Layover Rules

Chapter Eight



“We’re going to Phoenix,” I told Alicia.

“Wait. What?”

“Not together. But I’m going there tomorrow and so is he. For a baseball series, or whatever they call it.”

“You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me,” Alicia said. “What are the chances?”

“One hundred percent, apparently.”

I had called her the minute I got home. I would have called her on the subway, but Sam accompanied me all the way to my building before going back to his place.

And I was held up for a few minutes in the lobby. The new doorman, Kenny, had been eyeing me strangely for the past few days and when I walked in that night, he said hello, I said hello back, kept walking, and then he asked me if I liked Lindsey Buckingham.

I stopped halfway to the elevator bank and turned. What kind of question was that out of nowhere?

“I’m not sure who that is,” I replied.

“From Fleetwood Mac.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m not too familiar with them. I’m really tired, so…goodnight.” I started to walk toward the elevators again.

“I thought you might not. You can’t be more than, what, twenty-five?” he said.

I didn’t like this conversation, if you could even call it that.

I kept walking and just said, “I’m a little older than that,” then felt disturbed when I realized he was trying to find out how old I was.

Kenny, for the record, must have been pushing fifty.

He said, “Goodnight, Blair,” just as the elevator doors were closing.

I was new to the building, so I didn’t want to cause any problems, but I briefly considered saying something to Carlos, the main doorman, who was very professional and probably wouldn’t stand for Kenny flirting with residents.

Lindsey Buckingham? Really? Get a new approach, Kenny, and don’t use it on me, I thought as I rode up to my floor.

“Tell me everything,” Alicia said, when I called her. “I want details. Go.”

I told her the whole story, from the bookstore encounter to the pizza joint and the bar, to the subway ride home.

“He was funny and playful and didn’t try any of that shit Trevor did early on. You know, the low voice and the staring deeply into my eyes like he was trying to put me in a trance, like he was some kind of damn vampire or something.”

“That all used to sound so good to me,” Alicia said. “But not anymore.”

Alicia and I always read the same books at the same time. We had our own little two-person book club. When we discovered erotic romance, we tore through those novels faster than anything else we read, and we both found ourselves totally smitten with those wildly dreamy alpha males.

“He’s so…” I tried to think of a better word, but I couldn’t. “Normal. That’s what he is.”

“Nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t get bored.”

I said, “Not normal as in boring—”

“I know what you mean.”

I was standing in my little kitchen. I had too much energy to sit down. “It makes me wonder what it would be like. After Trevor, you know? To date a guy who isn’t so goddamn intense all the time. Ugh.”

Even the thought of how I had to act around Trevor was exhausting to me now. Who can maintain that level of submission all the time? And to think that all along I was trying to do it to please him, to meet his lusty demands, and he had manufactured the whole thing.

“You’re doing it again,” Alicia said. “Don’t get worked up over him. It’s history.”

“I know. You’re right.”

I walked around my apartment, which didn’t take very long, but I had to move. I was walking in circles as I listened to Alicia.

“This was meant to be,” she said. “I know you said the chances were a hundred percent, but seriously, think about what’s happening here. You have to see where this goes. Maybe this Sam guy is the one. Maybe not. But in the meantime, you could have some fun.”

“I’m not even thinking about that,” I said. And if she brought up the analogy about dried up eggs again, I was going to hang up on her.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I am? Do tell.”

“You’re definitely thinking about it,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have spent so much time with him.”

“Okay, so maybe the possibility did run through my mind once or twice.”

“Or forty times. Remember when we went to see Friends With Benefits and No Strings Attached? We were totally into the idea.”

She was right. When we saw them, we debated which was the better movie, and her bringing it up again on the phone started that discussion again. She liked the first movie, while I liked the second one.

“I could do that,” I said. “I mean, nothing’s happened yet.”

“Yet,” she scoffed. “But you know he wants something to happen, and we both know you do, too.”

I thought about it for roughly a half second. “This could be just what I need. Something fun, no commitment.”

“Right. Why should guys be the only ones to go after something like that?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “I think we’ve talked you into it. You need something fun, something different, something…just something. Even if it’s just a rebound thing. So what? Hell, I’d take that right now.”

It made me realize I hadn’t asked her about her evening. “What did you do tonight?”

“Nothing as exciting as your night. Actually, it was a disaster.” She told me she met someone from Match.com, a guy named Bradley. “Not Brad. Bradley. I called him Brad once and he corrected me.”

“Really.”

“Weird, huh? Anyway,” she said, “remember that wine bar we went to a few months ago?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s where we went. His idea. So I’m thinking, okay, this guy knows his wine, I like wine. Could be a good night. But, no. He starts talking about how wine is made, which is fine for like, I don’t know, the first fifteen minutes. But he keeps going on and on and on about it, and I’m thinking, okay, this guy just read a book on wine-making and he’s trying to impress me with his knowledge or something.” She stopped and took a breath.

“Wow, that’s a lot of wine talk.”

“Too much. Way too much. It wasn’t even a conversation. It was a lecture, is what it was. But that’s not the worst part.”

Having made several trips around my apartment, I was getting a little tired of it, so I finally sat down on my couch. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“He starts telling me that certain wines are aphrodisiacs. And, of course, he’s an expert on that, too, so he starts listing the wines that supposedly make you horny.”

“I thought most alcohol made people horny,” I said.

“No, just stupid enough to make stupid sex decisions. So I’m still faking interest in his bullshit, and then—then!—he says we should get a bottle of one of the sex wines and go back to my place.”

“No shit.”

“Nope.”

“So which one did you pick?”

“Ha ha,” she mock laughed. “That would be none. I didn’t even answer him, because it got even worse.”

“Oh, no.”

“He tells me, ‘You don’t have to do anything. I’m an expert with my tongue.’”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said. “Tell me again all the good reasons for meeting this guy?”

Alicia said, “I know, right? He wasn’t anything like that in our emails or on the phone. It was like he was a different person when we met up.”

“I told you.”

Alicia and I had a vastly different view of Internet dating. She thought it was the best way to meet new people. I thought it was the best way to meet new people who act one way online and totally different when you meet them, or the best way to meet someone who will chop you up and leave various parts of your body around the city for the authorities to find.

My view wasn’t based on any personal experience. I’d never tried it. My opinion came from Alicia having not one, but more like five or six dates where the guy was totally different in person. But still she kept doing it. As for the chopping up thing, I guess I’d watched too many TV crime dramas.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s so hard to meet people. There has to be one normal guy online, right?”

“Hmmm. What are the chances you’ll find him?”

Alicia sighed and I could imagine her falling onto her side on her couch, exasperated at the thought that she’d never find “The One.”

“I’m not giving up hope yet,” she said. “But probably close to zero. You have all the luck. Speaking of that, as your best friend I’m morally obligated to encourage you to take it slow and be careful, but this time I’m not going to.”



. . . . .



There’s really nothing quite like sitting in an airport restaurant, watching your ex-boyfriend on CNN. But that’s exactly what I was doing around noon the next day.

The sound on the TV was low, and I got the waiter to turn it up so I could hear what they were saying over the looped footage of Trevor, with two FBI agents behind him. He was handcuffed, and they were walking him from his office building to a waiting car, through a scrum of aggressive reporters and camera operators.

I watched, transfixed, as the images played out above the words on the bottom of the screen: BREAKING NEWS: NYC INVESTMENT FIRM RAIDED.

I listened to the anchor explain the story. The firm wasn’t exactly raided. It was a planned search warrant execution that coincided with Trevor turning himself in to the authorities. Details were sketchy, but the gist of it was that the FBI had been investigating Trevor and his associates at Baker Capital—named after Trevor the CEO himself—for six months.

God, I was still with him for two of those…

The charges against Trevor included securities fraud, investment advisor fraud, money laundering, filing false documents with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and multiple counts of making false statements to investigators. All very serious charges, any one of which would bring serious jail-time if he were to be convicted.

In all, the reporter said, there were as many as 500 people who fell victim to Trevor’s scheme. They ended the story by comparing him to Bernie Madoff, one of the most notorious investment Ponzi schemers of the last decade.

I was so nervous I could hardly hold my phone when trying to call Alicia.

She answered: “Hey, I’m on the subway, so if I lose you—”

“Trevor’s been arrested,” I interrupted.

She almost shouted her response. “No! For what?”

I told her what I’d been watching on CNN, including the part about him being investigated while we were still together.

“This is crazy,” she said. “I’m not sure whether to laugh at him or cry for you.”

“I know you really hated him, but this sucks.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m really just worried about you. Are you okay?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I picked up a napkin to dab them away. “I’m shaking. And I have to get on an airplane in about thirty minutes.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

I wished there was, too. She was my best friend, and I needed her by my side to keep me from flipping out.

“Call me if you need to talk. I have a meeting with a potential client, and I’d normally turn my phone off but I’ll keep it on just in case.”

I had to take my eyes off the screen. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need to. I’ll only be with these people for an hour or so.”

I wished she didn’t have to go, but work was work. “I will.”

“Love you.”

“You too. Talk to you soon.”

The waiter stopped at my table. I made a point of not looking up. I didn’t want him to see my eyes.

“You can take this,” I said, pushing my plate toward the edge of the table.

“Was something wrong with it?”

I’d barely eaten any of the salad, so the plate was almost full. “It’s not the food. I’m just not as hungry as I thought.”

He picked it up. “Can I refill your diet Sprite?”

“That’d be great.” I handed him my glass, but then reconsidered, figuring I definitely could use something stronger right about now. “Actually, I’ll take a martini instead.”

I wasn’t getting on that plane without the calming assistance of a little alcohol.



. . . . .



Sam and I had made no firm plans for Phoenix, other than letting each other know when we arrived. I knew my plane would land hours before his, but I texted him on the way from the airport to the store to let him know I had made it without incident.

He wrote back: First game is tomorrow night. What time will you be done today?

I texted: 6 at the latest.

Sam: You have a date tonight.

Me: No.

Sam: That wasn’t a question.

Me: Oh…oops.

Sam: I’ll call you in a few hours.

Me: What are we doing?

Sam: It’s a surprise.

Me: What should I wear?

Sam: Something comfortable. Gotta run.

A date. My first one in a long time. Or was the other night with Sam a date? I still wasn’t sure if that counted. I just hoped I could put on a happy face, not think about Trevor, and try to forget what I’d watched on TV earlier.

Alicia called. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. God, what a morning.”

“Shit, I know. I looked it up on the Internet. He’s seriously screwed.”

“You know,” I said, “all those charges with the word ‘fraud’ in them, and that’s exactly what he is at his core.” I let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. “I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

“Are you seeing Sam tonight?”

“Yeah, he said he has a surprise for me.”

She said, “Ooohhh, excellent.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s this ‘maybe’?” she said.

I didn’t reply.

“Blair, you’re not backing out of this.”

“I know. I don’t plan to.”

“Forget Trevor. Don’t let him ruin your night. Or your life.”



. . . . .



My phone rang in the early afternoon, and I picked it up, thinking it was probably Sam, but instead found myself looking at the Caller ID on the screen telling me it was my parents.

“We just heard the news about that man.” That’s what my mother called him—that man. “We’re so worried about you,” she said.

“I know, Mom, but you don’t have to worry. I haven’t even spoken to him in four months.” I paused and let that sink in. “It’s been over for a while.”

I had gone into the office to take the call with the door closed. My parents, who I hadn’t spoken to in almost seven months due to my relationship with Trevor, were calling because they had seen him on the news and were concerned that I was involved somehow. It was an understandable fear, and I was trying to put their minds at ease.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” my mother asked.

My father was on the line, too, but other than saying “hello” to me, he remained silent, letting my mother conduct the inquisition.

“Because I’m twenty-six,” I snapped. “I wasn’t going to come running to you because I broke up with my boyfriend.”

“It doesn’t matter how old you are, Blair, we’re still your parents and if you need us—”

“I don’t,” I interrupted, then realized how harsh that sounded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s okay. So you left him? Not the other way around?” my mother asked.

I didn’t want to tell her that it was technically Trevor who ended things by telling me I needed to go. But I’d had every intention of leaving him. He had just gotten there first.

I didn’t feel like going into the details, so I just said, “Yeah, I ended it. Why? Does that surprise you?”

“Oh, Blair,” she said, sounding disappointed in me. “Why are you so argumentative?”

Before I could answer, my father said, “We just want to help.”

Ugh. There it was again. Someone offering me help. Aside from Alicia letting me stay at her place for those first few months, and Beth recommending me for the promotion—two things that I absolutely needed help with—I didn’t want anyone rushing to my side to assist me. Trevor’s smothering “help” was one of the things that made me want to get out of the relationship.

“Help with what?” I asked my father.

“Getting you back on your feet,” my mother answered. “I mean, as much as we can.”

“I have my own place,” I said. I left it at that. I didn’t need to tell them that I’d been saving up while living with Trevor, and that I had stayed with Alicia for a while to save up even more.

“Well, that’s…that’s good.” My mother’s tone didn’t match the words. They knew how much I made at my job, and that living in Manhattan was extremely expensive, just within reach for me, but she didn’t go into all that like she’d done in the past.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, wanting to reassure them so I could get off the phone. Our relationship had been more than strained over most of the last year, and this phone conversation had already been more than I wanted to deal with.

My father said, “You know I can call Bob Rantham if you need me to.”

Bob Rantham was a lifelong friend of my father’s, and a lawyer.

“For what?” I said.

“Just in case.”

“I’m not in any trouble. I haven’t done anything.”

My mother changed the subject. “You know we don’t have a lot, but if you run into money troubles we can try to help. Or you can always—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted. “We’ve been over this a million times.”

“I know,” she said, sounding disappointed.

What she was going to suggest was that I move back home for a while. This had been an ongoing matter of debate for a couple of years before I met Trevor. They had always argued that I could live in New Jersey and commute into the city when I needed to, either to go to the office or to the airport. I always argued that I was an adult and I didn’t need to be living at home. They would eventually back off after I said that, but it wouldn’t be much longer than a month or so before they raised the subject again.

I thought about telling them I was up for a promotion, but I just wanted to get off the phone. Instead I said I was tired and really needed to get going. My mother asked me to please keep in touch and I agreed, albeit grudgingly.



. . . . .



I left the store a little early so I could go back to my hotel and get ready for the evening. Sam had said to wear something comfortable, but that was pretty vague. I always brought along some casual clothing, though, so I showered and got dressed in jeans and a lightweight red shirt, and Sam called just before six o’clock.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“I forgot to ask where you’re staying.”

I told him, and he said he was staying at a hotel just down the block. He said he’d pick me up in the lobby.

When he got there, he was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and leather boots. His hair was still a little damp, and just long enough to make little curls around the tops of his ears. He also had a five-o’clock shadow, a look that some guys can pull off as sexy, while others just look like they were lazy that day. Sam’s definitely fell under the “sexy” category.

I was struck by his casualness, and it immediately made me think of Trevor, who would never go out dressed like that or unshaved. I mentally shook myself. I knew I had to stop thinking about Trevor and comparing Sam to him. Maybe that would come in time. But it was certainly more difficult now that Trevor would be on the news for the foreseeable future.

Sam came up to me with an admiring smile. “You look great.”

“Thanks, so do you.” I tried not to let my eyes wander up and down his body too long.

“Let’s grab a quick bite to eat and then the fun starts.” He started walking.

“So you’re saying dinner won’t be fun?”

He chuckled. “I’ll do what I can but I doubt it will top the rest of the night.” He stopped as we got to the hotel door. A revolving door. “Careful, these things can be tricky.”

“Uh, yeah, I think I remember.”

“After you.”

I felt his hand on the small of my back and I slightly shivered. I hadn’t expected him to touch me.

We went to a place that served mostly bar food. Again, Sam wasn’t trying to impress me with a fancy restaurant.

“Ever tried buffalo?” he asked when we sat down.

“Not that I know of. Though with all the stories in the news recently about the odd things being found in food…who knows?”

“I think that’s mostly horsemeat, and I assure you there’s none in the buffalo. It’s great stuff. I had it the last time I was here.”

We traded stories about the places we’d traveled. Sam had been to a lot more cities than I had.

As we ate our buffalo burgers—which I enjoyed—and drank beer, I got up the nerve to ask him about his marriage.

“That’s a tough subject,” he said.

“You’re a tough guy.”

One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile as he caught my taunting tone.

The restaurant was loud, so he didn’t have to whisper, but he did lower his voice as he told me the story of how his marriage ended.

“It started after the injury,” he began….

Sandra, his wife, was wonderful after the surgery. She nursed him back to health, at least to the point where he was getting around the house on his own, though with the help of crutches.

But she couldn’t stay put very long, he told me. She started encouraging him to get out of the house They had friends who she wanted to do things with, and she became increasingly frustrated that he didn’t.

“It took a long time for me to admit that I was depressed. My career, everything I’d worked hard for and dreamed about since I was six years old was gone in a matter of seconds.”

She urged him to get help, go talk to someone, anyone, just get help. She organized an intervention—what Sam called an “ambush”—of team members, coaches, all kinds of people in the Yankees organization.

“Maybe if Steinbrenner had been alive to drop by the house, things would have been different,” he joked.

I didn’t know much of anything about baseball, but I think almost everyone knows the famed, longtime owner of the Yankees, if not from watching their games, at least from watching Seinfeld.

He paused and sipped his beer.

I said, “And you didn’t want to admit that you needed help.”

He cut his eyes at me. “Not at that time,” he said. “There were fights. Not physical fights. Arguing, yelling, that kind of thing, late into the night. Late into almost every night, actually.” He let out a little puff of laughter that was heavy with disgust or regret or something like it. “We even started arguing about stupid little things. What kind of laundry detergent we should have. What time the mail usually came. Stupid crap like that. Proxy fights, is what they were. I only know to call them that now because I did eventually see someone, after I had a panic attack and didn’t know what it was.”

I looked at him, confident and strong, and it was almost impossible to imagine him in the state he was describing. “It’s good that you saw someone.”

“But,” he said, “it wasn’t soon enough for her. I had to do it on my time, when I was ready, and she…well, she had a different idea.”

There was no pain in his eyes, despite it being one of the most selfish stories I’d ever heard.

“Eventually, she filed for divorce and I didn’t fight it.”

“Was she working?” I didn’t want to ask directly, but I figured she probably got a good bit of his money when she left, too.

He shook his head. “She was a kindergarten teacher when we met, but quit after we got married. She’s remarried now, but I don’t think she’s working. And, in case you were wondering, she married a guy who plays for the Red Sox.”

My lack of baseball knowledge left me looking blankly at him.

“Boston,” he clarified. “Boston Red Sox? The Yankees’ biggest rival.”

“Oh, okay…”

Sam gave me a look of disbelief. “How can you live in New York City as long as you have and not know anything about the Yankees?”

“Hey, I’m not into sports. I mean, at all. Seriously. But I knew the name Steinbrenner.”

Sam swallowed his beer and held up a hand. “Probably from Seinfeld, right?”

I tried to keep a straight face, but it betrayed me. “Maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, that’s the guy she was sleeping with at the end of our marriage.”

“Oh, no.”

Sam waved it off. “I take responsibility for not getting the help I needed and not getting my life back on track.”

“She still shouldn’t have cheated.”

“I know, but I kind of set the stage for her to stray.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was blaming himself. I couldn’t relate to that and I guess it showed on my face based on what he said next.

“Don’t get me wrong, I know she’s responsible for her actions.” He smiled. “That’s another thing that came out in my therapy. It sounds cliché to say it, but it’s true: I’ll never forget, but I have forgiven. Just to free myself, really. Enough about me. Your turn.”

I’d been dreading this. I hadn’t yet decided what to tell him about my last relationship with Trevor, if anything at all.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“You’re married,” he said, a serious expression on his face.

“What? No!”

“Blair, I’m kidding.” He smiled. “Plus, it wouldn’t matter if you were.”

“Oh, really.”

The waitress stopped by our table to ask if we needed anything. Sam asked for the check, paid her on the spot, told her to keep the change, and said to me, “You can tell me the long story later. We have to get going.”

We stood.

“Hang on a second,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it matter if I was married?”

“Because we’re old acquaintances, just hanging out. Nothing’s going on, right?”

The sinking feeling in my stomach bothered me. I shouldn’t have reacted that way to what he had just said. He was right—there was nothing going on between us, at least nothing more than old acquaintances hanging out, which was the plain truth.

“Right,” I said. “Where are we going?”

“To a concert.”



. . . . .



Sam hadn’t bothered to ask if I liked the band My Morning Jacket. Judging by the enthusiasm he displayed during the show, I figured he must have assumed that everyone was a fan.

I wasn’t very familiar their music. I’d heard some of their songs on the radio, but didn’t realize it until they played a few that I recognized.

My music taste ran more along the lines of female pop and rock bands, mostly from the ‘80s. Sure, they were a little before my time, but I was always in the mood for a song by The Go-Go’s or Heart or Blondie.

So I was surprised that by the end of the concert I found myself having a great time. My Morning Jacket put on a fun show. Watching Sam having such a great time made me enjoy it even more, and by the end of the night I was reminding myself to download some of the songs I liked from iTunes.

It was just before 1 a.m. when we got back to my hotel.

“I hope you don’t mind me keeping you out so late on a work night,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly from yelling at the concert.

We were standing outside the hotel. I was leaning on a section of wall between two large windowpanes. Sam stood close, but not too close. I felt my chest swell with short breaths, anticipating something, even a simple goodnight peck on the cheek. Lips would have been fine, too. So much for that whole old acquaintances hanging out thing.

“I don’t mind being out late. I had a great night. Thank you.”

“They’re one of my favorite bands.” Sam’s facial expression changed from a smile to the kind of look someone gets when they’re realizing something. “Your long story. You never told me.”

I shrugged it off and said, “The night kind of got away from us.”

I had completely forgotten about saying my relationship history was a long story, and was a little worried that I’d have to tell it now, capping off a good night with something unpleasant.

“Maybe tomorrow?” I said.

“Sure. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” Please don’t apologize, you have no idea how grateful I am to escape without telling it, I thought.

“I’ll be busy tomorrow night with the first game, but it’s starting earlier than usual to fit in with the East Coast TV schedule. How about a late dinner?”

“Sounds perfect.”

We walked closer to the hotel entryway and I stopped.

There was an awkward silent moment and it struck me that, had this been someone like Trevor, there would have been intense staring deep into my eyes, followed by the slow lean-in, with maybe a lift of my chin with his finger, before the kiss.

Realizing now that it was nothing more than a well-scripted and probably well-practiced act, I was glad Sam wasn’t trying anything like that, but I still found myself a little disappointed when he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” and then turned to walk down the sidewalk.