Charley
The first class service had started. He had a beer and I ordered a glass of wine, hoping it would calm me down. He continued to chat in his easy, friendly manner. He gave no indication of recognizing me. Thank goodness.
I managed to hold up my end of the conversation as the drinks progressed to a surprisingly good airline meal. Too bad I couldn’t always fly first class! I’d upgraded due to the mileage I’d accumulated in the job I’d held after college graduation—I’d been working in marketing at a software technology company, and I’d had to travel for work.
I’d quit a couple of weeks ago, though. Instead, I’d procured a job doing what I’d originally planned to do after college.
“I’m about to start a new job,” I told him when he asked what I did for a living.
“Yeah? Good for you. What’re you gonna be doing?”
“Teaching high school,” I said, hoping that wouldn’t spark any memory spikes in his brain. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I’d become a teacher because of Mr. MacCallum. When he wasn’t busy chasing after all the female teachers in the school, he’d been very inspiring.
“Seriously? That’s what I used to do.”
He didn’t teach anymore? I felt a wave of guilt. He’d been such a great teacher. Had he given it up because of what had happened that day?
“What do you do now?”
He shrugged. “This and that. What are you teaching?”
This and that? Had his entire career been ruined that day? Oh jeez, I felt even worse.
“English. I trained to do it, but I’ve been working in software marketing for the past two years. It wasn’t for me, though.” And then, probably because I felt guilty, I added, “I had a really incredible teacher back in high school. That was what made me want to go into education myself.”
“Hey, that’s great. We need more good teachers in our schools.” He was looking at me with the same come-on gleam in his eyes that I remembered him directing at the female teachers in our school. Sometimes he even put on the charm for the moms who showed up for parent-teacher conferences. He was always on the prowl.
Apparently, that was one detail that hadn’t changed over the years. Bad Prince Harry was flirting with me. So much so that the coach class flight attendant, the one who had moved him to first class cabin, gave me a scowl when she walked by on her way to the forward galley. I wondered if they had a hookup planned for Grand Cayman. Or maybe even for the bathroom during the flight.
I wanted to use what I knew about him to resist his blandishments. But he wasn’t obnoxious about it. He didn’t seem to take himself too seriously. He kept up a lively conversation while our meals were served. He asked me more about myself and he seemed genuinely interested in my answers.
He was nice, I thought.
This surprised me. I’m not sure why. I guess I hadn’t thought of him as a real human being back in high school. With the Harley and the leather jacket and the cocky attitude, he’d been that sexy, unavailable object on whom I could project all my fantasies. I’d probably never seen the real Harry.
But now there was something between us. A spark. We were getting along amazingly well. Something was simmering and getting steamier every minute.
Maybe I should confess who I was.
If there had been nothing more to our story than his having been my twelfth grade English teacher, I’d have told him, no problem. We’d probably have both laughed over the coincidence and reminisced about the good old days.
But I had seen him getting a blow job.
No. I couldn’t tell him.
I probably shouldn’t keep chatting with the guy, either. The best thing to do would be to start reading a book on my Kindle—yes, I did have some sexy beach reading with me—or maybe listening to music. We were nothing more than strangers on a plane. The plane would land, hopefully without cracking up, we’d nod politely, separate, and never see each other again.
But I couldn’t really pull out the Kindle while the tray tables were down and there was still wine to consume.
So we kept right on chatting.