July 4th has always been my favorite holiday, but New Year's Eve is a close second. As a lifelong daydreamer, I thoroughly enjoy envisioning where the next 365 days will take me. My predictions are almost always wrong! Thankfully, the real journey tends to be far more surprising than I had imagined.
Of the 34 NYEs I've experiencing on this spinning globe, my favorite ones have always taken place in warm climates. There's something magical about wearing short sleeves while waiting for the clock to strike midnight.
The main character in my 13th novel, Callie Schneider, is spending her New Year's in Atlanta. She'll head to Miami the following day; that girl is always chasing the sunshine. I can certainly relate.
xoxo,
Lisa
Chapter 10: DECEMBER 30
Our hotel in Atlanta is right beside the airport, in an
area that doesn’t have much to offer besides lodging. The shuttle drops us off
in front of the lobby, which twinkles with Christmas lights. While waiting for
the driver to unload our suitcases, I glance through the parking lot in search
of a restaurant that’s walking distance. Past the rows of cars and trucks, all I
can see is a Holiday Inn and a Hyatt Place.
“Anyone hungry?” I ask my crew. “I might go down to the
hotel restaurant. Doesn’t look like there are any other options nearby.”
The pilots tell me they’ll come downstairs to grab a bite,
and Jordan says he will join us too. Tess, the short redhead who was flying in
the back of the plane, informs the group that she’s too tired.
We check in and ride the elevator up to our rooms. Mine is
small and simple, with white walls and light gray furniture. I slide out of my
uniform at record speed, eager to get some grub. It’s almost eleven o’clock; I
rarely wait this long to eat dinner. After changing into a hoodie and leggings,
I head downstairs.
Have fun with the guys tonight, I text Andrew while waiting for the elevator.
His response arrives instantly. You too, Cal. I hope you
have a great New Year’s. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night.
I shove my phone in the pocket of my sweatshirt, keeping my
head down as I make my way through the hotel lobby. The hotel restaurant is dim
and quiet; only a few tables are occupied. Frost lines the window panes on one side
of the restaurant, giving that section a hazy glow. Jazz music is piped in
through speakers. It plays softly in the background while customers dressed in
business suits sip their drinks. I realize that my outfit is incredibly
informal for a bar like this, but I decide against going back to my room to
change.
One waitress
appears to be covering the entire restaurant. She sashays from table to table,
dropping off cocktails with elaborate garnishes on top.
Nobody from my crew has arrived yet, so I select a corner
booth and slide into the middle seat. The waitress shows up within seconds,
offering me a menu. When I tell her I’m expecting a few more people, she returns
with three additional menus.
I’m browsing the appetizers, all of which sound delicious,
when Jordan arrives.
“Hi Cal,” he says. He sits down beside me, close enough for
me to smell his cologne. He’s wearing a gray v-neck sweater with dark-stained
vintage jeans. His arm brushes mine when he reaches for his menu.
“You clean up nice,” I tell him, nodding at his attire.
He smiles. “You, too.”
“Liar,” I say, glancing down at my faded sweatshirt and
leggings. “I only had one cold-weather outfit in my suitcase. So it was this or
a strapless black dress.”
Jordan lifts an eyebrow. “I’d like to see that, please.
It’s not too late to go change... ”
I’m taken aback by the implications of that comment. Before
I have time to respond, both pilots join us. The slide in to my right, filling
up the rest of the booth.
“Does
anything on the menu look good?” the captain, an older guy with a 70s-style
porn star mustache, asks us.
“I’m just
here for the drinks,” Jordan tells him. “Haven’t really looked at the food.”
“A drink
does sound good,” the first officer notes. He grabs the drink menu from the
center of the table. “Looks like they have a bunch of craft beers.”
The waitress
returns and takes our orders. I’m the only person at the table who asks for a non-alcoholic beverage. I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but my coworkers
appear unconcerned. They are talking about New Year’s resolutions.
“Do you have
a resolution?” Jordan asks me.
I shrug.
“Not exactly. They aren’t really my thing; I set goals all the time, not just
on January 1st.”
“What are
your current goals?” the first officer inquires.
“Hmm. Within
the next few months, I would like to adopt a cat. I also wouldn’t mind
if I got something published. Not necessarily one of my novels, but a poem or
short story would be fine. I’d like to see something in print.”
Jordan nods.
“Those sound like realistic aspirations. I hope you get published, Callie.”
“Wait, you
write books?” the captain asks, glancing up from his menu. “For fun?”
I nod. “Um,
yes. I’m a nerd. I wrote my first book several years ago. It’s addicting. It’s
like getting a tattoo; once you have one, you want a million.”
“Where are
your tattoos?” Jordan asks.
I bite my
lip. “Oh, I don’t have any. It was just an analogy.”
“So you’re
making comparisons to things you don’t even have…” he notes with a half-smile.
“I have a
tattoo,” the captain announces, catching us all off guard. He lifts his shirt
sleeve to reveal a slightly faded anchor tattoo.
“Nice. I see
you were in the Air Force,” Jordan jokes, and we all burst out laughing.
The waitress
arrives with our food and drinks. The guys raise a toast before taking a sip of
beer. I clink my water glass against their beer mugs; nobody seems to care
that I have the most boring beverage at the table.
“Can I have
a bite?” Jordan asks, eyeing my spinach and artichoke dip.
“Sure,” I
tell him. “If I can try your IPA.”
He scoops a
heaping pile of dip onto a tortilla chip and pops the whole thing in his mouth.
“That’s a fair trade.”
I grab his
mug and take a sip. It’s hoppy, with a faint fruity aftertaste. “Kinda bitter,
but not terrible,” I note aloud.
“You can
have more,” Jordan tells me, reaching for another chip. “If you want.”
I swallow
another mouthful and hand the glass back to him, fully aware that if I keep it
in front of me, I’ll drink the entire thing. I lean back, into the booth
cushions. They’re fluffy and cozy. The pilots are talking about home
improvement projects, but I’m only half-listening as I polish off my spinach
and artichoke dip.
“Cal,”
Jordan whispers, wrapping an arm around me.
I look down
at his fingers around my waist, surprised at the tingling soaring through my
body. The pilots are still engrossed in conversation over the best way to
construct a toolshed. I tilt my face upward, toward Jordan.
“Where’d you
go?” he asks, the corners of his hazel eyes scrunching up as his mouth forms a
partial grin. “You were off in space, Cal. I ordered you an IPA. My treat,
since I ate half your food.”
I swallow.
“Thanks, Jordan. I’m trying to cut back, so I might just drink half of it…”
“I’ll finish
what you don’t,” he assures me. “Also got a flatbread for the table to share. I
figured we are all hungrier than we originally thought.”
My phone
buzzes from inside my pocket, but I don’t dare to check it. Jordan’s arm feels
so good around my side. Mesmerized by the
restaurant’s tranquil atmosphere, I remain completely still, trying to cling to this perfect scene. Everything has been spinning so quickly
lately, spiraling out of control while I’ve stood, bewildered, at the center of
the storm. But in this exact second, the world feels calm.
“You are
beautiful,” Jordan tells me, his eyes locked on mine.
“Huh?” I
ask, tilting my head to the side. “I feel gross from flying all day. And I’m
basically wearing workout clothes.”
“Doesn’t
matter,” he tells me. “None of that matters. You stand out, Callie. You’re
different.”
The waitress
sets our food and drinks on the table, stirring me from the moment. A flatbread
sits directly in front of me, still sizzling. Steam rises from the plate in
circular wisps. I reach for a knife and carve myself a small slice. Jordan
releases his grip on my waist. He slides one glass of beer toward me and raises
the other one to his lips.
“We’re
calling it a night,” the captain announces, placing a few bills in the middle
of the table. “Early show for us tomorrow.”
“You’re not
going to wait for the ball to drop?” I ask the pilots. “Fifteen more minutes
until midnight…”
The first
officer shakes his head. “Nah. We are old.”
“Older than dirt,” the captain tells us, chuckling as he rises from his seat. “Good night,
guys.”
“Night,” I
say as the pilots walk toward the elevators.
Jordan
scoots closer to me. “Smile.”
Suddenly
there’s a phone in my face. I grin as the forward-facing flash goes off.
“Instagram
story?” I guess. “Do I look dumb?”
Jordan
shakes his head. “No and most definitely no.”
He shows me
the image. With the lighting in here and our complimentary complexions, the
picture turned out pretty good. Jordan has a movie star smile, which makes for
a great photo.
“I don’t
post much on IG,” he reflects. “But I do add photos to my website every now and then,
even though I have been out of the acting biz for a couple years. Not sure why
I still update it. Some dreams die hard.”
“I’d like to
see your website,” I tell him. I reach for one last slice of the flatbread. “Is
it a blog? A portfolio of sorts?”
“Not a
blog,” he clarifies. “It has my bio, union affiliations, and resume. I used to
do career updates every time I landed a job, but I haven’t done anything in a
while. Aside from being involved in local theater in Cocoa Beach.”
“Do you
sing, or just act?”
“Both,” he
says. “I’m better at acting, though.”
“I suck at
acting, but my singing voice is ok. Or so I’ve been told,” I say, shrugging.
“I’d love to
hear it,” Jordan tells me.
“Maybe
someday. If you’re lucky.”
“Hey, I can
send you the photo. Type in your number.” He hands me his phone.
I roll my
eyes. “Really? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“So what?
Doesn’t matter how old a trick is if it still works,” he says with a sheepish
grin.
I type my
number in his phone and hand it back to him. He looks at me for a second. The
corners of his mouth move, as though he’s considering saying something. I lean
in just a little bit. My cheeks are reddening but I can do nothing to stop this
process.
“10, 9,
8, 7…”
We both turn
toward the television screen near the bar, where a countdown flashes in big,
bright letters.
“Six! Five!” I
shout along with all the other patrons in the restaurant.
“Callie?”
Jordan asks, scratching his chin while the countdown continues. “Is it, um, is
it ok if I kiss you?”
“One!
Happy New Year!”
I nod,
knowing full well that I might regret this in the morning.
Jordan holds
my face in his hands, gently, and pulls me toward him. His lips are soft. My
body seems to melt into his; somehow I end up with an arm pressed to his chest,
my fingers resting on his collarbone. When I open my eyes, he’s smiling
down at me.
“Thanks,” he
says. “Happy new year.”
“Hmm.
I…I have to go to bed,” I stammer, pulling my gaze from his. “I’m so sorry,
Jordan. Just tired. We had a long day today.”
“Let me walk
you back to your room,” he offers.
“That’s ok.”
I place some money on top of the stack left by the pilots. “Thank you, though.
Get some sleep, Jordan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hurry
toward the elevator, never looking back. The lock screen on my phone displays a
series of notifications, including the photo from Jordan. I quickly scan the
other texts that came in. Mackie sent me a sweet New Year’s message and my
roommates sent a couple photos from the house party they attended in the
Mission District. Of course, there’s a message from Andrew.
You deserve
everything good in the year ahead. Happy New Year, California.
I sigh and
wait for the elevator to bring me to my floor. Then I hurry inside my hotel
room, eager to scrub this night off my skin.
A message
from Jordan lights up my phone screen while I’m washing my face. Didn’t mean
to scare you off. Sleep well, Callie.
Without
responding to anyone’s texts, I turn out the light and crawl into bed.
