The Red Choo Diaries

“You’re not afraid of flying.”

“That’s not my issue.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and she was pleased to note actual concern in his voice.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You’re going to have sex with him, aren’t you?”

“Who?”

“Don’t think I don’t know, Mercedes. I know you. I saw the way you were ogling him.”

“That was twelve months ago, we were live on camera, and if I ogled, it was only for two minutes. This time, I’m going to promote my career.”

“Is that what they call this?”

“Don’t be insulting.”

“You were the one who brought up your career.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Besides, I have a boyfriend.” She raised her voice so that the McCreepy could hear. “I’m very devoted to Andreas.”

“Mom said you two broke up. Sheldon thinks you’re flying out to San Fran to do Sam on the rebound from Andreas.”

“I’m not rebounding.”

“We’ll talk when you get back. I bet you rebound.”

“We will not talk.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Goodbye.”

Click.

Immediately Mercedes dialed her brother again. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Made me mad so that I’d hang up and you’d be free to do whatever you needed to do.”

“Yup. Saw right through me. Bye, sis.” Click.

Mercedes punched speed-dial.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“You will talk to me.”

“I have to go, Mercedes.”

“You can’t leave me alone with him!”

“Sam?”

“Not Sam. McCreepy.”

“Who?”

Mercedes glanced at her seatmate who was staring at her curiously. She tried the cold look again. He smiled back. Mercedes sighed into the phone. “Go do whatever you need to do, and if I die on this plane, a fireball exploding in the heavens, then you’ll live with the crushing guilt weighing down your shoulders for the rest of your life.”

“Put it in your next book, Mercy. I’m guilt-free.”

“Not if we crash.”

“You’re not going to crash.”

“You don’t know.”

“Flying is safer than driving.”

“I live in New York. I don’t drive. Flying is not safer than not driving.”

“Okay. Rephrase. Flying is safer than jaywalking on Broadway, and I know you jaywalk on Broadway.”

“I can’t believe you. I’m going to die, and you don’t care.”

“Can we not talk about airline crashes? I have to go work up a proposal for an airline, and this is really putting me in the wrong state of mind.”

“Go. Go off and do whatever you need to do. Forget about your family, the people who love you and have stood by you all these years. The people who worked hard to get you with the love of your life.”

“You trashed her in your blog.”

“Because it was the only way to get you two together.”

“You’re going to keep throwing that in my face until I’m old, aren’t you?”

“No. Maybe.”

“I have to go, Mercedes. Really this time. I’m sure you’re not going to crash, but in case you do, I want you to know that I love you, and you’re the best sister I’ve ever had.”

“We’re not going to crash,” she muttered tightly.

“Well, you might. And if you do, I don’t want to live with crushing guilt, so I love you.”

“You do not,” she said, and then quickly hung up. There. If she was going to die, he was going to have to live with crushing guilt.

She powered off her phone, opened her computer, and prepared to work, picking up at the spot where she’d last written…

There were times when she wanted to go into a bar, find a man, and screw his brains out. Not for the sex, not for the intimacy, but for the shock of adrenalin to her system. The danger, the mystery, the feeling of taking a step off a cliff into the air, not knowing if you’ll fly or fall. He was that cliff, that leap of faith, but deep in her heart, she knew she couldn’t fly. Was it worth it to begin a love-affair doomed from the start? She opened the curtains on her apartment, letting the warm rays of the sun touch her. She loved the morning, loved the feeling of a new beginning. She looked to the building across from her, and noticed the man. He was there everyday, sitting at his desk, talking on the phone, typing. A boring, nondescript existence.

She smiled to herself, smiled to him, and began the morning ritual. Her fingers worked the buttons on her pajama shirt slowly, parting each one, letting the fabric caress her skin as she peeled the shirt back. From beneath her lashes she peeked across the way, feeling his gaze on her. The sun touched her as a lover would, tracing a path across her belly, her breasts, her shoulders.

Carefully she folded the top, putting it on the back of her couch, before slipping her fingers under the edge of her bottoms and pushing them down to the floor. For a moment she stood, framed in the window, nude, enjoying the warm rays on her skin, enjoying the feel of a man’s eyes on her body.

She looked up, and met his gaze, and felt the urgency inside him. It echoed the urgency in her. The need to do more, to drink life in long, dragging gulps.

Normally, this was where she stopped. Her body was one thing, to share her secrets was another. But today she could taste the thrill of adventure on her tongue, in her nerves, pulsing through her blood. Across from her, the man wasn’t smiling, merely watching. Waiting.

When she hesitated, he picked up his phone and began to talk, his fingers dancing on the keyboard. Back to his meaningless, nondescript existence. Back to her meaningless, nondescript existence.

It was time, that moment of stepping to the edge of the cliff.

She sank into her chair, the comfortable old chair that kept her from being alone, and parted her thighs. His head turned, his fingers stilled, and even from here she would see how his conversation slowed. She leaned back, arching into the soft cushion. At first, her fingers stroked her breasts, gliding over her nipples, back and forth.

Gently, as if she were—

A nervous cough jerked her back to reality. She looked over to see McCreepy ogling the words on her computer. Gah! She slammed the lid shut and stared. “Do you mind?”

“What was that?”

“I’m an author,” she stated flatly, her tone missing the usual zest that she put in the words.

“That’s going to be in a book?” His eyes widened, in such a hopeful manner, she almost forgave him. Almost.

“Yes.”

“What’s the title?”

Mercedes debated, her sense of security vying with her sense of marketing and sales. Marketing and sales persevered. “The Return of the Red Choo Diaries. It’ll be out in the fall of next year.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“Thank you,” said Mercedes, putting on the complimentary headphones. She didn’t dare open her computer again all the way to San Francisco.

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