Truth, Lies, and Second Dates Page 2

  “Um, I also heard … I mean, is she the one whose friend got m—”

  “Yeah,” he muttered in reply. “But time and place, okay?”

  Yes, I’m the one whose friend got m—, Ava thought. Also, why do people think whispering works when I’m only three feet away?

  “How about we get started?” One of the nicer things about making captain is that it may have sounded like a request, but everyone in the room understood it wasn’t. “India, you want to take us through the briefing? G.B.?”

  “Got it,” G.B. replied, then shooed Becka toward the cabin crew as they filed into their own briefing room. “See you on deck.”

  “Will do. So then.” She settled in with a fresh cup of tea. “Where are we going today?”

  “If you don’t know, we’re all fucked.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Flight Deck

  McCarron International Airport

  “Another day in the relatively friendly skies. Not to jinx us.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Ava replied, mildly alarmed. “Though it might be too late. Thinking the j word almost always brings on the j word.”

  India was finishing entering the specs needed to calculate takeoff speed—weather, runway conditions, weight of bags, fuel, angst, existential crises, etcetera—when Ava heard a bubbling laugh and made the mistake of looking for the source. For the thousandth time, she saw someone who could have been Danielle if she’d survived. Same glossy black hair. Same freckles, dark eyes, infectious giggle. She was one of the last ones on, holding up the boarding to flirt with G.B., who was loving it while politely urging her toward her seat.

  She’d be twenty-eight this year.

  Irrelevant.

  And Dennis would be, too.

  Also irrelevant. And speaking of irrelevancies, was that Dennis behind the doppelganger of his dead twin?

  Why, yes. Yes it was.

  “Excuse me,” she said, rising, and then stepped out of the cockpit. “Dennis?”

  He turned at once and his eyes widened. “Ava! Wow! You—” He cut himself off and looked her up and down. “You look great! Captain. You look great, Captain … uh … Capp. Huh.”

  “Believe me, colleagues have pointed out the alliteration,” she said dryly. Shake his hand? Hug? What’s the etiquette for running into your secret crush ten years after his sister’s murder?

  Ah, she thought as he bent toward her. The A hug. Arms around shoulders, pelvises at least a foot apart, butts sticking out just a bit. Completely awkward and joyless. So, perfect.

  “It’s great to see you,” she said, pulling back from their sterile hug. “But time’s not on your side, cutie.”

  “Rude.” Oof, that grin. It made Tom Cruise’s look like Donald Trump’s. “Pretty sure it’s not on anyone’s side.”

  “So follow your friend’s example”—she nodded at the woman who had preceded him on the plane—“and plant your butt in your seat.”

  “That’s my cousin, Xenia. But aye-aye, Cap Capp. Consider my butt planted,” he replied, and then—

  Oh, shit. Here it comes.

  —let out his patented giggle. Which never failed to make her snicker. Dennis Monahan was as close to a cliché as a man could be and not work in movies or ads as central casting’s rugged-yet-sensitive guy: tall, with sleek runner’s muscles, thick dark tousled hair, just the right amount of stubble, bright blue eyes, light tan—Dennis Monahan was an absurdly good-looking man.

  So the giggle, which sounded like a noise an effeminate cartoon character might make if someone poked them in the belly, was always incongruous. And she had never been able to resist it.

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered before she could stop herself, which made him giggle harder. And like that, it was ten years ago, her best friend was alive, and she had a crush on the cutest guy in town. “Go sit down already. I can’t be having that weird tittering in my head for the next three hours. My God. The idea.”

  With a smile and a wave, he obeyed.

  “Weird tittering?” India commented, staring straight ahead as Ava took her seat. “Good call. He sounds like a cartoon villain on helium.”

  “Yep.” Fortunately, there was no need for further small talk, because she got the high sign from G.B. just as they got their authorization and picked up the mic.

  “Northeastern Southwest 402, cleared for takeoff. Contact Departure on frequency.”

  She clicked in. “Roger, Tower, Northeastern Southwest 402 switching to Departure.”

  So began another day in the sky, and she wasn’t hiding.

  She wasn’t. She didn’t love flying out of some silly half-formed notion that no one could corner and kill her in the air. She loved it for other reasons. Lots of other reasons. The, um, uniforms, for one. And the food. And the long hours. And the drunken unruly passengers who thought she was an overpaid cab driver.

  No question.

  At all.

  Two

  Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport Terminal 1, Lindbergh

  “… and we’ve just landed in the Twin Cities, where the temperature is sixty-four degrees despite being high summer because Minnesota. Which is just … bleah. Anyway, we at Northeastern Southwest—we fly everywhere!—appreciate your business and wish you a pleasantly frigid day.”

  Ava could hear G.B. bitching from the jump seat (“Oh my God with the weather again. She will not let it go.”) and the new crew member laughing softly.

  “No comment from the copilot?” Ava asked sweetly.

  India shook his head and quirked a smile at her.

  “Oh boy, I know that look. Out with it.”

  “You know it’s not in my nature to pry into my captain’s personal life.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Right. Now that that’s out of the way…” He cleared his throat. “That guy. The last passenger to get on. He looks, um, familiar.” When Ava said nothing, he added, “He looks like Danielle Monahan. In fact.”

  “Dennis is Danielle’s twin,” Ava replied. Or would it be was her twin? Were you still twins when one was in the grave? Not that Danielle was in a grave; there’d been precious little of her left to bury. And there was no point asking how India knew what Danielle looked like. Sooner or later, everyone in her flight crew eventually found out about Danielle and how her murder literally propelled Ava into the sky.

  “Tenth anniversary of the, um.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you don’t like the Twin Cities under the best of circumstances, never mind now. So,” he finished, “no wonder you’re grumpy about the weather.”

  “The weather sucks.”

  “It’s actually kind of ni—”

  “I don’t like MSP because most of the time I have to crosswind taxi. And that’s after we navigate the OPDs.”*

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And there’s no need to look at me like I’m about to set you on fire. We’ve been flying together how long? You know I’m not gonna bite your head off. Most likely.”

  “That’s true. In fact, you seem kind of, um, detached about the whole thing. The murder. And what happened after. Or at least like you don’t mind.”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Or because I’ve had a decade to come to terms with it.”

  Alas, India wasn’t having it. “New employees are skittish about it because they assume it’s an unbroachable subject.” India jerked his head to the side, indicating the jump seat. “Takes ’em a few flights to learn it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.”

  “Aaaaand again: it’s been a decade, India.”

  “A long time to be alone.”

  “Ah-ha!” Then she realized what he was getting at. “Oh, no.” Abort, abort! This was worse than an unwanted-yet-casual chitchat about feelings with a colleague. Much, much worse. “No. No, no, no.”

  “It’s just that I really think you’d love my wife’s cousin. He’s a great—”

  “No. No. No. No. No. No. No.” Then, wary of alarming passengers eve
n with the cockpit door shut, she whispered, “No. No. No. No. No. No.”

  “Just one double date.”

  “No. No. No. No. No. Stop or I’ll hurl you out of this plane.”

  “We’ve docked, so I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Who’s talking about killing you? I just want out of this conversation.” And this plane. And this city. State. The Midwest in general. And the unreasonable gym contract she’d signed on January 2. “Enough. Pretend you care about flying—”

  “I do care about flying.”

  “—and let’s finish up here.”

  “Finish up,” he said, and snickered. She bit back a groan; though she hadn’t lived here for years, her dialect was peppered with various Midwesternisms. Same reason she couldn’t stand to watch even one season of Fargo. Screw their quirky characters and exquisitely timed dark humor. “Then have a hotdish.”

  “It’s just hotdish. It’s not a hotdish. You’re not going to a school, you’re just going to school. Same thing.”

  “Oh, you betcha.”

  “Stop that. Do I mock your Chicago patois?”

  “Not that I can recall. You save most of your mockery for my fix-ups.”

  “As I should. Now don’t take this the wrong way, India, but I’d like to race through our exit protocol and cabin checks so I can get the hell away from you.”

  “Can’t set foot on Minnesota terra firma fast enough, huh?”

  “Oh my God.” Should have known when I gave Blake the boot—that was going to be the best part of my day. “I’m going to sabotage your next simulator eval.”

  “Bring it. I love a challenge.”

  Three

  THE LIST

  Avoid India for at least a week

  Get out of memorial

  Meeting?

  Pick up moisturizer

  As she had feared, Dennis and his cousin were waiting for her at the gate. Trying to combine dithering

  (“Did you check the toilet for corpses?”

  “That happened one time!”)

  with racing through checklists

  (“Not much left now and then we can get out of here.”

  “Seriously, though, if you gave my wife’s cousin a chance…”)

  had not worked.

  Dennis greeted her with, “It’s so great to see you! Again.” And another awkward A hug.

  “You too.”

  “And I don’t think you ever met my girlfriend, Xenia.”

  Ava shook the woman’s hand, marveling again at the resemblance. “So nice to finally meet you,” Xenia said, smiling. “You probably don’t remember—we crossed paths at the funeral, but…”

  But she’d been numb. She could have run into Angelina Jolie and not remembered later. Then his words hit her. “I thought you said you were cousins.”

  “Well, I figured it’d be easier for you to place her.”

  “We’re not really cousins,” Xenia broke in. “Or at least, not close ones.”

  “Our great-grandparents were siblings,” Dennis said.

  “So that’s … what? Second cousins? First cousins once removed? Or twice?” Ava started counting on her fingers, which was dumb—how would fingers help here?

  “We can legally bang,” Dennis said. “Which is what counts.” And Xenia giggled, which was irritating.

  “What a relief,” Ava replied, deadpan. “For a second I was super worried about your sex life.”

  “It’s fine,” he replied.

  No doubt.

  “We can talk about the elephant in the room,” he continued.

  Kill me, please. “We can?” Yes, but should we? No. We should not.

  “Absolutely.”

  Argh.

  They both nodded at her, which was unsettling. “Go on. Ask us anything,” Dennis prompted.

  “I honestly don’t have any questions. At all.” They waited, clearly not believing her, so she sighed and added, “Fine—Dennis, you’re banging someone who looks like your dead twin sister. You don’t think that’s a little weird? You don’t think other people will find that a little weird? Like your mom? Which, I imagine, is why you’re feeling me out on the subject, no pun intended?”

  “What?” From Xenia.

  “Oh my God!” From Dennis, eyes bulging in distress. “We were talking about the memorial! We know you don’t want to come!”

  “That’s the elephant in the room?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “If you know I don’t want to come, then why even bring it up?”

  “We’re hoping to persuade you! Which is why it’s an elephant!”

  Annnnnnd it gets worse. “That’s not the actual elephant.”

  “Well, I know that now, obviously!”

  “We should stop yelling! Especially in an airport!”

  “Good point,” Xenia put in, doing a credible job of sounding less horrified than she’d looked a minute ago.

  “Okay, so. The memorial.” Ava coughed. “Danielle’s memorial. Ten years. Right. I don’t think I was invited.”

  “Of course you were invited,” he snapped. “After family, you were the first one on the list.” Which would have been flattering, except there were a thousand Monahans. Being guest number 1,001 was not flattering in the least. Not that it was about being flattered. Right?

  “Well, I’m on the road a lot,” she said, gesturing to the bustling to-and-fro of the Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport. You know, with … the flying.”

  “Which is why we sent multiple invites.”

  “But, again: on the road.”

  “The last two were sent certified. We know you got them.”

  “Oh. Well. That settles it, I guess.” There was a long, difficult pause. “So, you guys can legally bang, huh?”

  Four

  THE LIST

  Feign appendicitis to get out of memorial

  Never ever ever stay in Minnesota longer than ninety minutes ever ever again

  Seriously, skin is flaking like a snake—moisturizer!

  After googling appendicitis symptoms, Ava decided to bite the bullet (which, if done literally and then swallowed, might have mimicked appendicitis symptoms) and just go already. She had nowhere to be until 0700 tomorrow—another pilot had asked for her Boston and D.C. hops.

  Which is why she was pulling into the Crisp and Gross Funeral Home (after a quick stop at CVS to pick up some lotion—all that time in the air wreaked havoc on her skin) at 6:30 P.M. on a Saturday night.

  Who are you kidding? It wasn’t like you had a hot date lined up.

  No, it wasn’t like that. Though she’d never had any trouble finding someone to fill a spot in her (hotel) bed, seeing Dennis had thrown her off her game. And speaking of …

  “Thanks for coming.” He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the two-story building that looked like one of those older Tudor-style buildings: dark roof, stone instead of bricks, weathered. Dennis had changed and looked smart in dark slacks, a pale blue shirt, navy blazer, matching tie, all of which artfully set off his stubble. Dennis was a master of “scruffy on purpose while pretending it’s not on purpose.” “Gotta admit, I had my doubts.”

  “How else would we have continued our incredibly awkward conversation about whether or not you’re committing incest if I didn’t come?”

  “Yeah, God forbid we put that to bed. So to speak.”

  She groaned. He smiled back, stepped aside and gestured, then courteously followed her in.

  The first thing she saw was a huge blowup of Danielle’s senior picture, the one where her brunette hair looked like a cloud instead of pulled back in her habitual ponytail, her eyes were artfully smoky with a professional makeup application, and her long fingers (tipped with artificial pastel-pink nails) were cupping her chin, emphasizing the point. The photo she fucking hated. “It’s what they want me to look like,” she’d explained. “Not what I actually look like.”

  And there it is in a nutshell, she thought, staring at
the poster. Her folks didn’t get it then, and they don’t get it now.

  The second thing she noticed was the banner hanging over the door into the chapel: WE CELEBRATE LIFE!, which was a cold lie.

  Still not too late to feign appendicitis.

  No, no. Better to suck it up and endure. And it wasn’t like there would be much interaction—to her surprise, there were only about a dozen people milling around, speaking quietly.

  “Isn’t that a wonderful picture of dear Danielle?”

  and saying absolutely nothing.

  “Hello, Ava.”

  She turned and saw a short, slender man about her own age, dressed in a beautifully cut black suit, blinking at her through Versace eyeglass frames and holding out a small, slim hand.

  “Oh. Hello.” She shook his hand and wondered if it would be better to pretend to know him or admit straight-out that she had no idea—

  “It’s Pete. Crisp?”

  Dilemma overcome. “Of course, sure. Pete Crisp.” Of the Crisp and Gross Funeral Home, no less. His generation was the second or third to run the place. “How are you?”

  “Bewildered.” He glanced around the funeral home. “I haven’t been back here for years. Not since my cousin took over.”

  “Oh, God, tell me about it. Why do people think nostalgia is so great? Everything about this place is…”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s all so…”

  “Yes.”

  “So what have you been up to? Are you a pharmacist now? Or a drug rep?” She had a vague memory of him wanting to invent the cure for cancer or, if not, to market the cure for cancer.

  “No, I moved to Scotland after I got my computer science degree. Liked it so much I never came back. These days I move around depending on the job.” He shrugged. “I’m never in the same place for long. So we have something in common, Captain Bellyflopper.”

  “Nope. Not discussing that right now. Today is about Danielle.”

  “You don’t have to discuss it. I read all about it online,” he teased. “Did you know Buzzfeed made a quiz about you?”

  “Buzzfeed has made quizzes out of literally everything on the planet, including onions and soup. I’m one of a crowd.”