“I’m never done with it, Mimi. It just comes and goes.”
She pauses and breathes for a moment. Then: “Liv, maybe you should talk to someone?”
“I tried that,” I snap, a little more harshly than she deserves. “Twice, actually. But both shrinks I saw spoke in Bumper Sticker.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like, Coexist. Make peace with your demons. When life gives you lemons, throw them back and ask for tacos instead. That kind of eyeroll-worthy nonsense you see on the back of some soccer mom’s minivan.”
Mia bursts out laughing. “Okay, point taken. But finding a therapist is like dating. Plenty of fish in the sea; you just gotta find the right one. You know, I do have a friend who’s a therapist. I could refer—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off.
“Again, rude. Why not?”
“Because it’s too personal. The two of you are friends.”
“We’re not that close,” Mia protests. “We slept together twice and that was it. We were both young and busy. It was just about sex.”
“Lovely. Already way more than I need to know about my therapist.”
“Okay, fine. Point also taken.”
“Speaking of fish in the sea,” I say, changing the subject, “what’ve you hooked lately? Dating anyone noteworthy?”
She exhales dramatically. “I’m a surgeon, love. The men I meet are usually sprawled across my table with their insides staring me in the face.”
“Uh, ew.”
“Hard to find a man attractive after that,” she follows up.
“You haven’t dated anyone since William,” I tell her, as if she needs reminding.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.”
“For three years?”
“Again, I’m a surgeon. I’m always busy.”
I laugh. “What about your fellow doctors? I’m sure there are a few hot nurses around, too.”
“Do you think I work in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy?”
“I mean, maybe? Are there really no McSteamys in sight?”
“None whatsoever,” she says. “Which is fine. You know I’m more of a McDreamy kinda gal.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Right. I forgot about your weird taste in the male gender.”
“Me?” she scoffs. “Says the lady who dates men as boring as unbuttered toast!”
“Now who’s being rude?”
“Don’t argue,” she replies. “I remember your dating history. You claim you’re into bad boys, but every single one of your previous boyfriends has been as vanilla as a cupcake.”
“Okay, okay,” I concede. “So maybe none of them have been—”
“Exciting? Sexy? Even remotely interesting?” she offers.
“Lionel wasn’t so bad!”
She barks out a laugh. “His name was Lionel. Beginning and end of story.”
Before I can start in on bashing all her ex-boyfriends, an announcement begins playing over the sound system.
“Oh, hold on,” I tell her. “This one’s for me.”
The voice is crisp and professional. “The following announcement is for passengers on flight UA523: your new boarding time is 1:15. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Oh, fuck me,” I groan.
“What’d they say?” Mia asks. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
“It’s a five-hour delay.”
“Nooo!” she says with more than her fair share of melodrama. “What are you going to do?”
“It’s okay,” I say hastily, trying to find the silver lining. “I’ll just hang around in the airport until I have to board.”
“For five hours?”
“It doesn’t make sense to go back home,” I say. “With traffic, it’s going to take me at least an hour and a half both ways. I might as well wait it out here.”
“Okay, fine. But at least make use of your damn delay and flirt with some cute stranger.”
I roll my eyes. “Right, I’ll be sure to do exactly that. You know me so well.”
“Stop rolling your eyes and live it up, Olivia,” Mia says.
“How did you—”
“I’m your big sister. I know everything,” she says. “Just like I know that you only pick men you’re not actually attracted to and can’t possibly fall in love with because it means you’re in no danger of having your heart broken.”
I reel like she just slapped me in the face. Not because she’s wrong. The exact opposite, actually.
“Well… shit.”
“See?” Mia deadpans. “I know you.”
“Maybe you should be my shrink.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
“There’s no family discount?” I gasp in mock horror.
“A girl’s gotta eat. And my loft ain’t cheap.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” I say with a laugh.
“Same, kiddo. Same.”
We say goodbye with a promise for me to update her if the flight time changes again. Once I hang up, I take an aimless walk through the airport. Amongst the grab-and-dash options, I find a cute little bakery that overlooks the tarmac. The black-and-white tiled floors and metal cafe chairs lend an air of elegance—so long as I ignore the bedraggled woman in a dirty muumuu and no shoes huddled in the corner.
I turn away from her and choose a stool at the bar. The waiter brings me a coffee, and I sip on it as I watch every plane except for mine get ready to take off.
Everywhere I look outside is a beehive of activity. Men waving those glowsticks in every direction, chucking luggage into the underbelly of the planes with no regard for “Handle Carefully,” speeding around the grounds on those little motorized carts. It’s kind of Zen, in a weird sort of way.
I’m so involved in people watching that I jerk violently when someone takes the barstool next to me.
“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks in amusement. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, no—I mean yeah, I’m—”
I stop short as I look at the man who has just sat down next to me.
He’s massive. A colossus of a man, at least six and a half feet tall and broad in the shoulders with an athlete’s narrow waist. He’s dressed casually in a long-sleeved henley and dark jeans, but the fit and fabric ooze wealth and importance. The watch on his wrist is probably worth more than Mom’s mortgage. And despite being in an airport where everyone looks unshowered and exhausted, this man is photoshoot ready. His hair is perfectly windblown, the natural light is doing wonders for the emerald flecks in his sea-blue eyes, and his jawline looks like it’s been carved with a laser ruler.
A bizarre non sequitur comes to mind: last year, I’d gotten my first big commission as an honest-to-goodness cartoonist, a freelance assignment for the New York Times. Part of the job was drawing—and I quote—“the most handsome man you can imagine.”
Being a hopeless Titanic fangirl, I modeled my piece off Leonardo DiCaprio. Can’t go wrong there, right? And sure, I’d been happy with the result at the time.
But, now, looking into the face of this man, I realize that I drew the wrong Adonis.