The Boy from the Band

Silent Flight

We are quiet on the flight back to New York. Not because we have nothing to say to each other, but because what we have to say is for our ears only. We'll talk on the drive to Woodstock.

We finish the drinks we ordered and Rick raises the armrests of our seats so he can hold me while we rest. Red-eyes are notoriously quiet and we're grateful for the peace it gives us.

The stewardess comes and asks if we want another drink but Rick shakes his head. She lowers the lights and even though we're rested we go to sleep.

It was about halfway through the flight that I wake up, slumped in Rick's arms. My back is aching and I withdraw gently, trying not to wake him. There's no stewardess in sight so I go back to where they're chatting and ask if I can get a brandy. It's no bother, I guess, they pour me a drink in the ridiculous little plastic cups and I return to my seat.

"Did you bring me one?" Rick's sitting up and smiling. God, he loves to smile, he does coy well but I've known him for too long.

"No, you were asleep, if you want a drink, you can get your own." I sit down and he reaches over to try to take mine so I pull away and say, "No."

"I guess I'll have to," he says and gets up to go charm the stewardesses who will fuss over him and practically fight over who gets to give him his drink. He comes back, a drink in each hand, I guess each stewardess got the pleasure of serving.

We sip our drinks; it gives us an excuse to not talk. Since it's a late-night flight there are no movies so we are forced to depend on each other for entertainment. We're feeling friendly towards each other, perhaps our lovemaking broke the ice.

I wish I had a book to help kill time for the rest of the flight. The stewardesses open the blinds and we are met with daylight and I realize we are getting close—at last—to New York.

I lean over and rest my head on Rick's shoulder. I dread landing in New York, and what it will mean. I am going to say goodbye to our relationship, maybe forever. We'll see.

When we land, we keep a respectful distance, after all, we are on his turf. He carries my suitcase as we make our way to the shuttle which will take us to where the car is parked. While we walk, I start rehearsing what I will say.

He tips the driver when we reach the car. He puts my suitcase in the trunk then we get in and he starts the car.

"You're quiet," he says and reaches over and puts his warm hand on my thigh, "What's wrong?"

This is my cue and I don't want to speak but I have to. "I don't know what to say." Yes, I do, I've been rehearsing it for hours. "I'm dreading going back to Woodstock, I don't know if gossip has died down or if it's just getting started. That town is one big mouth. I can't live there anymore; I want to move back to California." I look at him, tears in my eyes that I wipe away. "I thought our luck might run out one day but I didn't expect this."

"It'll die down. I'm as faithful to Elizabeth as I can be, but she knows life on the road. What she doesn't know about, she ignores. And we've been careful..."

"What good did being careful do us? We still don't know who did this, or why. How do we know we aren't being watched? I can't handle this happening a second time. Besides, I'm feeling frustrated with living here. I can't go any further in my job even if I get my master's. There are a lot more opportunities in Los Angeles than there are for me here. I want to do something meaningful with my life."

"You never talked like this before. Are you sure that you don't want to move in with Bob Weir?"

"No, I love Bob but we work better as friends."