Page 41 of The Flight Risk

“Okay,” I say a little too snippity, then feel immediate guilt. “Sorry. It just threw me. I don’t know what the hell is going on with me.” And now time for honesty. “I can’t concentrate on anything else but him. That can’t be normal, right?”

“Nothing about falling in love with someone is normal. We are all fools in love. Trust me.” She smirks and is no doubt thinking about Tristan.

I snort. “I’m not in love with Oakley. I don’t fall in love.” A rule that I put upon myself years ago when all the men in my life made promises they couldn’t keep. When my dad left us without a backwards glance. When I watched my mother crumple up, devastated time and time again, over all the men she was in love with leaving her high and dry. When my first hookups would up and leave the second after they came inside of me, uttering variations of the same sentiment: “Well, that was fun. We should do it again sometime.” Early on, I decided that once-in-a-lifetime love isn’t in the cards for me.

Brooke gets up from the tiny plastic chair that’s probably seen better days and places her hand on mine. “I hate to break it to you, but this is what falling in love feels like. Maybe Oakley is the one to finally bust through your hard-and-fast rule. And this is coming from someone who also used to have a hard-and-fast rule of never dating a hockey player.” She pauses and I finally look into her pretty hazel eyes. “Tess, please let him in. I think you can trust your heart with this one. Let that love in.”

The classroom door opens and kids begin to trickle inside. Their specials must be over and that’s Brooke’s cue to leave. She squeezes my hand before releasing it and heading toward the door. “Think about it. I’ll see you and Lottie tonight at the restaurant?”

I nod and lift the half-eaten cupcake. “Thanks for these, Brooke. They made my day.”

“Anything for my girl.” Brooke winks and leaves my classroom.

Brooke does in fact meet me and Lottie for a low-key birthday dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant, Avanti, in Uptown. Lottie actually dresses up for the occasion and it’s nice to see her in something other than her oversized crewneck and sweatpants. The fashion of teenagers these days has shifted from when I was in high school. It was low-rise jeans (an atrocity that should have never come back into style) and long, layered shirts for me. Lottie is in a dress, it’s simple and black, but a dress nonetheless. I wore my favorite little black cocktail dress and the green and gold heart necklace Lottie bought me. When I gushed about how much I loved her gift, Lottie brushed it off like it was no big deal. “I had some money saved from my allowance my mom sends me every month. I can buy another vinyl record next month.” Brooke dresses in her signature color: pink cocktail dress and sky-high pink heels. A stark contrast from the pink overalls and converse she wore when she came to visit me earlier.

The main reason I love coming to Avanti is their garlic loaf. It’s the best I’ve ever had. Their mushroom risotto is heaven and their service is warm and friendly.

“Do you want to share a Caesar salad?”

Lottie sticks out her tongue, clearly disgusted by any mention of vegetables. I clarify, “I’m asking Brooke, not you.”

Brooke laughs. “Sure.”

We talk about how much has changed this past year and how much I’m ready to step into my thirties. It’s a new era and I have a gut feeling there are going to be some major changes in my life on the horizon. I overhear a customer at the bar ask the bartender to change the channel from basketball to the Storm game. My heart skips a beat because even though the television is so small and nowhere near our table, I know who is going to grace that screen. The bartender fulfills the request and sure enough, there is Oakley’s handsome face, partly obscured by the goalie mask.

“Gosh, I miss Tristan. That is one part of being with a professional athlete: travel is tough. But the homecoming…is always fun. That man knows how to make up for lost time.” Brooke wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. I nudge her foot under the table and tilt my head towards Lottie. “Oops, sorry, Lottie.”

She shrugs. “Eh, I’ve heard worse.”

“What? Where?” I ask, scandalized. She’s fourteen and innocent and still a little girl. She should not be hearing worse than what Brooke just suggested.

“At school. Geez, chill, old lady.”

I gasp and clutch my necklace dramatically as if they are pearls. “I am not an old lady. I barely turned thirty less than eighteen hours ago.”

Brooke and Lottie giggle and then the waiter walks toward our table to take our order I assume. Instead he presents a very expensive bottle of white wine in my direction and sets what looks like a Shirley Temple in front of Lottie. I scan my gaze between both of them and they shake their heads, not knowing where this is coming from either.

I smile and turn to the waiter. “We didn’t order this.”

The waiter beams as he pours the white wine into my empty glass. “Yes, I know madam. This is courtesy of one Mr. Oakley.”

My heart pounds against my chest and knots twist in my stomach as my eyes dart to the screen and almost by kismet, the cameraman shows Oakley’s face. How did he know we were here?

The waiter continues, “And he also left a message. I wrote it down so I could relay it to you.”

He places the wine in the silver ice bucket and reaches into his apron to retrieve a small piece of paper. “Enjoy, ladies, and Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.” I snatch the small piece of paper out of Lottie and Brooke’s reach and read it:

You deserve all of your favorite things on your birthday. –Oakley

A lump lodges into my throat and tears well up. No man has ever done anything remotely like this for me, let alone on my birthday. He very well could have sent this message through a text. But that’s not Oakley. I am tempted to frame this note on my wall and admire the time and effort he put into coordinating this. But I know he had an accomplice because I didn’t mention where I was going for my birthday dinner. The only two people who knew about it were the two people sitting at this table.

“Fine. I might have helped,” Brooke admits, a smug smile on her face like she pulled off the greatest heist known to man.

“You little meddler.”

Lottie giggles and high-fives Brooke.