Cure for the Common Breakup (2 page)

Thank you to . . .

Danielle Perez, the best editor in all the land.

Amy Moore-Benson, the best agent in all the land.

Kimberly Camarillo, who patiently answered my endless questions about life as a flight attendant. (I'm sure I got some of it wrong. Blame me, not her!)

Kresley Cole, my own personal Coach Taylor.

Kresley Cole's fabulous mom, who knows how to make an entrance.

Marty Etchart, a good sport and a great writer.

Jane Porter and Barbara Ankrum, for so many acts of grace and guidance that I cannot even begin to list them.

Shannon Kinney, Heidi Padley, and the “Montessori Mom Mafia”: Michelle Elquest, Kami Mooth, Anna O'Brien, Cori Zdebel, Kim Nudi, Sarah Behof, and Betsy Etchart.

As always, I owe boundless love and gratitude to my awesome family, especially Joe and Tai, who introduced me to the Delaware shore.

“G
ood evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.”

“He's so hot.” Summer Benson nudged her fellow flight attendant Kim. “Even his voice is hot.”

“Welcome to our flight from New York to Paris.” Aaron's voice sounded deep and rich, despite the plane's staticky loudspeaker. “Flying time tonight should be about seven hours and twenty-six minutes. We're anticipating an on-time departure, so we're going to ask you to move out of the aisles and take your seats as quickly as possible.”

Summer leaned back against the drink cart in the tiny first-class galley. “Ooh, I love it when he tells me what to do.”

Kim, a petite Texan with a sleek blond bob, rolled her eyes and started checking the meals that had arrived from catering. “Get a room.”

“As soon as we get to Paris, we will,” Summer assured her. “And then we're going to walk by the Seine and go to the Eiffel Tower and eat croissants. If it's cheesy and touristy, we're doing it. I actually packed a beret.”

“I was wondering why you had two gigantic carry-ons,” Kim said. “That's a lot of luggage for a three-day layover.”

“One bag's half full of scandalous lingerie,” Summer replied. “I left the other half empty so I can buy more scandalous lingerie.” She frowned at a snag in her silky black nylons. “These eight-hour flights are hell on my stockings. This pair was my favorite, too. They're all lacy at the top. Hand-embroidered.”

Kim's jaw dropped. “You're wearing thigh-highs? All the way to Paris? Do you hate yourself? Do you hate your veins?”

“When I'm on a flight to Paris with my boyfriend, I don't wear support hose. Not now, not ever.”

“And do you hate your feet?” Kim glanced down at Summer's patent leather stilettos. “I don't have a ruler with me, but I'm guessing those heels are higher than two and a half inches.” She shook her index finger. “Airline regulations.”

“Airline regulations also state that we have to wear black shoes and black tights with a navy uniform,” Summer said. “That doesn't make it right. Besides, France has laws against ugly shoes. You can look it up.”

“You're going to be begging for flats by the time you're through with the salad service,” Kim predicted.

Summer had to admit that her coworker had a point—international first-class service didn't offer a lot of downtime. Between distributing hot towels, drinks, place settings and linens, appetizers, salads, entrées, fruit and cheese, dessert, coffee, cordials, warm cookies, and finally breakfast, a sensible flight attendant would wear comfortable footwear.

Summer had never been accused of being sensible.

“The only thing more high-maintenance than the meal service is me,” she said. “I refuse to be hobbled by a few plates of lettuce.”

Kim ducked out of the galley with a pair of plastic water bottles. “Hang on. I'm going to go check if the pilots want anything before takeoff. Want me to say hi to your boyfriend?”

“Sure, and ask if he has any M&M's. I forgot to bring a fresh supply, and he knows I'm an addict.”

Two minutes later, Kim returned from the flight deck, walking as fast as her polyester pencil skirt permitted. “I just saw Aaron!”

“Score.” Summer held out her palm as Kim handed over a bag of candy. “He truly is the best boyfriend ever. I'll have to keep him around for a while.”

“For a while? How about forever?” Kim clutched Summer's forearm and gave her a little shake. “He has a diamond ring for you!”

Summer pulled away and braced both hands on the narrow, metal-edged countertop.

“It's gorgeous!” Kim squealed. “He was showing it to the first officer when I opened the door.”

Where was an oxygen mask when you needed one? Summer inhaled deeply, smelling stale coffee grounds and the plummy red wine Kim had just uncorked for a passenger.

“I . . .” She waited for her emotions to kick in. She should laugh. Cry. Faint dead away.
Something.

“He's going to propose in Paris! How romantic.” Kim looked as though
she
might faint dead away. “A guy like him, with a ring like that . . . God, you're so lucky.”

All at once the emotions kicked in. Complete, overwhelming terror, served up with a side of denial. “Slow down—slow down.” Summer sagged back against the counter. “This is crazy. I mean, Aaron and I have a great time together, but we've certainly never talked about marriage.”

“Well, why else would he buy a diamond ring?”

“Maybe it's for his mom. Or his sister.” Summer scrambled for any plausible explanation. “Maybe he's carrying it for a friend, like a drug mule for Cartier. He's not proposing—he's just smuggling!”

“No way. You should have seen his face.” Kimberly clasped her hands beside her cheek. “He looked so nervous. It was adorable.” Her rapturous expression flickered for just a moment. “He made me promise not to tell you. Oops.”

“Oh my God,” Summer rasped.

“I know!”

“Oh my God.” She grabbed the nearest bottle of wine and took a swig. “Don't serve that.”

“You know where you should go?” Kim's eyes sparkled. “There's a great little boutique hotel right off rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Hotel de la something. I'll Google it. Super-swanky, super-secluded.” She shook her head. “I guess wearing thigh-highs and four-inch heels was a good call, after all.”

Summer took another bracing sip of wine and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. “I can't believe this.”

“Me, neither!” Kim planted her hands on her hips. “We've all been drooling over Aaron Marchand for years, and you get to spend the rest of your life with him? Not fair. You've landed the unlandable bachelor.”

“Well . . .” Summer realized, as she forced herself to release her death grip on the wine bottle, that her hands were shaking. “I haven't landed him yet. I mean, this ring is still speculation and hearsay at this point.”

“
Pfft.
I know an engagement ring when I see one.” Kim pursed her lips in a little pout. “One less tall, dark, and handsome man for the rest of us.” She sighed, then frowned at Summer. “Wait. Why are you freaking out?”

“I'm not freaking out.” Summer straightened up and cleared her throat. “But, you know, let's not get ahead of ourselves. He hasn't actually asked. I haven't said yes.”

Kim laughed. “Come on. You wouldn't say no to Aaron Marchand.” Her eyes widened. “Would you?”

Summer ducked her head and let her hair fall over her eyes. “Well . . .”

Kim wrapped her fingers around Summer's arm again and demanded, “How old are you?”

“Um. Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two,” Kim repeated. “And you've done your share of partying, yes?”

Summer nodded. “I'm sure you've heard the rumors. They're all true.”

“Okay, so you've had your fun. But, let's face it, you're not twenty-five anymore.”

“Twenty-five is a state of mind.” Summer tried and failed to free herself from Kim's grasp.

“You're never going to do better than Aaron Marchand. You know that, right?”

Summer stared down at her shiny patent shoes.

“What are you waiting for? Why on earth would you say no?” Kim threw up both hands in exasperation.

Summer darted around her fellow flight attendant and escaped into the first-class cabin. “Hold that thought. I have to go do the dog and pony show.” She took her place beneath the TV monitor while the safety demonstration video played. While she pointed out the emergency exits, she scanned the sea of faces, looking for any sign of potential troublemakers.

But tonight the passengers looked docile and weary, most of them ignoring her as the video droned on about inflatable slides and oxygen masks. An elderly couple was already sleeping in the third row, the wife resting her head on her husband's shoulder.

Summer found a thin navy blanket and draped it across the couple's armrests. Then, she dashed to the bulkhead and dialed her best friend, Emily's, number.

When Emily's voice mail picked up, Summer started raving into the receiver: “Hey, I know you're in Vancouver and you probably have thirty thousand things going on right now, but I need a consult. I'm about to take off for Paris with Aaron. The pilot, remember? The one who's all perfect and dreamy and nice? Well, he's about to ask me to marry him.
Marry him.
Out of nowhere! Like an ambush! What should I say? What should I do? Call me back, Em. I'm scared.”

She hung up, rested her forehead against the cool, curved plastic walls of the cabin, and forced herself to arrange a smile on her lips before she turned back to the passengers. As she walked through the cabin to do her final safety compliance check (“Fasten your seat belt, please. . . . Here, let me help you with that tray table”), she was waylaid by a passenger with an English accent and a red soccer jersey. He exuded entitlement and the smell of stale beer, and she guessed he was either a professional athlete or a professional musician.

“Could you take this, doll?” He handed her a magazine that had been left in his seat pocket.

“Of course.” When Summer took the magazine from him, he brushed his fingers against hers.

“You're gorgeous. Has anyone ever written a song about you?” He met her gaze, then gave her a thorough once-over. Charming, cocky, and incorrigible. A year ago, she would have been all over him.

But she had finally outgrown bad boys. She had finally moved on to a good man. The kind of man she should marry.

“Twice, actually.” Summer laughed at the passenger's expression. “What, you think you're the only musician to ever fly commercial?”

“Anyone written a song about you that people have actually heard?” He grinned gamely. “Won Grammys? Gone platinum?”

“Sounds like someone could use a big glass of ice water.”

He leaned into the aisle until the side of his head grazed her hip. “What's your name?”

She gave his perfectly coiffed hair a pat. “I'll be right back.”

“What's that?” Kim asked when Summer squeezed into the galley to dispose of the magazine.

“Oh, 4C found it in his seat pocket.” Summer glanced at the photo on the cover: a quaint seaside village featuring golden sand dunes and gray cedar-shingled houses. The headline read:
The Best Place in America to Bounce Back from Your Breakup
.

“Black Dog Bay, Delaware.” Kim peered over her shoulder. “Never heard of it.”

“Me, neither. I don't think they even have an airport in Delaware.”

“Black Dog Bay. Where all the stores sell Ben & Jerry's and Kleenex.”

Summer laughed. “And multiple cats are mandatory.”

“And the official uniform is sweatpants and a ratty old bathrobe.”

“And
Steel Magnolias
is on TV twenty-four/seven.”

Kim tossed the periodical in the trash. “What you need is a magazine all about awesome honeymoon destinations. Because when Aaron Marchand says, ‘Will you marry me?,' you say, ‘Yes.'”

“We're number two for takeoff,” Aaron's voice intoned. “Flight attendants, please be seated.”

Summer buckled herself into the jump seat by the bulkhead, facing the passengers in coach. As the plane began to taxi, she automatically “bowed to the cockpit,” tilting her head in the direction of the flight deck as a precaution against whiplash.

As always, she devoted the last moments before takeoff to conducting a mental inventory of the emergency medical equipment and glancing around the cabin for ABAs—able-bodied assistants—who could potentially help out in a crisis.

Then they were lifting off and she was thinking about Aaron. Visualizing a diamond ring and fighting back the sour taste of bile in her throat.

It wasn't that she didn't love him. She did love him, more than she'd meant to.

But could she keep his heart without wearing his ring?

Thump.

She heard a loud bang and felt the plane shudder.

“What was that?” A woman gasped. Passengers started murmuring in both English and French.

Summer put on her best flight attendant face, striving to convey both competence and nonchalance as the passengers looked to her for guidance. Her job was to keep everyone calm and safe. And to figure out what the hell was going on.

The plane continued to gain altitude, but something about the alignment was off. Her stomach lurched as the cabin tilted suddenly.

“Oh my God!” someone screamed. “Fire!”

Summer saw the bright streak of flames out the window and knew, with sickening certainty, that an engine was on fire.

We're going to die.

Every muscle in her body locked up, and for a long moment, she was frozen. Her mind went blank.

And then years of training overrode her panic. She grabbed the gray plastic interphone next to her seat and dialed the code for the flight deck.