Taylor Made

  © 2016 by Kj Lewis Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9976414-0-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba at maeidesign.com

  Interior Design by Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  To Rachel – the first to say I should, could and did.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Fuck me.

  How do I get myself into these situations?

  For the normal person, flying would not warrant a “fuck me,” but when it comes to flying, I am not normal. I have issues. Control issues. Control is my security blanket. I don’t like to give it to others. If I cling to it, I know I am going to land on my feet.

  The practical side of me understands flying is a safe way to travel, but I’ve never understood asking someone to put their trust in a tin can, flown by someone they’ve never met, whose sole intention is to hurtle them down a runway at a ridiculous velocity and propel them into the air. Seriously, what sense does this make to the average person? What person wants to give this kind of control to someone? I barely tolerate being driven by others. But, like always, the convenience of the tin-can of death wins out when it comes to travel, and I subject myself to the emotional torture.

  My best friend Jules would call this propensity toward hyperbole “dramatic.” Not really a word I would use to describe myself. Drama is for girly girls or bitchy girls. I am certainly not a girly girl. I admit there is a version of me that can be a bitchy girl—a trait the airline employee behind the desk in Memphis is well acquainted with.

  The day from hell ended with me running towards my gate, only to watch the airline employee close the door as I was yelling that I was almost there. She had just clicked the door closed when I arrived in front of her, out of breath and barely able to stand. I could see people in the gateway still waiting to board and she refused to open the door. It was the only remaining direct flight. What’s more is she appeared to enjoy my frustration. A conversation with her manager, a bump up to first class, a three-hour delay, one layover later, and I am finally on the last leg of my journey.

  Feeling my anxiety flare, I take a deep breath and try to focus on what I can control. From the small window on my row, I see the ground crew prepare the plane for our flight. I cannot wait to be home. Funny, I used to say that about Memphis, but if home is where family is, Memphis stopped being home long ago. New York is my home now. I was born and raised a Memphian, but I have become a New Yorker at heart.

  I heart New York. I have a true love for my city. Not always an easy love, mind you. New York is a demanding love. New York makes you need it. Want it. Have to have it. New York makes you work for it, and I like the work. I get it. It’s something I’ve never held against it.

  With a three a.m. start, my day has been hectic with travel, a missed appointment, more angry and agitated people than I care to count, and, eventually, a missed flight, which is how I find myself in Chicago’s O’Hare airport. The only plus to today was being bumped up to First Class. I’d hoped it would tame the growing fear of another flight, an added takeoff and landing. Regrettably, I am sitting here wearing the same fears, wondering the same thing I do every time I fly: why and how the hell?

  I’ve never flown first class before. I’ve always been the cattle they march past the people at the front of the plane. A social-caste processional. The airlines have first-class fliers sit first so they can provide them with refreshments to watch from their oversized seats while the cattle herd by to get to their undersized ones. Some don’t look at you, like they’re embarrassed for you. Others seem irritated that they have to endure this cattle call of people moving by them, as if your presence as you stand there waiting for the line to move is an inconvenience to them personally.

  I had decided earlier I wasn’t going to give into the classicism I judged the airlines for. I was going to board and be seated after everyone else. But I needed a Diet Coke. Honorable of me, I know. As I sit here watching the procession, waiting impatiently for my Diet Coke, I find I don’t like to look at the cattle passing me, not because I am embarrassed for them. But I’m embarrassed the herd might mistakenly think I am part of this first-class caste.

  Once everyone is seated, the stewardess returns and, with a smile, picks up my Diet Coke and the orange juice of the little girl across the aisle from me. She can’t be more than five. I watched as her mom reluctantly entrusted her daughter to the stewardess and kissed her with a promise her grandmother would be waiting for her when she landed. She’s a beautiful little girl with curly light brown hair and dark eyes.

  She has her coloring to keep her attention and a stuffed bear that she loyally introduced as her best friend, Walter. Walter wears a blue and green striped tie and has a monocle that makes him look older and wiser than his years. She introduced us when I commented that I liked his tie. I’m pretty sure Walter and his monocle are silently judging me and my nervous foot fidgeting at the thought of taking off.

  The door closes and the plane starts to back away from the gate when the familiar panic creeps into my chest. Just as I seek out my happy place, I am granted a short reprieve when the attendant announces overhead that we are delayed for a few minutes and will be returning to the gate. The catastrophe of today replays in my mind. These trips are getting harder and harder. I’m not sure how much fight I have left in me. The selfishness of that statement leaves me frustrated and angry with myself.

  I grab a barf bag to keep handy. As I try to concentrate on keeping my breathing steady, my eye lands on the multi-colored circles that make up the pattern on the carpet. My mind moves to my to-do list for work tomorrow. I don’t have any clients to meet with, but my team has a lot of shopping to accomplish to ready our client’s closets with the latest fall fashions. Mentally cataloging what needs to be done, a pair of brown Berluti shoes come to a stop in my line of vision.

  Scanning my eyes up, I process the vision of the man attached to the shoes. His handmade gray suit is tailored to perfection. His legs long and lean. The jacket is buttoned while one hand rests in his pocket. He has on a blue and green stripped tie with a simple silver bar tie clip and a crisp white shirt. I know that the suit he is wearing cost more than I make in a month. His cuff links are small, round, blue dots that look like sapphires with silver around the edges. Actually, based on the fact that I price the ensemble he is wearing at least fifteen grand, my guess is they are platinum. His copper and caramel-brown hair is askew, like his hands have been giving it a workout. His chin is angular and sporting an evening shadow. Impressive. Powerful. I have seen a lot of stunning men in my line of work, but this…this is another level. />
  “Sorry to inconvenience you, but I believe that’s my seat,” he points to the empty one next to me.

  I run my fingers over my bottom lip to make sure I’m not drooling and to help close my mouth that seems to have unhinged at the sight in front of me. My voice and manners kick in, and I manage a coherent response.

  “No problem. I’ll move over so you can have more head room. Unless you prefer the window?”

  “No. Thank you,” he says.

  I settle into the window seat, my eyes meeting his as I reply, “My pleasure.” Something in my response causes his blue eyes to skip, halting my breathing. They are striking. A medium blue with specks of silver dusted in. Commanding. Illimitable.

  A flight attendant makes an announcement that once again the door has been closed, and we are to prepare for departure. He must have been the reason we were delayed. I couldn’t get through the door for a plane that was still loading, but this guy gets the entire plane returned to the gate for him?

  He punches a number on his phone and announces to the person on the other end that he made the flight they held for him and what time he is expected in New York.

  “You know. If you are responsible for delaying an entire flight, I don’t think I would broadcast it over a phone call.” I unload my misguided frustration out on him.

  The plane backs away from the gate as the attendant reviews the safety features of the Boeing 737 we are on. While I am certain most people ignore her, I pull the card out of the pocket attached to the wall in front of me and follow along, determined that, if nothing else, the headlines will read that I, and hopefully others near me, survived whatever catastrophe happens. I count how many rows there are between us and the exits behind us. I make note that the door has a pull handle and that the closest exits to me are in front of me and have handles located at the bottom right-hand side that activates the safety slides. Placing the card back in its pouch, I can never decide if it’s better to have the window shade open to see my life flash before my eyes, or to close it for ignorant bliss. Ignorant bliss wins out, and the shade comes down.

  “My apologies if I’ve offended you.” His apology is not really an apology. In fact, he seems rather surprised that I said something to him.

  “You haven’t. But I’m sweeter than most people on this plane.” I offer my go-to southern smile to make amends, causing him to cock his head in thought. “Honestly it’s not a big deal. Misguided frustration. I’m just over this day.”

  “I’m having a bit of a day myself.” He says absently looking forward, folding one leg over the other and smoothing his tie down his torso. My eyes follow on instinct.

  “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely with a pat to his arm. Because I am. I am not arrogant enough to think I am the only one who could be having a terrible day. “Anything I can do to make it better?” I offer empathetically. If he’s had a day worse than mine, he can use it.

  He doesn’t respond but gauges me, when the captain announces that we are next in line for takeoff. I remind myself to breathe as my head hits the headrest from the force of the plane propelling itself down the runway. White-knuckling the armrest, a light dew settles over my skin. My eyes close just as the front of the plane comes off the ground. Within seconds, the back of the plane is airborne, and we take that little dip every plane makes once it leaves the ground. Fuck me.

  A chuckle reaches my ears, and I cautiously open one eye to see him watching me. It becomes clear that I said that expletive out loud and not just to myself.

  “Sorry. I don’t usually use such colorful language,” I blush.

  “No worries. Are you ill?” He eyes the barf bag in my lap.

  “Severe fear can have a not-so-pleasant effect on my stomach.” When we take another slight dip in our climb, my breath catches and my grip tightens. I sip in a deeper breath and then release slowly. I know only a handful of ways to calm myself. That is one. Sometimes it works.

  Leaning forward, I check on the little girl and her buddy Walter, only to find they are better than I ever hope to be. She looks at me and I wink at her. Her smile reminds me of wildflowers and fireflies in a mason jar. Sweet. Innocent. Unadulterated. Oh, to be five again.

  “Is this your daughter?” he asks.

  “No. She is traveling unaccompanied to her grandmother’s.” It hits me that I am giving information about a little girl to a total stranger, but something about him feels familiar and safe—and dangerous at the same time. I can’t put my finger on it…

  He greets her with a nod and a hello. She gives him a full-on mega-watt smile that lets me know, even to a five-year-old, this man is handsome. She responds with a small wave, and he leans over the aisle to better hear her.

  “This is Walter. Your ties match,” she says.

  “Walter, you have impeccable taste,” he replies. She proudly accepts this as a compliment to herself.

  “She seems fine” he says turning back to me.

  “I’m sorry?” In the confusion of my anxiety, I’m only half listening.

  “You appeared to be checking on her. I was just saying she seems fine. Better than you actually.” His tone is one of frustration, as though I should easily be following the conversation. I’m not sure if I want to smack or lick the smirk off his face.

  “Yep. She is taking this flying adventure like a boss.” Steady as a rock. Her five years, light-years ahead of my twenty-five. I release another long breath.

  “Did you tell her you were afraid to fly?” he asks.

  “Previous exception aside, I don’t make a practice of telling people my fears.”

  “Because?”

  “Because telling someone what you’re afraid of is like handing them a playbook on how to defeat you.” And, for some reason, without prompting, I add, “And I don’t like to be defeated.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. The expression on his face tells me I revealed more than I intended. He looks at me for what feels like a full minute, only turning away when the attendant walks up.

  “Another Diet Coke?” She hands me the drink. I smile and nod my thanks.

  “May I bring you something to drink, sir? Wine? Cocktail?” She looks at him longer than necessary, her expression changing, as if to say, “Mother, may I?” I recognize the symptoms. I, too, am suffering from the same ailment.

  “Bottle of water, thank you.” His reply is perfunctory and dismissing.

  I search my bag and locate my iPod, placing it and my earbuds on the small tray table that is shared between the middle armrests. My iPod has seen better days. Some days I feel like my iPod, being held together by duct tape. The screen cracked a couple of years ago, but this iPod takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Also like me, I muse to myself.

  “Your iPod appears to be in the need of repair.”

  I nod in acknowledgement. “I’ve had it for about 10 years.” I pick it up and look at each side. “I think it’s a 3rd generation. I don’t really know. I bought it used when I was in high school. It has been a good friend. It still works.” With the screen so cracked, I struggle sometimes to read what songs I’m pulling up, but it plays. I run my thumb over my cherished friend.

  “Maybe it’s time for a new one?” He picks up my iPod and turns it over again. A label with my first name and a pink heart is on the back. “Emme.”

  “Not in the budget. Besides, they don’t make the Classic anymore, and I don’t really want another version. I like the Classic. Holds more music without all the bells and whistles. Just a good, sturdy, hard-working iPod. All I need.”

  He nods and takes a drink of water.

  “Do you like music?” I ask.

  “I do. All kinds.” He pauses like he is trying to decide something. He then asks, “What brings you to New York, Emme?”

  Distracted by the way his tongue massages my name, I catch myself looking at his mouth, envisioning other things his tongue could be massaging. I’m caught off guard that my thoughts have gone to such a foreign place. W
hy is this stranger having such an effect on me?

  “I live there,” I stutter, realizing he has caught me staring. Again!

  “You? You live in New York?” His incredulous eyes sweep over me, landing a little too long on my chest.

  I can’t determine if it is a question meant to keep the polite conversation going, or a question of judgement. Like I’m an outsider who doesn’t belong. I concede that I am not dressed my best today. It’s the middle of August, and I’ve been in three different cities, with three very different climates, all in one day.

  The cuffed skinny jeans I’m wearing are a little too snug for my ample hips and ass, a gift from my mother. The ass not the jeans. Thankfully, she gifted me with a flat stomach and smaller waist to offset the other two. A white tank top and my grandfather’s thread-bare, oversized navy blue cardigan pushed up to my elbows round out my travel attire. I know it’s only my imagination, but I can still smell my grandfather when I wear it, even though it has been washed a thousand times since I took it as my own. It’s my comfort piece. It makes me feel like I am wearing a hug. And after spending the day in Satan’s lair, I need all the hugs I can get, even if it’s only in the form of a cardigan that’s more than forty years old.

  Other than a soft-pink matte lip gloss, I am wearing no makeup. I have large, cocoa-brown eyes. The front of my light-blonde hair is braided on one side. It is held together by bobby pins and a tiny, blue metal flower that turns my side part into a messy bun. The only jewelry I am wearing is a long artsy necklace and my grandparents’ white-gold wedding bands on my right middle finger. My wrist dons the Rolex that belonged to the father we never knew. It has a black leather band with a white mother of pearl face.

  “Yes, I live in New York,” I reply with bite. “Does that surprise you? I have lived in the city for seven years now. Moved there when I was seventeen.”

  A look creeps across his face that leaves me feeling like I’ve been warned about my tone.