“No, no. no.” I interrupted her. “That was you leaving all those rude-ass comments all this time? Following my sex-life? Saying things that you knew would hurt my feelings?”

“First of all, you decided to blog about your sex life. I didn’t force you. Second, are you really going to sit there and talk to me about hurting someone’s feelings?”

“You once wrote “You’re a slut,” in the comments.”

“No,” she said, smiling. “I said that you were ‘behaving’ slutty—which you were. Big difference.”

“You said I needed to grow the fuck up.”

“You did.” She smiled again. “And from what I’ve been reading over the past few years, you have. But if we’re going to discuss things we’ve both said, didn’t you once call me a “Backstabbing Bitch,” amongst other things, on your blog? And also, for your never published Times article?”

I sighed.

“I think we can both be mature and throw the mean comments under the bridge now. Don’t you think?”

“Yes...”

“Good. Now, back to this deal. In order for it to work, you’d have to turn eighty percent of the blog posts into more of a narrative. You can keep ten to fifteen of your favorite ones and have them printed as is, and you may have to do a few male-point-of-view chapters. It’d have to be super-fast, and you’d have to something unique with the chapter headings to separate the blog posts. Maybe airport gates—A1, A2, et cetera, for chapter headings? It would just have to be something non-chapter like, because they’d like to do an advanced publication for this.”

I leaned back in my chair as she continued.

“You should know that every editor I pitched this to wanted an immediate meeting, and I was as discreet as I could be. Before I could even suggest an auction, Penguin put this deal on the table and their promotional teams are already salivating to go the extra mile. What do you say?”

My mind was still spinning, my heart was still racing. “I need time to think about it.”

“What? Which part exactly needs to be thought about?”

“The part where the guy I fell in love with is in the story, the part where I’ll be putting him and our relationship out for the public. I know we’re over now, but—” I paused. “I’m still in love with him.”

“Understandable.” She nodded, lawyer-like. “You can change his name, distort a few of the facts. The deal is packaged for you to have creative freedom. It’s meta-fiction.”

“I just...” I shut the folder. “I’m honored, Kimberly. But this is way too fast. Thirty minutes ago, I despised you. Fifteen minutes ago, I tolerated you.”

“And now?”

“Now, I regret the way I’ve thought about you all these years.”

“It’s water under the bridge.” She leaned forward, tapping my hand. “Take all the time you need to think about this.”

“Do you really mean that, or does that phrase still mean the same thing as it did years ago?”

“Of course, it does.” She put her hand on her chest, laughing. “You’ve got until the end of the week.”

GATE C40

JAKE

Present Day

Penguin Acquires $2M Rights to Meta-Fiction Account of Elite Airways Stewardess’ Steamy Affair with Pilot

—The New York Times

I stared at the black and bold headline—wanting to believe the words were some type of joke, but the accompanying article held no humor.

Gillian Taylor, formerly published as “Taylor G.” was quoted as saying, “It was a very turbulent affair that occurred between the two of us. And yes, we did risk a lot by being in some of the places we were together. But through the ups and downs, I fell in love with this man and I wouldn’t change anything about the experience for the world. Well, minus our own personal ending in real life, of course.”

When asked if the subject of her novel had any fucking idea about what was happening, any idea about the fact that she was about to tell this story, she gave a short, “No comment.”

I couldn’t even finish reading the article in its entirety, not when I managed to make it through her short bio that detailed her previous time in publishing. Time she didn’t even think to share with me on the night I told her everything.

Everything...

Here I was, once again, reading about someone’s actions in my life via the ink of the press instead of getting the words in person. Once again, I was used and quickly betrayed, and someone I actually loved became another disappointment. Just like everyone else.

GATE C41

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

I took a cab to Jake’s apartment around three in the morning, my heart unable to stand being ignored by him for another week. As the driver carelessly sped across the city streets, my anxiety rose with every click of the running meter.

“You alright back there?” the driver asked. “You like you’re about to vomit in my car.”

“I’m not going to vomit in your car.”

“You better not.” He eyed me through the rearview mirror. “I’ll have to charge you double for that. No, triple.”

I let out a sigh and kept my head turned toward the window, attempting to focus on the sight of Manhattan instead of my emotions.

When the cab finally pulled up in front of The Madison, I handed the driver a couple twenties and rushed right up the steps.

“Wait a minute, Miss.” Jeff held up his hand, not opening the door for me. “How may I help you tonight?”

“I’m here to talk to Jake.”

“I don’t know a Jake.”

“Mr. Weston, Jeff,” I said. “You know who I’m talking about. I need to see him.”

He gave me a sympathetic look and slowly shook his head. “He put you on his ‘Not Welcome’ list.”

“What?”

“You’ve been on it for weeks. I’m not supposed to let you in, and you’re actually banned from the property. Would you like me to arrange another cab for you?”

I was silent. I wasn’t even sure what to say.

Near tears, I took a couple steps back, but Jeff began to open the door for me.

“Hurry up,” he said, looking away and giving me a chance to rush inside.

I headed straight for the elevators, using the key Jake had given me to get up to his floor—hoping like hell it still worked. When the car began to move, I breathed a sigh of relief.

With every floor that passed, I attempted to calm my nerves, but it was no use. By the time I arrived to his level, I was an even bigger mess of emotions.

I walked over to his door and knocked five times.

No answer.

I knocked five more times, a little louder.

No answer.

I kicked at the door a few times—saying his name, and Jake finally answered, wearing nothing but a pair of lounge pants. Looking as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, water from his hair dripped onto his bare chest, and the familiar, intoxicating scent of his body wash wafted toward me.

“Thank you for finally answering the door,” I said, noticing the imprint of his cock through his pants.