Читать книгу Mike, Mike and Me - Wendy Markham - Страница 13

The past

“Can I get you another one?” the bartender asked, gesturing at my glass that now contained only melting ice cubes and a sliver of lime.

I contemplated the question. The first drink had gone down pretty easily, and I still had more than an hour to kill in the airport bar before Mike’s plane was due to land. But I didn’t want to be wasted when he got here, and the drinks weren’t exactly a bargain.

“Go for it,” a voice urged, and I glanced up to see that it had come from the guy on the next bar stool.

I immediately noticed that he was good-looking. I mean, how could I not? I was a red-blooded female, even if I was just biding my time until the love of my life stepped through the jetway.

Yes, this guy was good-looking. He had a brooding, Johnny Depp thing going on around the eyes. Plus he had style, no doubt about that. His dark hair was cut fashionably long on top, short on the sides, and brushed his collar in back. In other words, he had a mullet.

Don’t laugh.

Back in the summer of 1989, mullets were not reserved for rednecks and butch lesbians alone. No, mullets were the happening hairstyle of the moment, and this guy had one.

He also had on a pair of baggy jeans, a white T-shirt and a short black-and-white patterned jacket with shoulder pads.

Hair and clothes: A plus for effort.

But he was a babe even beyond those variables that were within his control. His dark eyes were fringed by thick, sooty lashes. There was a deep cleft in his chin and deeper dimples on either side of his mouth when he grinned.

He was grinning at me, and God help me, I found myself grinning right back at him.

He told me to go for it.

Yeah, and he was talking about the drink, I reminded myself.

Aloud, I said, “Go for it? That’s easy for you to say.”

“Well, why not? Oh, I get it. You’re a plainclothes pilot, right? You’re about to take off for Paris or something, and it would be irresponsible to take the controls after a couple of drinks.”

It wasn’t that hilarious, but I laughed as though it were the funniest thing I’d ever heard. “No, I’m not a plainclothes pilot. I’m just…”

“Broke?” he guessed, a little too close to truth for comfort.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, this one’s on me anyway. Another round,” he told the bartender, who nodded and headed for the top shelf and two fresh glasses before I could protest.

“Mine wasn’t Tangueray the first time,” I pointed out to the good-looking and fashionable guy, who shrugged.

“Mine was. And I’m treating.”

“Thanks. But…”

“But?”

I wanted to tell him that I had a boyfriend. But I didn’t know how to do it without making it sound as though I thought he was interested in me, which I didn’t. Or, even worse, as though I was interested in him. Which I wasn’t.

I mean, he was just a polite guy politely buying me a drink. To be polite.

Did I mention that in addition to being polite, he was very good-looking? Fashionable, too.

“Never mind,” I told him, and attempted to shift my attention elsewhere. Because he might be buying me a drink, but that didn’t mean we were now a couple.

I mean, he was a total stranger, and I was on the verge of being reunited with Mike.

“Mike,” the total stranger said just then out of the blue, and I looked at him, startled.

“Excuse me?”

What was he, some kind of mind reader?

Or maybe I’d just imagined it. Maybe he hadn’t said Mike at all. Maybe he’d said something similar. Like…

Might.

Or bike.

Oh, yeah. Bike. That made a lot of sense.

“Mike,” he repeated, sticking his hand out in front of me.

“Mike?” I echoed.

“That’s my name.”

No way.

He was Mike?

I decided the coincidence was some great cosmic sign. A sign that meant…

Well, to be honest, I had no idea what it meant. But it couldn’t be good.

“I’m Beau,” I said, because he was waiting.

“Nice to meet you, Beau.”

As I watched the bartender twisting lime into our fresh drinks, I told myself that I had to get out of here. Now. I would pretend I had to go to the bathroom and just not come back.

“Where are you headed?”

Again with the mind reading? I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how he could possibly know.

“To the ladies’ room,” I admitted, starting to slide off my stool.

I stopped when he burst out laughing.

“Hey, I hear it’s great at this time of year,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The ladies’ room. Never mind. Bad joke.”

The bartender set down our drinks. I reached for mine, needing it desperately.

He went on, “I meant, where are you headed from here? Flying someplace on vacation? Or business?”

“Oh! No, I’m just…I’m meeting somebody’s plane.” And I’m head over heels in love with him. So stop flirting.

Are you flirting?

Or is it my imagination?

“How about you?” I asked him, after taking a sip of my second drink. The second drink I shouldn’t have been having in the first place.

“I landed a while ago. My luggage missed the connection at O’Hare so I have to wait for it to get here on the next flight.”

“You’re in New York on vacation?”

“I just moved here a few months ago.”

“Oh.”

He just moved here. Which meant that he lived here. Unlike Mike. My Mike.

“So you live here, too,” he pointed out conveniently.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Upper West Side.” I didn’t want to ask him where he lived because it really didn’t matter because I was never going to see him again.

Then again, it seemed rude not to ask, so I did.

“Lower East Side.”

“East Village?”

“Lower.”

“SoHo?”

“Lower,” he repeated with a shrug. “Chinatown, really.”

“You live in Chinatown?”

“Yeah. But I’m not Chinese,” he said, deadpan.

“You’re kidding. You’re not?” I asked, also deadpan.

“No. People make that mistake all the time, though.”

“They do?”

“Yeah, you know, they’ll ask me for my recipe for kung pao chicken or they’ll want to know how to play piaji, and I—”

“Piaji?” I cut in.

“Yeah, it’s a traditional Chinese game.” He grinned.

“Really?”

“Really. And actually, I really do know how to play. You soak up a lot when you live in the neighborhood, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, I bet you know how to eat Sunday brunch like nobody’s business.”

“What?”

“Living on the Upper West Side. Forget it. I was trying to be funny again.”

“Oh.” I cracked a smile.

“I should probably give up my dream of starring in my own sitcom, right?”

I laughed.

So did he. Then he said, “Actually, I’m serious.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I really do want my own sitcom someday. Dream big, I always say.”

I honestly couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, so I just shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

“But for now, I’m working entry level at an ad agency. What do you do, Beau?”

“For a living? I’m a production assistant.”

“What kind of production assistant?”

“You know that show J-Squared?”

“Janelle Jacques? Yeah, I know it. You work for her?”

“Yeah. I’m a production assistant on the show.”

“You’re in the industry?”

“The Janelle Jacques industry? You bet,” I quipped.

He was already reaching into his pocket. “Here,” he said, and pulled out a small pale blue rectangle.

“What is it?” I asked, though it was obviously a card. His card.

“My card,” he said unnecessarily. “So you can get in touch with me if…”

“If Janelle becomes a sitcom producer and is looking for somebody to star in a new show?”

He smiled. “Yeah, or if you just feel like, you know…”

I did know, and I again wanted to blurt out that I was in love. With somebody else. Some other Mike.

But we weren’t talking about love.

“…getting in touch with me,” this Mike finished with a shrug.

I felt guilty taking his card, but I did. I shoved it into my bag without looking at it.

“Thanks,” I told him. “For the card and for the drink.”

“You’re welcome. What time does your friend’s flight get in?”

“Any second now,” I lied, and looked around as though I almost expected to see Mike—my Mike—lurking behind a potted palm, spying on us.

Not that there were any potted palms in the airport lounge. Even if there were, Mike wasn’t the spying, lurking type. He totally trusted me.

Poor sap.

No, just kidding. I was entirely trustworthy. I had no intention of cheating on him.

Yet.

“Oh, my God…look at that,” said the guy with whom I would not be cheating on Mike.

Yet.

I followed his gaze up to the television over the bar, where a special news bulletin was unfolding. The room had fallen silent as everybody seemed to notice the television at once. In mute horror, we watched a passenger jet crash-land and burst into a fireball.

“Where is it?” I heard somebody ask.

“Somewhere in the Midwest,” came the official-sounding reply.

My stomach turned over. Mike was flying over the Midwest.

Calm down, Beau. Thousands of people are flying over the Midwest right now. What are the odds that it’s his plane?

“What airline is it?” somebody else was asking.

“Looks like United.”

I gripped the arms of my bar stool to keep from toppling over. Mike was flying on United.

“Beau…are you okay?”

I looked up to see my companion watching me worriedly.

“My…friend is on United, flying from California. What if—?”

“Shh, listen…” He reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly as the news bulletin proceeded.

I was too frantic to focus; I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I wanted to bolt, but I was afraid to move. I was afraid to breathe. It was as though the slightest movement could carry the tragedy home.

Still fixated on the television screen, Mike told me, “That plane was headed to O’Hare from Denver. Your friend was flying from California? Was it a direct flight?”

“Yes. But what if—”

“Do you have the flight number?”

“Yes.” Somehow, I managed to produce the scribbled information from the bottom of my bag, and handed it over with a trembling hand. My heart was racing and it felt as though a giant rubber band were compressing my chest.

Mike compared the scribbled flight number to the television screen, double-checking a few times before telling me, “The plane that crashed was flight 232. Your friend was on flight 194.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

I could feel tears springing to my eyes. I’d never been so relieved in my entire life.

Then I remembered that I had just held hands with a stranger.

Shit.

Reaching for my glass, I drained what remained of my drink in one long gulp, thinking it might steady my nerves. I plunked the glass back on the bar, heaved a shuddering sigh and imagined hurtling myself into Mike’s arms in the near future.

“The friend you’re meeting here…is she a she, or is she a he?”

I looked up to see the other Mike watching me. It dawned on me that even in my panic a few moments ago—my hand-holding panic—I couldn’t bring myself to say the B word in front of him.

“Boyfriend.” I said it now, then spelled out for good measure, “She’s a he, well, he’s a he, and he’s my boyfriend. Not my friend. I don’t know why I called him my friend.”

“Maybe because you didn’t want me to know you were involved with somebody else?”

I feigned shock. Now my heart was racing all over again, dammit.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said before I could respond. “You’re thinking I’m a cocky son of a bitch. Right?”

Fortified by gin, I said, “Well…kind of, yes.”

“The thing is, I would have asked you out, and not just because you work in TV. I would have asked you out before I knew that, because you’re gorgeous and I like your laugh and like I said, I’m new in town.”

“How new?”

“New enough not to have a girlfriend.”

Yet.

I was sure that wouldn’t last long. The city wasn’t exactly teeming with cute, stylish, witty, straight guys.

But I already had one of those, so I had no choice but to release this one back into the wild.

“Listen,” he said, “if it doesn’t work out with your boyfriend, give me a call.”

“It’ll work out with him,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt.

“Well, if you find yourself casting a sitcom, give me a call.”

I laughed. “Will do.”

But I was sure I wouldn’t.

So sure that the next morning, as Mike lay snoring in my bed, I crept across the room and removed the blue business card from my bag. I tossed it right into the garbage can without a second glance.

After all, Mike was back. My Mike. And I wasn’t interested in anybody but him.

Yet…