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“Hey, it isn’t too late to change all that.” Claire pauses, and I’m not sure what she expects me to say. If only I knew what I wanted. “Tom, I’m sorry I brought it up, but I truly believe you’ll figure it out.”
I grunt and run my free hand through the damp grains of sand while staring out at the dark ocean.
“Hey, before I let you go…” Claire suddenly sounds more upbeat, even playful.
“What?”
“Who chooses to drive from LA to Toronto? If the client’s wealthy, why wouldn’t they fly?”
I hear the smile in her words, and I’m grateful for the shift in our chat. “I dunno. It’s an excellent question and one I’ve been wondering too.”
Leighton, the polished woman from earlier tonight, springs to mind. She doesn’t strike me as one to prolong anything.
“I can’t imagine many people with the means would sign up for a road trip like this.” My sister’s curiosity, something strong and innate in her, is piqued and easily recognizable in the upbeat lilt to her voice.
“You’re right. Gus said it’s rare to get a booking for a long haul. Most people don’t want to give up the time. It’s way faster to fly.”
“Maybe it’s a fear of flying?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you know most people refer to the condition as aerophobia but the technical name is aviophobia, and it’s more common than you’d think. It adversely affects mil—”
“Claire,” I groan. She’s famous for dropping random facts into a conversation no matter if it’s interesting, appropriate, or otherwise.
“What?” She sounds genuinely perplexed and I’m a jerk. She means no harm.
“Thanks for that, but I should go now. I’m tired.” I bite my tongue to keep the smart-ass in me from tacking on, “And I don’t care.”
We say our goodbyes, and I promise to let her know when I’m back in Toronto and that I’ll call Mom.
Then I sit on the beach for close to an hour, trying to figure out what I’ll do once done with this drive for Gus. Paige’s proposition to return to Project Miranda is tempting but also too convenient.
Africa doesn’t solve anything.
Wouldn’t I be doing what I always do, taking the easy way out and only delaying the inevitable?
It’s time for me to grow up and commit to something other than a good time.
With heavy eyelids, I drag my ass to the hotel room, shower, and slip into the bed. My head no sooner hits the pillow than the phone rings.
“Fuck.” It’s an unknown number, and normally I wouldn’t answer it, but since I’m away from home and on a job, I should get it. “Hello.”
“Tom? Tim?” A familiar voice stumbles over my name. “This is Leighton Price, and I need you to drive me home.”
“What?” I push up on my elbow and flick on the nightstand lamp. “It’s past midnight.”
“I’m fully aware of what time it is,” she snaps. “I don’t have a ride. Are you my driver or not?”
“Well, if I’m your driver, it would help if you remembered my name. It’s Tom.” I pause to give her time to apologize or make light of the mix-up. Nothing.
Rankled, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Uh, have you ever heard of a taxi, or maybe an Uber or Lyft?” Usually this would be a joke—I can’t resist having some fun—but I sound more snarky or annoyed. This isn’t like me.
I’m tired.
And this woman.
Even if Leighton Price and I will never be friends—she isn’t my kind of person—I believe in letting people be so long as they aren’t hurting anyone. Also, she’s the client.
