Still, I liked this part. The clean-up. The quiet. There was something comforting about putting things back in order, physical order, at least, even when the emotional kind was messier.
I tossed the last blanket into the cart, checked every seat one last time, then I grabbed my things from the jump seat, slung my tote bag over my shoulder, and headed to the back of the cabin, where Rose was already waiting, arms crossed, hair in a low bun that somehow still looked perfect.
“Finally,” she whispered. “If I don’t inhale a croissant in the next ten minutes, I’m going to pass out.”
“Please, I need one the size of my head,” I said, falling into step beside her. “With a coffee strong enough to reset my life.”
“Followed by a nap,” She smirked.
We laughed under our breath as we stepped off the plane and into the jet bridge, our steps syncing without effort. My hair is frizzy, the makeup is half-worn, but we still walk like we own the terminal.
* * *
By the time we got to the hotel, I was running on fumes and caffeine ambition.
But the second I stepped into the room, I felt like I could rally. The smell of clean sheets, the feel of blackout curtains, and that rainfall shower definitely give me hope.
Rose and I always book connecting rooms withdouble beds, but the doors between them stay open the entire trip, unless we havevisitors, of course.
We move in sync, shoes kicked off, bags dumped, uniforms unzipped and tossed in a pile that future-us would deal with. “I need a ten-minute shower, or I will actually cease to exist,” Rose called out from her room.
“Make it five, and I’ll let you use my leave-in conditioner,” I yelled back, already halfway into the bathroom.
We had one real rule during our layovers. Quick showers. That was it. A shower just long enough to rinse off recycled air, sweat, and whatever soul-sapping energy clings to you after an eight-hour flight. The water hit hot, and I breathed out slowly as mascara traced little rivers down my face. I didn’t even wash my hair, just twisted it into a low bun and let my skin breathe.
Within twenty minutes, we were out the door, oversized sunglasses on, glossy lips, sneakers clean enough to count as cute. Ready for coffee, croissants, and a couple of hours of pretending we live here.
“I saw you talking to a hot passenger,” Rose said as we stepped out onto the cobblestone street. “Tall, tan, business class energy, but with first class face.” She continued as I gave her a look.
“That’s not a real scale.” I shot back.
“Well, let me tell you something. It should be,” she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses. “He looked like hereads on purpose and probably orders whiskey without blinking.”
“Jack and ginger, actually.”
She grinned. “And you remembered it.”
“It’s my job.”
“No, Sam. That’s not your job. Your job is to make and deliver the drinks, not to remember the drink order after the flight.”
“So?” I shrugged. “He was nice. We talked a little, nothing major.” Rose gave me a side glance. “You were smiling. And not in your ‘here’s your hot towel, sir’ way.” I shook my head. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Because I’m also pretty sure Captain Morris a.k.a. Captain Flirt in 38C was giving me eyes.” I laughed. “Wait, the guy with the navy sweatshirt, and the smug smirk?”
“Yep. He’s one of the relief pilots for the return leg. Said he’s deadheading but might ‘see me around.’”
“Oh, he absolutely meant that in the ‘i-want-to-be-part-of-your-layover kind of way.”
“Obviously, but he’s an asshole, and he’s the type of man that has every flight attendant on a chokehold, and probably a text away from his bed.”
“Well, it’s not his fault that he is hot, and some of us are desperately in need of… well, companionship during layovers.” She rolled her eyes at me and made a joke about it.
We turned the corner toward a café we found last year on a similar layover, gold bistro chairs, tinypastries, and the best espresso on this side of the Seine. “This is why we do it,” Rose said as we slid into a sidewalk table.
“Ten hours of recycled air, crying babies, and fragile egos... for this.”
“For buttery carbs and men who flirt and make eye contact like it’s a sport?”
