Fly Me to the Moon (6 page)

Heck, most of the time, I couldn’t wait for the check to arrive so we could go to some bar, meet up with our respective friends, and ignore each other until it was time to go home.

And even though I had to admit it was
his
salary that enabled me to go to all those good restaurants, live in a nice doorman building, and buy all the Banana Republic I could handle, it still wasn’t the main reason I’d stayed with him so long.

It was like, until I’d met Michael, my love life was a pathetic string of first and second dates, with the occasional third agreed to in a weak moment. I guess I’d developed a habit of skipping out the second things got serious. But by the time Michael came
along, I’d been starting to panic. Suddenly everyone around me was happily pairing off. And not wanting to be left out, I’d endured the last four years the only way I knew how—by ignoring every single warning, every danger sign and flashing red light, until I’d so bought into the
myth of us
that I actually confused convenience with love.

By the time Clay tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hailey, wake up. Let’s get back to the room and change. We’re all heading into old San Juan for dinner,” the sun was already starting to set, and except for us, the pool was deserted.

“What?” I asked incoherently, rubbing my eyes under my sunglasses. “I must have taken a little siesta.” I raised my arms over my head for a leisurely stretch.

“More like you fell into a coma,” he said, collecting my sunscreen and paperback and tossing it into our communal beach bag. “It’s after six, time for happy hour.”

“I thought we just did happy hour.” I slid my feet into my flip-flops and shuffled behind.

“Here in Puerto Rico, they give new meaning to the word.”

“Oh yeah, ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca.’ I’ve seen the video.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he promised.

When we got back to the room I headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the hot water. It wasn’t the first time I’d bunked with Clay, and we had a mutual understanding that I always got to shower first since it took me longer to get ready. Even though he obsessed about his hair almost as much as I did mine, he still qualified as the most low-maintenance gay guy I’d ever met.

Tossing my sunglasses onto the counter, I stepped into the shower and felt my wildly frizzy hair (that thanks to the humidity had swelled to three times its normal diameter) begin to lie submissively against my head as the jet of hot water tamed and softened it. I peeled back the paper wrapper of the tiny hotel-supplied soap, and as I foamed it up in my palms and ran it over my body I marveled at how good it felt to get a little sun on my skin.

Of course I knew all about the hazards of premature aging brought on by wanton exposure, but there was no denying that a tan made everyone (not to mention every
body)
look a little bit healthier, sleeker, and just generally
glowier.
And after that weekend-long food orgy with Clay, the bloat-inducing flight (jet belly, anyone?), immediately followed by three and a half mojitos at the pool, there wasn’t an inch of my body that didn’t need a little help.

I climbed out of the shower, wound a towel tightly around me, and aimed the wall-mounted blow dryer at the steamed-up mirror, watching as the dewy buildup began to dissipate until I could gradually make out my sun-kissed reflection.

Okay, so my shoulders looked a little more red than tan, no big deal. By tomorrow it would be nicely faded to a rich, golden glow. And the halter tie strap marks? No biggie. I’d just wear a halter-top to dinner, problem solved. But as the mirror continued to clear, exposing first my neck and then my chin, my eyes bulged in horror as the rest of my face was revealed. Because even though I was no longer wearing my sunglasses, I might as well have been. Not only were my nose, cheeks, and forehead a bright, blazing red, but right in the very center, smack dab in the middle of my face, was a perfect, flesh-toned outline of the duty-free Gucci sunglasses I’d worn during my three-and-a-half-hour nap in the sun.

I threw the bathroom door open and ran into the bedroom, where Clay was sprawled out on the bed listening to his iPod and watching TV with the sound off.

“Tell me it’s not as bad as I think,” I begged.

But when he turned to look at me his expression said everything he was too polite to.

“Oh God.” I crumpled onto the twin bed across from his.

“What happened?” he asked, removing his earplugs and staring at the middle of my face. The corner of his mouth twitched with barely suppressed laughter.

“What am I gonna do? I can’t go out like this!” I said, turning toward the mirror and laughing in spite of myself.

“Um, maybe you should put your sunglasses back on,” he suggested as he doubled over, laughing so hard his face was nearly as red as mine.

“At night?”

“Yeah, I can lead you around. We’ll tell people you’re visually impaired. No one will laugh at you then.”

“Or, maybe we can cover it with makeup. Didn’t you take theater makeup in college?” I asked, looking at him, my eyes pleading for help.

“I took a semester of stage makeup, Hailey. I didn’t go to magic school.” He shook his head.

“Well we have to do something, because I can’t go out looking like this, and there’s no way I’m staying in,” I told him.

He stared at me for a moment, then got up from the bed and sighed. “Time to work a miracle,” he said, leading me to the bathroom.

By the time Clay was finished, I looked like the best friend in
Working Girl.
I know most people make themselves over after a breakup, but this was ridiculous.

“Okay,” Clay said, squinting at me. “Think of it as a sort of retro disco look.”

I stood before the mirror, gazing at my reflection. Layers of bronzer and powder had served to even out some of the tonal difference, while generous applications of dark, glittery eye shadow, black liner, and four coats of mascara took care of the rest. And since Clay forbade me to use my flat iron (a.k.a. “my magic wand”), my auburn hair fanned out around me in a riot of curls, just like Nicole Kidman (before she met Tom Cruise).

“Very Studio Fifty-four,” he said, standing back to admire his handiwork.

“Very Tammy Faye,” I said, inspecting my spider-leg eyelashes. “Okay, so what about you?”

“I’m gonna take a quick shower, and then we’ll split,” he said, retrieving his shower gel from his Jack Spade dopp kit and pushing me out the door.

“Forget it. If I’m going out in drag, then you are too,” I insisted.

“But I’m not the one who suffered a tanning accident,” he said, closing the door on me.

“C’mon, Clay. It’ll be fun!” I shouted through the locked door. “You can do some kind of glam rock, vintage Bowie look. People will think we planned it.”

“Go watch TV,” he shouted. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

By the time we met up with the crew, Clay and I had reached a compromise. His eyes were subtly lined with black pencil, his hair was a little more gelled than usual, and he had the faintest touch of gold gloss in the very center of his bottom lip.

“Here come the twins,” said Jack, a captain I’d flown with a few times before.

“I didn’t know we were going to a costume party,” said Bob, a first officer I’d never really cared for.

“Then why are
you
all dressed up like a pilot on a layover?” asked the head flight attendant, Jennifer, motioning to his pristine white Reeboks and sharply pressed khakis.

“Are we ready?” Clay asked.

“There’s another crew joining us,” Bob said. “I saw them checking in a little while ago. They were just working a turnaround and were headed back to JFK when they canceled the flight. Apparently there’s a hurricane headed this way. Supposed to touch down off the coast of Florida. Guess they’ll be stuck here for a couple days.”

“Really? Where they based?” Clay asked, plopping down onto an overstuffed chair and making himself comfortable.

And no sooner had Bob opened his mouth to answer, when Michael appeared.

In an unexpected emergency,

flight attendants must react to

the first sign of impact by

yelling:

   Grab ankles!

   Heads down!

   Stay low!

   Bend over!

I’m not gonna lie. I’d imagined a moment like this many, many times since I’d caught Michael with his pants down. But in every single scenario, not only was I ten pounds thinner, with miraculously straight, humidity-defying hair, but I was also (inexplicably) laying over at the Bali Ritz-Carlton, where I was seated at the bar, clad in a clingy, low-cut Gucci gown, sipping a martini and smiling patiently while Bono and Jon Stewart vied for my attention. . . . And then, of course, Michael would walk in, our eyes would meet, and he’d drop to his knees, begging forgiveness. . . .

(Never mind that I now knew it was much more likely that Michael would drop to his knees for Bono and Jon while completely ignoring
me.
It was my fantasy and I was having it my way.)

And even though I’d gone through plenty of variations—sometimes I was wearing Versace, sometimes the hotel was in Capri—never once did I imagine myself standing in a lobby in old San Juan, looking like 1988, with hair that was channeling Carrot Top, as my former boyfriend/roommate whom I’d briefly considered
marrying strolls in looking tan, fit, and totally together with a pretty, young, adoring flight attendant (female) hanging on his arm.

“I’ve booked us at this great little plaee in town called the Peacock Club. Our table’s at eight,” he said. His all-too-familiar mouth rose into an easy smile as I stood there feeling damp, awkward, and nauseous, wondering if I really was going to vomit all over the shiny marble floor. And then looking right at me, without even blinking, he said, “Oh, Hailey, hey. I didn’t even recognize you.”

I wanted so much to have a snappy retort, something that would make everyone laugh, at his expense of course. But my mind just completely froze. And by the time it thawed out again I was watching him walk out the door to round up some taxis.

“I absolutely cannot have dinner with him,” I said, I was sitting on the hump, wedged between Jennifer and Clay, as our small dirty cab followed so closely behind Michael’s there wasn’t a chance of losing them.

“Please, you’ve had a million dinners together where you barely even spoke,” Clay reminded me. “So why should this one be any different?”

He had a point.

“I gotta tell ya, Hailey. I never really understood your whole thing with Michael,” Jennifer said, looking at me and shrugging.

“Yeah, apparently that’s the general consensus.” I rolled my eyes and stared at my sunburned knees that because of the hump, were practically parallel to my chin.

“You just seemed so . . .
mismatched.
It’s like he’s all mapped out and programmed, and you’re like . . .” Clay and I both turned to look at her. If nothing else, I’d finally learn what people really thought of me. “Not.” She smiled.

“I’m not mapped out? You mean like.
I’m lost?”
I asked, staring straight a head at the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror.
Oh
my God, maybe my mom isn’t the only one who thinks I’m just meandering through life.

“No, not
lost.
Just like, not so . . .
focused.”
she said.

“Not focused?” I repeated.
So it’s true. People think I have no direction.

“You know how pilots are.” She was beginning to sound flustered. “They’re just so . . .
structured.”

I’m nonstructured, unfocused, and totally without direction. And I have hair that is taking over the entire backseat of this cab,
I thought, grabbing a handful and trying to smooth it down.

“Besides, if you don’t go, he wins,” Clay said, tapping me on the shoulder and nodding.

“It’s not about winning,” I mumbled, focusing on the silver Jesus swaying back and forth. What would
he
do?

“Every
breakup is about winning! That’s why I insist on having the breakup fantasy immediately after exchanging numbers, so when it does happen, I’m ready.”

“Clay, that is seriously disturbed.” Jennifer laughed.

“He always mourns the end before it even begins,” I told her.

“I’m always looking for my next ex.” He smiled. “But seriously, you can’t let him win. He can’t know that he got to you.”

“Uh, have you seen my lace lately? ’Cause this is hardly the look of someone at the top of their game,” I said, holding onto the back of the driver’s seat as he cranked a hard turn to the left.

“I think it looks kind of cool,” Jennifer said.

“You live in the East Village. You’re used to this stuff,” I reminded her.

“Well, at least you don’t look like that Barbie wannabe cockpit queen hanging all over his arm.’ She shook her head.