The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,81

muffin remained intact on its plate on the tabletop; I hadn’t trusted my stomach to be able to keep it down.

“Tell me you didn’t keep drinking when you got home last night,” my friend censured.

I hoped that it was only the inside sunglasses and my slightly disheveled look that gave me away. I hoped I didn’t also smell like alcohol.

“I might have kept drinking,” I admitted.

“I know you know this,” Gemma qualified, “but that’s not healthy.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I know.”

I considered telling my friend about the t-shirt that Anissa had brought over to my apartment, but that I’d missed her because I’d been at the wine bar. But I didn’t want Gemma to blame herself any more than she already did. Besides, Anissa might not have even knocked. Maybe she’d dumped the shirt at my doorway and I would have never known she’d ever been there.

“You have to be in the air all day,” Gemma reminded me. “And of all days to be hungover! All we do is takeoffs and landings today.”

“Do you think the puking bingo card square can apply to myself?” I tried to joke.

I didn’t need to look at Gemma’s face to anticipate her reaction. I could practically hear the disapproval in the cadence of her breath.

“I hope you didn’t drunk dial Anissa last night.”

Amazingly, I hadn’t. I’d woken up in a slight panic that morning after I’d blacked out after a few more strong cocktails, but luckily I found no evidence on my phone of attempted calls or misguided texts that could have made my situation worse.

“I didn’t,” I told her. “But she’s not responding to any of my voicemails or texts anyway. Even if I had drunk dialed her, she never would have answered her phone.”

Anissa was too angry to pick up the phone or even to text me back. I could handle getting yelled at—at least she’d be talking to me then—but this silent treatment was killing me.

“So that’s it, then?” Gemma posed. “You’re just giving up?”

I peered, almost guiltily, over the tops of my sunglasses. “I did come up with an idea last night. But I don’t know if it’s genius or idiotic.”

The strategy had come to me in the middle of my third vodka and seltzer of the night, so it was probably ill-conceived.

“That is a thin line,” Gemma concurred.

I licked at my lips and leaned forward in my chair. “What if I ask Kent’s friend to find out her new flying schedule?” I started. “I could have him schedule me for that flight—either as a flight attendant or a passenger. Anissa always books two seats together, but she only sits in one. I could be in the seat right next to hers. She’ll have to listen to my apology. She won’t be able to leave. There will be no place for her to go.”

Gemma gave me a disapproving look. “Is that really how you want to apologize? Corner the poor woman with more deceit?”

“It’s not deceit!” I protested. “It’s using my resources to my advantage.”

“Yeah, to your advantage,” she pointed out. “What about Anissa’s?”

I realized, reluctantly, that Gemma was right. I’d be able to get my apology out if I followed through with my plan, but how receptive would my audience be?

I felt deflated and defeated. “What do you suggest I do?”

A small frown formed on Gemma’s features. “What about baggage claim? After her flight she’ll be waiting at the carousel for her luggage. Confront her there. She’ll still be blindsided by you being there, but at least she won’t be captive at 35,000 feet.”

I shook my head. It was a smart idea—much better than my own—but it wasn’t going to work. “She doesn’t check her luggage anymore. She’s a carry-on passenger now.”

“Then we use what little influence we have to make sure she has to check her baggage.”

I cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “We can do that?”

“I’ll make sure it happens,” Gemma vowed.

I let Gemma’s proposal bounce around in my brain. “Baggage claim,” I considered aloud. “That might actually work.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I watched the arrival board with an anxious pit in my stomach. Kent’s friend had been able to find Anissa’s flight number and arrival time. Gemma had used her own connections, Godfather-style, to somehow assure that Anissa would be forced to check her baggage on her return trip. My friends had done the heavy lifting; all I had to do was apologize.

Easier said than done.

I knew Gemma had been right about not trapping Anissa in the air