction. I wanted to hear what he had to say, but I didn’t want him to see me, so I stayed on that aisle. I picked up a book to pretend like I was simply browsing and was surprised when I opened it to a sketch of a naked couple—the man standing behind the woman, with her facing away from him, bent over to the point where her head almost touched her knees, and the man holding up one of her legs to his side. It didn’t look comfortable at all. Actually, it didn’t even look possible to me.

I hadn’t realized I was in the Self Help section, specifically the Sexuality category, and the book I had chosen at random was on Kama Sutra, basically the bible of sexuality from ancient Hindu culture. Just what I’d want to be caught reading. I put it back and moved down the aisle, stopping when I got to the section containing more benign books and picked up one about applying business leadership principles to your daily personal life. Perfect.

I opened it and looked at the page, not letting my eyes focus on the words, just serving as cover so I could listen to Sam speak.

It sounded like he was wrapping up the main part of his talk. He referred to the reading he did at the opening, and I wished I had been lurking around the corner when that happened.

Sam ended by telling the audience: “You’ll never have another today. And although this today is almost over, don’t waste it.”

The people clapped and Sam thanked them a few times.

Then I heard a woman’s voice, probably a store employee. “Mr. Vonn will be signing books at the table. If you would all please line up, we’ll make sure everyone gets an autograph. Please keep in mind those waiting behind you.”

I listened to what sounded like a lot of milling around, people getting organized, and a chorus of unintelligible voices engaged in conversations.

My plan was to get out of there without him seeing me, which would have been easy considering I didn’t have to walk past him. Under normal circumstances, there would have been nothing weird or uncomfortable about saying hello to him, but these were not normal circumstances. Particularly given the fact the last interaction we had involved me standing him up and not even explaining myself.

My phone rang and I frantically reached for it, got it out of my purse and saw that it was Alicia calling.

“Hey,” I said, answering the call.

“What are you doing? Want to get a bite?”

I paused for a moment, then said, “I’m in a bookstore.”

“Why are you whispering?” she whispered, mocking me.

“He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Hang on.”

“What? Who’s there?”

“Shhhh.”

“Why do I need to ‘shhhh’?” she said and then shouted, “No one can hear me!”

She was laughing as I headed for the restroom.

Alicia said, “What the hell is going on? Don’t tell me Trevor’s in the bookstore?”

“No.”

“At least you’re not whispering anymore. So talk.”

“Sam.”

“The baseball player?”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Okay, then. A hot jock who reads. I like where this is going.”

“He’s doing a book signing.”

“A hot jock who wrote a book? If you don’t go after him, I will.”

Two women came into the restroom. I was standing in front of the mirror and made eye contact with one of them.

“Let me call you back after I do this,” I said.

“Do what? And you’re whispering again.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll call you back.

“You better.”

We hung up and I left the restroom, went to the information desk and asked where I could find Sam’s book.

The girl told me they were all in the back of the store where the event was going on, and that I could buy one there.

I decided to browse around the area until it looked like the last person had joined the line, and then I’d go over there and be the last one. That was the only way I’d be able to approach him, saving myself from a potentially awkward situation with other people around.

I kept glancing over to keep an eye on the progress of the line, and finally went over and joined it when there were only three people left. Sam signed their books, shook their hands, and thanked them for coming. Each one of them used the word “inspiration” when talking to him.

Had he become some kind of self-help guru in the last four months? What was this all about?

He didn’t notice me until the person in front of me walked away and I stepped up to the table.

“Claire,” he said.

Sure, it was the fake name I’d given him, but he remembered it. That counts for something, right?

“Hi,” I said. “I actually didn’t even know you were here tonight or that you’d written a book, but when I saw this going on, I thought, why not?”

He took my copy of his book and opened it to the title page. Signing his name, he said, “Well, I’m glad you made it, even if you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked up at me and smiled a little. “I know. I was joking. It’s nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too. So, you’re not only a TV star, you’re a best-selling author. Very impressive.”

He finished signing the book, closed it, handed it to me, and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

I didn’t say anything. There was something in his tone that left me wordless.

“Of course,” he continued, “you could have found out if—”

“I know. I’m sorry. Really. There was just so much going on in my life at the time…” I stopped.

“No need to explain. I get stood up all the time.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Really?”

“No.” He stood. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

I felt my face and neck blush, but managed to say, “Forgive me?”

Sam seemed to ponder his answer as he stood. “Yes, I’ll forgive you.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

“On one condition.”



. . . . .



It was about nine o’clock when we got to the Italian place Sam suggested. When he asked me to have dinner with him, I agreed, even though I had already eaten. He had forgiven me once for blowing him off, so how could I turn around and do it again?

It was the kind of place people would refer to as a “pizza joint”—black and white checkered floor, inexpensive round bar tables and chairs, plain white walls with pictures of the place dating back probably fifty years and a few autographed photos of movie stars, musicians and athletes. I saw one of Bon Jovi, another of Al Pacino, lots of sports figures I didn’t recognize, and even one of Sam himself—an 8x11 replica of his baseball card.

There was no wait staff. We went up to the counter where two guys tossed dough in the air, slung sauce on it, and heaped piles of toppings on the pizzas. A third guy, much younger than the other two, took the order and gave us Styrofoam cups to take to the soda machine.

It was the kind of place Trevor never would have taken me, especially on a first date. Sam, on the other hand, apparently had no desire to impress me by taking me to a stuffy white-tablecloth place.

It was an immensely refreshing change of pace.

Ten minutes into our date—was that was this was?—I had to put my phone on mute. Alicia had already called three times and texted twice as many. I finally texted her back, telling her that I was talking to Sam and that I’d get in touch with her later.

The younger guy behind the counter called our order number, and Sam went to get the pizza.

“I’ll just have a half of a slice,” I said when he returned.

“Suit yourself.”

He cut a slice in half, put it on my plate, placed the other half on his and added another whole slice.

“Starving,” he said.

I sipped my diet Sprite and watched him bite into the crust of the pizza.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Eat from the crust end. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Everyone eats from the pointy end.”

He shrugged and finished chewing. “I’ve always done it like this, ever since I was a kid. Why do you do what you just did?”

“What did I do?”

“Agreed to go to dinner with me when you already ate.”

I looked at him, straw in my mouth, but not drinking. “How did you know I already ate?”

Sam picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. “I didn’t. But you just confirmed it.” He smiled.

“That was pretty sneaky.”

“Uh huh. So, what’s the answer?”

There was no getting out of this jam. What was I going to say? That I thought he was cute, and there was something about him that interested me, even though I wasn’t quite sure what it was? I mean, beyond him not being anything like Trevor. Maybe that was it. But I couldn’t say that.

I decided to change the subject.

“I lied to you.”

He stopped mid-chew, looked at me for a few seconds, then finished his bite of pizza. “About?”

I took a deep breath. “Oh, God, this is so stupid. Ready?”

Sam just shrugged, as if using body language to say: Sure, whatever…

I reached into my purse and got out my sunglasses. I put them on, then pulled my hair together in my hand and held it up to the back of my head. “Okay, shorter hair. Now, imagine me with a little more pudgy face, and try to picture these as eyeglasses, not sunglasses. Or whatever. You know what I mean.”

He looked at me for a moment. “Okay.”

I sighed. “Nothing? Really?”

Sam squinted his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry.”

“This is more embarrassing than I thought. Okay, let’s try this a different way. Imagine me with a pudgy face”—I closed my mouth and puffed out my cheeks—“like that, and the glasses”—I opened my eyes wider—“and picture me in clothing store.”

“Shopping or working?”

“Working.”

He tilted his head to the side. “On the sales floor or register?”

“Sales floor,” I said, letting out a frustrated sigh.

He looked at me. “Turn to the side…no, the other side.” He looked at me without speaking.

I turned to face him straight-on again. “Nothing?”

“Morning shift or evening?”

I released my hair and let it drop. “Oh, Jesus. Forget—”

“Blair.”

I looked at him. He was laughing softly.

Sam continued, “You’re Blair, not Claire, and I figured that out the day you stood me up. I thought you looked familiar, and it took me a little while to put it all together. Open the book. Check out the inscription.”

I opened it to the title page and saw that he’d addressed it to Blair, not Claire. Then I looked back up at Sam. “So you let me go through that whole act just now, even though you knew who I was.”

“Yep.”

“Well, thanks a lot.” I finally reached for my half-slice of pizza. “Now I’ve stood you up and made a fool of myself.” I took a bite from the pointy end.

“Not at all. You intrigue me.” He reached for my cup. “Refill?”

“Wait,” I said, closing my eyes and shaking my head back and forth slowly, as if to clear it. “You can’t say something like ‘You intrigue me’ and then ask if I want a refill.”

Sam’s eyes darted back and forth. “Why not?”

“Why not? Because that’s a major thing to say to someone without explaining it.”

He stood with our cups in his hands. “It’s not like I wasn’t coming back to the table. Sprite Zero, right?”

I nodded.

As he filled our cups, I thought about what he’d just said. I intrigued him? What could I have possibly done? Other than the little communication we had months ago on the Atlanta trip, we hadn’t been around each other in eight years. Could it be something from that long ago?

Sam came back and slid my drink across the table to me.

“So,” he said. “You want to know why you intrigue me.”

“That would be nice.”

He took a long drink from his cup, put it down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Why did you lie?” he asked.

I felt my face begin to flush again. I’d thought about it many times and hadn’t come to a firm conclusion, so I told him. “I have no idea.”

“That,” he said, a little loudly. “That’s what intrigues me about you.”

“That I lied?”

He shook his head. “No, that you lied to me about who you were. Maybe I’m making too much of it, but I find that interesting for some reason. Why’d you do it?”

“Why did you lie about being a baseball player?” I shot back.

He looked confused. “I didn’t lie to you about being a baseball player.”

“To that girl on the plane. The one with all the perfume.”

A smile appeared on his face. “You remember that?”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded.

“Well, that makes this even more interesting,” he said, reaching for another slice of pizza.

“Why?”

He chewed slowly, but didn’t answer right away. His eyes locked with mine. I knew what he was going to say and I briefly thought about rebutting it before he even said it. It occurred to me that maybe that’s what he wanted, so instead I stared back at him and stayed quiet.

He finally said, “Were you jealous that I was talking to her?”

“No.”

Sam was smiling like he thought I was lying. The truth was, I hadn’t felt any jealousy at all. As I remembered it, the feeling I had was one of bewilderment. At that point I had no idea he was divorced. All I knew what was that he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring, and that could very well be something he did while on the road.

“Not even a little?” he asked.

“You’re changing the subject. You lied about being a baseball player.”

“Only by omission. You lied about your name,” he said. “And you don’t know why.”

“Right.”

He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “So. We’re a couple of liars.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I have said? He was right. I sipped my soda.

Sam offered me another slice of pizza. I turned it down.

“I’ll be right back.” He stood. “Going to get a box. This’ll make for a good breakfast in the morning.”

I watched him walk to the counter and get one of the boxes. The thought of him eating cold pizza for breakfast was odd. He’d been a professional athlete, in top shape, and he still was. He must have worked out a lot if he was eating like that.

Sam put the remaining few slices in the box, looked at his watch and said, “You like beer and live music?”



. . . . .



Ten minutes later we were in a dive, a small place in the basement of a building. A man and a woman were on the stage performing acoustic cover versions of classic rock songs.

I was worried that he was taking me to a place where there would be dancing, something I occasionally enjoyed, but wasn’t really in the right frame of mind for at the time.

The place was dimly lit, with a little light being reflected off the brown walls from lamps pointed upward, casting glowing triangles toward the ceiling. The only other illumination in the bar came from the tables themselves. They were made of alternating panels of wood and glass, the glass portions having small bulbs inside that provided muted light. They were interesting, odd things I’d never seen before, lined up in front of the dark red velvet-covered benches.

I ordered a Stella Artois. Sam had a Newcastle. We sat in one of the booths near the back of the room. The music wasn’t too loud. Perfect for talking.

Sam had been playful, even teasing, in the pizza place, but his mood became more subdued in the bar. He seemed more focused on me.

“Tell me more about your job,” he said at one point, and I explained everything I hadn’t told him when we ran into each other on the Atlanta trip. He hadn’t been interested in my work then, and I’d had no intention of telling him about it at that time.

He listened intently now, only taking his eyes off of me when picking up his beer glass. He asked questions that no one had ever asked me before.

When I felt like I’d talked enough, I said, “Do you miss playing baseball?”

“Not anymore. I like my life.”

“That’s great.”

“It is. How about you? Do you like where you are in life?”

I’d spent several months trying to answer that question, and had come to the realization that I was content. I liked the direction in which I was headed. Professionally, at least, which was my only real focus. I told Sam all of that.

“So,” he said, “you’re not looking for someone special.”

“Oh, God, no. Not at all.”

“How long have you been single?”

This wasn’t a subject I wanted to discuss, but it also wasn’t an unreasonable question. “About four months.”

“Right around the time we last saw each other.”

I nodded as I sipped my beer.

“So you were recently single.”

“No,” I said. “I was still with him.”

“No wonder you gave me the brush-off.”

I wasn’t going to live that down. “That’s not why. You didn’t remember me. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember not remembering you.”

This was the most enjoyable, easy-going time I’d had with a man in…well, it was impossible to say how long. A very long time, at any rate.

The duo onstage finished a song. Sam and I applauded with the rest of the audience. Then they started playing “Leaving On A Jet Plane.”

“Speaking of leaving on a jet,” Sam said over the music, “I have an early flight tomorrow.”

It occurred to me that I did, too. The evening had gone so well that I’d even forgotten what day it was. Work was the farthest thing from my mind.

When I mentioned that we were both frequent travelers, he said, “Too bad we only ran into each other that one time.”

“Well, it’s a big country with a lot of airports. What are the chances?”

“True. Where are you headed next?” he asked.

I picked up my purse. “Phoenix.”

Sam looked at me, straight-faced. “The chances are better than you think, Claire…I mean Blair.”