“Wait!” I shout, waving my arm overhead as I approach my gate, my chest heaving as I bend over to catch my breath, a stitch piercing through my side. “I’m here, I’m here,” I pant, showing my boarding pass on my phone to the gate attendant.
“Unfortunately, you’re two minutes too late, the door has shut and boarding has ended.”
“What?” I gasp. “But it’s only 8:47 and my fight doesn’t depart till nine.”
“Exactly. Boarding ends at 8:45 promptly.” She stares at me, her face stoic.
“Please, I’m begging you. Just let me on. I didn’t realize my phone wasn’t charging and it died while I was sleeping so I missed my alarm.” I plead my case with her but it’s clear it’s not doing a thing.
“Ma’am, please step over to the customer service desk. They’ll book you on the next available flight.”
I groan and walk over to the desk, explaining what happened when I see the door open again and the pilot exit the flight, waving toward someone.
“Ma’am,” the man behind the counter explains, “the next flight we can get you on doesn’t depart until tonight at midnight.”
“What? Seriously, there’s nothing else?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Sir, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have you on our flight.” I look over toward the pilot who juts his hand out toward a man who has me doing a double take.
“Hey,” I say, stepping away from the desk. “I know him.” I point to the man who is the stranger I ran into in front of the Eiffel Tower.
“I highly doubt you know him, ma’am. That is the owner and CEO of this airline.”
“What? Seriously? Why is he taking a commercial flight?”
“Probably a quality check but you’d have to ask him that.”
“Hey,” I shout toward the man.
“I didn’t mean seriously ask him,” the man behind the counter scolds me. “Do you want to be booked on the red-eye flight or not?”
“Now wait a minute.” I walk toward the gate agent again as she ushers the stranger and the pilot through the door onto the gangway. “If the door is open, can’t I go in? I know him. He knows me,” I say, pointing toward his back.
“You know him?” she says condescendingly.
“Yes—hey, Mr. Eiffel Tower!” I shout after him, having no idea how to address him.
He stops in his tracks, slowly turning around to look at me. He squints at me, then recognition falls across his face and I smile.
“Can you vouch for me? They won’t let me on the flight because I kind of overslept and barely made it, but I told them you know me so can you just tell them so I can get on the flight because the only other flight they say they ha—”
“Sir, do you know this woman?” the gate agent asks, interrupting me.
He looks me slowly up and down, running his hand over his whispered jaw that is now dark with a heavy shadow. “Never seen her before,” he replies before turning back around and walking away. The gate agent smirks, slamming the door shut as my mouth falls open in shock.
“Rude!”
“Thank you, Miss Flowers,” my first graders say in unison before I dismiss them from their first day of school.
The summer flew by which is usually a universally agreed upon bad thing but not this time. I’ve been itching to start my new job at Crestwood. I spent the summer learning everything I could about the school, crafting the perfect introductory email that not only introduced me to the parents but also detailed my educational background and my passion for learning and children. I was tempted to include a photo but felt it was a little odd so I opted instead to request that they meet me after our first official full day so that we can get to know one another. Every single parent replied but one… a Mr. Weston Vaughn.
“Thank you, students.” I smile, greeting each parent as they line the back wall of the room. “And thank you all so much for coming today. I promise I won’t keep you. I know how busy all of you are, but I wanted to let you know that the paper I handed to each of you not only has my school email but also my personal cell phone number should you have any questions or need clarification on any assignments. I am so excited to teach your children and get to know each and every one of them as well as you. We do have quarterly parent-teacher conferences but if you ever want to schedule a one-on-one with me, that is perfectly okay with me. And lastly, you’ll see that there is a list of opportunities for you to get involved this year. There will be emails going out for volunteers before each event so please keep an eye out for those and don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions.”
I take the time to go through the line and meet each parent, documenting each food allergy, preference, and concern that they have as well as taking note of their nannies and au pairs along with a photo of them so I know who will be picking up each child.
“You must be Mrs. Vaughn.” I smile at the older woman standing next to Daisy, the last student in line. She looks much too old to be Daisy’s mother, but I don’t want to assume and embarrass myself.
“Well, yes, I am but I’m the grandmother, not the wife. Regina.” She smiles, holding out her slim hand. “Unfortunately, my son is running very late today so he instructed me to pick up Daisy.”
“Oh, is he still coming to the meeting?”
“Daddy is always late,” Daisy says, looking up at me with her big blue eyes. She rolls her eyes dramatically, making her grandmother and me laugh.
“Yes, he will be. Usually it’s me who picks her up from school and sometimes the nanny, Roxy. I’ve included both of our contact information here. If Roxy is picking her up, you’ll hear from me first. Otherwise, she has no allergies and honestly is a very easy little girl.”
“I can already count to two hundred in English, Spanish, and French,” she says emphatically.
“Wow, that’s even more than me.” I smile down at her. “Maybe you can teach me.”
“He’ll be here shortly but we have to get going to her ballet class. Pleasure meeting you.”
Whoever Weston Vaughn is, his mother is a very stunning, elegant woman who screams old money. She smiles politely, waving her manicured hand toward us as she and Daisy walk out of my classroom.
I finish cleaning up from the day, glancing at the clock. It’s now ten to five and I’ve been waiting for over an hour to meet Mr. Vaughn. I hear the soft click of steps down the long marble hallway, a frustrated voice muttering as the steps grow closer.
“Yes, listen, I need to go. I have to meet with my daughter’s teacher. Apparently, first graders require a parent-teacher meeting in the middle of the fucking day like we aren’t busy enough.”
I flinch at the harsh comment but straighten my back as the door swings open and in steps Mr. Weston Vaughn.
“You,” I say in disbelief as the stranger I dumped my coffee on in Paris steps over the threshold of my classroom. The same stranger who pretended not to know me so I couldn’t board my flight home.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, shaking his head.