I will not go back.
I will not go back.
I. Will. Not. Go. Back.
If he calls me, I won’t answer.
If he texts me, I won’t respond.
If he emails me, I won’t open the message.
I’m done.
I. Am. Done.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: I’ve heard this before...Let’s see how long you last...O_o
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Two weeks down.
No messages from him, no calls.
Although, we did share a short, repositioning flight from Charlotte to Houston, and he did sign off on a form to confirm that a male passenger was being overly rude and offensive to me during the deplaning process. But, that was it.
He barely looked at me after signing the form, and we each went our separate ways to separate flights in the terminal.
He barely even looked at me...
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: I’ll reserve judgment until you make it to 8 weeks...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Four weeks.
Nothing.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Six weeks.
Still nothing...
Just a heavy heart and a sad realization that I really did love him, but I meant nothing to him.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
He finally texted me today, nearly eight weeks after I walked away, and it wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even a hello.
It was a: I need to fuck your pussy. Call me when you get this.
I hope I never see him again. I’m moving on.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: You **are** moving on...
GATE B35
JAKE
New York (JFK) I woke up to the sound of low voices outside my bedroom, heard them talking about me as if I wasn’t here.
“Why does this tenant keep getting this TV replaced?” One voice said. “I feel like he breaks it every week.”
“It’s one of his many hobbies,” Jeff’s distinctive voice floated through the halls. “He enjoys it.”
“Yeah, well. You should probably tell him that there are hobbies out there that cost less than a thousand dollars a week.”
“I’ll be sure he knows,” Jeff said. “Thank you once again for coming by.”
“Anytime. Literally.”
The sound of my front door closing and Jeff’s signature hard-bottom shoes walking across the floor were the next things I heard. His steps were getting closer and closer to my bedroom door, and without knocking, he stepped into my space.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weston,” he said, placing a paper invoice onto my dresser. “You’re also welcome, in advance, for finding a new botanist to take care of your plants.”
“What happened to the one I had?”
“I believe you told her to, ‘Get the fuck out of my place,’ a few nights ago during one of your episodes. Do you not remember that?”
“No.”
“I figured.” He shrugged. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be downstairs awaiting your next round of problems.”
“Wait...”
“Yes?”
“I texted Gillian as few times last night and the night before. She hasn’t texted me back.”
He blinked.
“This is the part where you fill in the blanks for me, Jeff. Why the fuck hasn’t she texted me back since you seem to know everything else?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “But it has been over two months since you last spoke so I’m assuming you’re over.” He took a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote something on the back of the invoice. Then he walked out of my room and left the apartment.
I stood up and walked over to see what he’d written on the paper.
She dropped off the watch. It’s on your counter.
I groaned and got dressed, taking my private elevator down to the parking garage. I pulled out my phone and started to send Gillian another text, but then I looked through our history.
She hadn’t responded to me in over two weeks, and the last time she texted me—months ago, I’d never sent a reply.
Shit...
I sped out of the garage and toward her Brooklyn apartment, risking the ire of her neighbors by temporarily parking my car in the middle of the street. I rushed up the outside steps, not bothering to knock on the cheap door, and stormed up four flights.
The “Two Broke Girls” sign was no longer hanging on her door, but I knocked anyway.
No answer.
I heard a female’s voice inside so I knocked even harder, refusing to let Gillian ignore me.
The door swung open and it wasn’t Gillian or her roommate. It was an older woman holding her cat.
“Well, yes?” She smiled at me. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’m looking for Gillian Taylor.”
“Who?”
“The woman who used to live here. Black hair, green eyes, beautiful. Where is she?”
“Oh! The girl with the crazy roommate. They moved out over a month ago.
A month ago? “Where did they move to?”
“I’m not sure.” She tapped her lip. “But wherever it was, it was probably someplace really nice. The crazy girl’s dad picked them up in a limo. A limo...”
“Thank you.” I walked away and headed down the steps, returning to my car. I couldn’t believe this shit, couldn’t believe I’d let this much happen within so much time without even noticing it.
I turned my key in the ignition and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was a text message.
Gillian?
I clicked on her name and read the response.
Gillian: Um...I’m not sure who you’re trying to reach, but this phone number doesn’t belong to a ‘Gillian’. I’m Clara. That said... If you’re interested in “making up” by “eating my pussy all night until I come on your face” then, no need to text back. Give me a call :-)
GATE B36
JAKE
Atlanta (ATL) —-> Paris (CDG) A week later, I stood at Gate B4 in Atlanta’s airport and printed out the weather reports for tonight’s flights, hoping like hell whoever I flew with would be somewhat competent. The first officer I was originally due to fly out with had contracted food poisoning overnight, so scheduling was supposed to be sending a reserve pilot so we could finally get onboard.
“Mr. Weston?” A familiar, male voice said from behind. “Mr. Weston, is that you?”
I turned around and found myself face to face with Ryan. Simulator Ryan.
Get the fuck out of here...
“Looks like we’ll be flying together in the real-world now, sir.” He smiled. “Maybe you can show me that magic carpet button, right?” He laughed and waited for me to join him.
I will not go back.
I. Will. Not. Go. Back.
If he calls me, I won’t answer.
If he texts me, I won’t respond.
If he emails me, I won’t open the message.
I’m done.
I. Am. Done.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: I’ve heard this before...Let’s see how long you last...O_o
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Two weeks down.
No messages from him, no calls.
Although, we did share a short, repositioning flight from Charlotte to Houston, and he did sign off on a form to confirm that a male passenger was being overly rude and offensive to me during the deplaning process. But, that was it.
He barely looked at me after signing the form, and we each went our separate ways to separate flights in the terminal.
He barely even looked at me...
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: I’ll reserve judgment until you make it to 8 weeks...
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Four weeks.
Nothing.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
Six weeks.
Still nothing...
Just a heavy heart and a sad realization that I really did love him, but I meant nothing to him.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
No comments posted.
GILLIAN
~BLOG POST~ Present Day
He finally texted me today, nearly eight weeks after I walked away, and it wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even a hello.
It was a: I need to fuck your pussy. Call me when you get this.
I hope I never see him again. I’m moving on.
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: You **are** moving on...
GATE B35
JAKE
New York (JFK) I woke up to the sound of low voices outside my bedroom, heard them talking about me as if I wasn’t here.
“Why does this tenant keep getting this TV replaced?” One voice said. “I feel like he breaks it every week.”
“It’s one of his many hobbies,” Jeff’s distinctive voice floated through the halls. “He enjoys it.”
“Yeah, well. You should probably tell him that there are hobbies out there that cost less than a thousand dollars a week.”
“I’ll be sure he knows,” Jeff said. “Thank you once again for coming by.”
“Anytime. Literally.”
The sound of my front door closing and Jeff’s signature hard-bottom shoes walking across the floor were the next things I heard. His steps were getting closer and closer to my bedroom door, and without knocking, he stepped into my space.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weston,” he said, placing a paper invoice onto my dresser. “You’re also welcome, in advance, for finding a new botanist to take care of your plants.”
“What happened to the one I had?”
“I believe you told her to, ‘Get the fuck out of my place,’ a few nights ago during one of your episodes. Do you not remember that?”
“No.”
“I figured.” He shrugged. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be downstairs awaiting your next round of problems.”
“Wait...”
“Yes?”
“I texted Gillian as few times last night and the night before. She hasn’t texted me back.”
He blinked.
“This is the part where you fill in the blanks for me, Jeff. Why the fuck hasn’t she texted me back since you seem to know everything else?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “But it has been over two months since you last spoke so I’m assuming you’re over.” He took a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote something on the back of the invoice. Then he walked out of my room and left the apartment.
I stood up and walked over to see what he’d written on the paper.
She dropped off the watch. It’s on your counter.
I groaned and got dressed, taking my private elevator down to the parking garage. I pulled out my phone and started to send Gillian another text, but then I looked through our history.
She hadn’t responded to me in over two weeks, and the last time she texted me—months ago, I’d never sent a reply.
Shit...
I sped out of the garage and toward her Brooklyn apartment, risking the ire of her neighbors by temporarily parking my car in the middle of the street. I rushed up the outside steps, not bothering to knock on the cheap door, and stormed up four flights.
The “Two Broke Girls” sign was no longer hanging on her door, but I knocked anyway.
No answer.
I heard a female’s voice inside so I knocked even harder, refusing to let Gillian ignore me.
The door swung open and it wasn’t Gillian or her roommate. It was an older woman holding her cat.
“Well, yes?” She smiled at me. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’m looking for Gillian Taylor.”
“Who?”
“The woman who used to live here. Black hair, green eyes, beautiful. Where is she?”
“Oh! The girl with the crazy roommate. They moved out over a month ago.
A month ago? “Where did they move to?”
“I’m not sure.” She tapped her lip. “But wherever it was, it was probably someplace really nice. The crazy girl’s dad picked them up in a limo. A limo...”
“Thank you.” I walked away and headed down the steps, returning to my car. I couldn’t believe this shit, couldn’t believe I’d let this much happen within so much time without even noticing it.
I turned my key in the ignition and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was a text message.
Gillian?
I clicked on her name and read the response.
Gillian: Um...I’m not sure who you’re trying to reach, but this phone number doesn’t belong to a ‘Gillian’. I’m Clara. That said... If you’re interested in “making up” by “eating my pussy all night until I come on your face” then, no need to text back. Give me a call :-)
GATE B36
JAKE
Atlanta (ATL) —-> Paris (CDG) A week later, I stood at Gate B4 in Atlanta’s airport and printed out the weather reports for tonight’s flights, hoping like hell whoever I flew with would be somewhat competent. The first officer I was originally due to fly out with had contracted food poisoning overnight, so scheduling was supposed to be sending a reserve pilot so we could finally get onboard.
“Mr. Weston?” A familiar, male voice said from behind. “Mr. Weston, is that you?”
I turned around and found myself face to face with Ryan. Simulator Ryan.
Get the fuck out of here...
“Looks like we’ll be flying together in the real-world now, sir.” He smiled. “Maybe you can show me that magic carpet button, right?” He laughed and waited for me to join him.
