Chapter Two
As they walked through security and to their gate, Andrea followed a step behind Miranda, watching in amazement. She was obviously the same woman, but it was also obvious—at least to Andrea—that she had aged. When Andrea worked at Runway, the editor was forty-nine years old. Now, she was—Andrea paused to do the math in her head—fifty-eight years old. To the untrained eye, she was as beautiful and slender as ever. But to a former assistant who spent months devoting her life to that singular woman, it was obvious.
When she relaxed, her shoulders were slightly rounded. She made an effort to straighten her posture, when it appeared her natural inclination was to slouch, but just a little. She was wearing flats as they walked through the airport, and as Andrea noticed earlier at the funeral when she was in heels, she seemed to be favoring her right leg, but just a little. Her upper arms seemed a little bit softer, and the skin beneath her chin was just a little less taut. She was wearing looser clothing, flowing garments, not the perfectly tailored blouses and suits and dresses that Andrea remembered. But, then again, they were in Los Angeles and she wasn't there as Editor-in-Chief. Still, Andrea couldn't help but suspect that the woman's waist was a little less defined, her breasts just a little lower, her buttocks just a little less firm. And she probably had that little bulge just below her navel—the one whose existence spawned an entire line of "slimming" undergarments. She was thinking about how wonderful it would feel to wrap her arms around the woman and—
"Andrea?" Miranda called, gently shaking the young woman's arm.
"What? Oh!" she said, blinking a few times and looking up at the monitors. "Sorry, I zoned out."
Miranda's left eyebrow arched upwards as she waited for a better explanation.
"I was thinking about the last time I was here, how Nigel came to the airport with me, trying to convince me to stay," she said. It was an absolute lie, but she knew Miranda would find it an acceptable reason for daydreaming and silently congratulated herself. Most of the time, she was a terrible liar.
"Well, it appears our flight is delayed. Twenty-three ninety-four, right?" Miranda said, her right hand on her hip screaming "irritation."
"Yes," Andrea said, bringing her boarding pass up on her iPhone. "That's the flight, and it says here that we're waiting on a plane to arrive from Denver. There was an ice storm there, so that's the delay."
"Did they say how long?" Miranda asked.
Andrea opened her mouth to reply, but stopped herself. "I don't know," she said with a shrug. "I'm going to go have a seat." As she walked over to some empty chairs near the window, she fought the urge to see whether Miranda followed. Just in case, though, she set her bag down on the empty seat next to her. She typed up a quick email on her phone to Doug, letting him know her flight was delayed and that he didn't need to bother picking her up in the morning. She would take a cab, or, depending on how things went, maybe share a ride with the editor.
"May I sit?" Miranda asked, gesturing at Andrea's bag. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since they arrived at the gate, so the area was quite crowded.
Andrea nodded and moved her bag.
"I spoke with one of the attendants, and as you said, they are waiting on the plane from Denver. It hasn't even taken off yet, so once it does, it's two, maybe three hours by the time they land, deboard, and fuel the plane," she said. "And I already inquired about other flights—if we wait until morning, there are plenty of flights to New York, but tonight, this is the only one."
Andrea smiled. "Thank you for looking into that. I think it makes the most sense just to sit and wait for this flight. Are you staying?"
"I don't know," she said.
"Well, I'm going to go find something to eat—I haven't had anything all day. Are you hungry?"
Miranda shook her head and reached for Andrea's suitcase, tugging it closer. "I'll stay here with the bags. Can you bring me a bottle of water, though? Please?" she added.
"Of course."
Twenty minutes later, Andrea returned with two pre-packaged salads, a bottle of Diet Coke, and a bottle of water. "I guess everyone had the same idea as me—and the only food available is a grab-and-go deli. The line was insanely long," she said. "Here, I grabbed you a salad, too, just in case they ran out." She handed Miranda her water and salad.
"Thank you," Miranda said.
The two women sat in silence, picking at their chopped salads that were no doubt prepared several days ago. An attendant made an announcement that the flight had just taken off from Denver, so the updated departure time was 1:25 AM.
Miranda balled her left hand into a fist and closed her eyes when they made the announcement. When she opened her eyes, Andrea was looking at her with concern in her eyes. Miranda unclenched her fist and wiggled her fingers.
Andrea didn't say anything for a few minutes as she tried to process what she just saw and tried to figure out what could have possibly angered Miranda so much. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miranda take a deep breath and exhale through her lips, something she knew to be a calming exercise. She looked around, and it seemed that a few people waiting at their gate were staring at Miranda. They must have recognized her. Thankfully, none of them seemed to be taking photos.
She leaned over and turned her head so that no one would be able to read her lips even if they were looking. "Are you okay?" she whispered.
Miranda turned and looked at Andrea like she had two heads. "Why?"
"You look agitated or something, and I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
"Why do you care?"
Andrea took a deep breath. She anticipated this conversation, just not so soon. "Because I just do. I cared about you when I worked for you, and I cared about you somewhere in the back of my mind for the past seven years. Okay?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back against her chair.
"I didn't mean to alarm you," Miranda said. "I don't—I don't handle—" she paused for a minute and gestured in the air with her hand, "—delays very well."
The woman's honesty surprised Andrea, but she tried not to make that known. "Oh, well, delays are always irritating. Is there anything I can do?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She had made a point of not acting like Miranda's assistant earlier when they arrived at the gate, but seeing the woman dealing with, well, whatever it was she was dealing with, Andrea couldn't resist wanting to help out in whatever way possible.
"Of course, now you ask that," she said.
"Why am I not surprised that you just called me out on that?" Andrea said.
Miranda took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, her Hermes bag in her lap. "Do you know why we do the things we do, Andrea?"
She knew better than to answer that question. In retrospect, she learned that Miranda only ever used the collective "we" or "us" when she had something serious to say about herself. Like that day in Paris—she wasn't really saying she had a wonderful, enviable life. She was lamenting the fact that everyone thinks her life is so fucking perfect they would kill to be in her shoes, when, in fact, her shoes were just about the only part of her life that weren't a complete disaster. Andrea was glad she paid enough attention during her tenure to catch on to these things.
"We do these things, Andrea," Miranda continued quietly, "because we are conditioned to, no different than Pavlovian dogs. We learn how to react to stimuli as children, and go forth living our lives in a predetermined pattern. A set of impulses, action and reaction, stimulus and response. My mother didn't understand this. She thought that ignorance led to some sort of cosmic chain of events whereby problems resolve themselves; that a stimulus without any response at all, somehow ceases being a stimulus in the first place. We do what we do because we are conditioned, either through imitation or abhorrence. My responses are unfortunately a result of complete and utter abhorrence of my mother's outlook on life." She paused for a moment as if, only then, realizing how much she had revealed to the young woman. In an attempt to qualify her soliloquy, she added, "When I first met Nigel in the late 1980s, we commiserated over our mothers."
"Ah, I see," Andrea said.
"Is your mother—?"
"Alive? Yes. Overbearing? Yes. Abhorrent? No," Andrea said. She wasn't sure what Miranda was going after, but this was a conversation in which she would rather listen than participate.
"Of course not. You and your midwestern values. You, no doubt, have one of those mothers depicted in greeting cards. I always struggled with that on Mother's Day. I've often wondered what my girls think about the cards they send me," she said.
This conversation was taking an unexpected turn, and it was making Andrea increasingly uncomfortable. "Not to interrupt, but would you like some coffee? I just saw someone walk by with a Starbucks cup, so there must be one in this terminal," she said.
"I thought you were trying to prove a point," Miranda said.
"Pardon me?"
"Show me that you've matured. That you're too good to fetch my coffee or rearrange my travel plans now."
"I wasn't trying to prove anything. Maybe I'm just conditioned to fetch coffee. Are you going to find the Starbucks? If so, I'd like a venti iced redeye with no syrup, two splenda, and a splash of half & half," she said, turning her attention to her phone.
"I don't want anything."
"In that case, I'll be back shortly," Andrea said, grabbing her things—including her suitcase this time—and heading off in the general direction that the guy with the Starbucks cup had come from.
Miranda took a deep breath and felt her hands shaking. "Shit," she muttered under her breath as she fumbled in her purse for a prescription bottle. She pulled one capsule out and quickly swallowed it with whatever was left of her bottle of water. It was rather important that she remember to take her beta-blocker at the same time every day, so much so that she programmed a reminder in her calendar so she would take it precisely at 2:00 PM every day. With the time difference, she completely ignored the alert today.
Andrea took her time walking through the terminal. She stopped and sat on a bench near Starbucks because she just needed to spend some time away from Miranda. Seeing her at the funeral and having a conversation afterwards was one thing. Spending the past two hours with her was something entirely different—something she didn't think she was ready for.
As she sipped on her iced coffee, she thought more about their conversation. Miranda was freely opening up to her, and she wasn't entirely sure why it made her feel so vulnerable. Miranda was the one delving into her past, but yet she felt guilty for listening. Maybe it was some kind of intuition: she knew Miranda would end up saying something so entirely personal that Andrea would freak and walk away (again), and she was sort of waiting for the proverbial sword to fall. Or the other shoe to drop. Or whatever the saying is.
But the more she thought about it, the less convinced she was. In fact, she had managed to talk herself out of her own theory in the course of fifty-four minutes, which was exactly how long it took Miranda to find her.
"Oh, there you are," she said, approaching the small bench. "I thought you were hiding from me." The left corner of her lip quivered just enough to let Andrea know she wasn't fooled. "Will you watch my things while I use the restroom?"
Andrea nodded. If there was one thing she wasn't going to argue about, it was bringing luggage into a public bathroom. That was incredibly disgusting, and she probably would have offered if Miranda didn't ask. Since it was relatively empty in this area of the terminal, she quickly headed back to the Starbucks counter for a center-of-the-sun venti skim no-foam latte for her former boss. A peace offering, so to speak. She did, after all, spend nearly an hour blatantly avoiding the woman.
"What's this?" Miranda asked.
Andrea shrugged and handed her the latte. "You don't have to drink it. I just—I wasn't hiding from you. I needed to sort out my thoughts."
"Oh, well then," Miranda said, taking the cup, "I trust you have everything sorted?"
"Not at all. I think I'll just have to roll with the punches."
"Oh, Andrea. You should know that I don't punch—I bite."
The flight from Denver arrived slightly ahead of schedule, which ultimately meant less awkward conversation with Miranda. Andrea couldn't help but be relieved when the woman's boarding group was called. If she thought about it too much, she would actually miss the editor's company, and that was exactly what she did not need for the next six hours.
On the plane, Andrea was lucky enough to be sitting in an aisle seat with an empty space next to her. The flight was nearly sold out. For a brief second, she wondered if Miranda had to sit next to someone in first class. Probably, but at least there was more leg room and wider seats. Once they were up in the air, Andrea, like most other passengers, put her headphones in and closed her eyes, hoping to rest for a few hours.
In the front of the plane, Miranda watched carefully to see when the flight attendants began to unfasten their seat belts. As soon as they were up an about, she, too, stood up and took her bags, heading towards the back of the plane. She spotted Andrea with her eyes closed in the second to last row, in the aisle.
"Excuse me," she said, leaning over Andrea and tapping the young man in the window seat on the shoulder. He removed his earbuds and gave her his attention. "Would you mind trading seats with me?" She held out her boarding pass. "First class, second row, window seat."
"Seriously? Okay, what do I have to do to in exchange?" he said.
"Lift my suitcase into the overhead bin for me," she said. "That's all."
"Wow. Um, sure. Thanks, ma'am," he said. He gathered his things, then tapped Andrea on the shoulder so she could let him out.
"Huh? What's going on?" she asked.
"Sorry. I just need to get out. We're trading seats," he said with a shrug. Andrea turned her body so he could get past her legs, and once he lifted Miranda's bag, he took her boarding pass and made his way to the front of the plane, thanking her again for the "sweet deal" as he put it.
"I'm sorry, Miranda, am I missing something? Why would you…" she let her voice trail off as she saw a flash of hurt cross the older woman's eyes. She shook her head gently and stood up so that Miranda could make her way into the window seat. "I didn't mean it like that. I just wasn't expecting to see you here. And I was half asleep."
"Is this honestly supposed to be enough space for a third person?" Miranda asked, pointing to the empty seat between them.
"Economy class," Andrea said, shrugging. It looked like the other woman had more to say, so she was cautious of her body language as she turned towards the woman.
"What did you need to sort out earlier?" Miranda asked.
She stopped and thought for a minute. "Um, just Nigel-related thoughts." Technically, it was true, since Nigel told her a great deal about Miranda in his last few weeks, specifically that he would be terribly disappointed if the two of them never managed to "hook up" at least once. Andrea felt herself blushing at the thought.
"Oh," she said. "He—he was special, wasn't he?"
Andrea nodded. For the first time in nearly eight years, she wondered if Nigel was as blunt with Miranda as he had been with her.
After staring at each other for several minutes, Miranda broke the silence. "It hasn't been the same at Runway—since Paris, losing you and Nigel," she said.
Andrea's eyes went wide.
"Not what you were expecting me to say, I know," Miranda said. "It's like seeing you, talking to you, being stuck in an airport with you—it's a gift. With Nigel, I failed. But with you, I still have a chance."
"A chance for what?" Andrea asked shakily.
"I'm not sure," she said, breaking her gaze and looking out the window into the night sky. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, Andrea."
The young woman sat back and leaned against the armrest. Why did Miranda want a chance with her—that was the pressing question. For fear that she wouldn't like the answer, she decided to go a different route and keep Miranda talking. "Tell me more about your mother."
Miranda looked at her in surprise. "Okay, let's see. My mother—Cassandra—was naturally beautiful—blonde hair, blue eyes, slim and well-proportioned. Her family was from a line of Texas cattle-ranchers. She had soft hands, probably from never working a day in her life. She met my father right after the war when he was released from an Army hospital. They married and moved to New York. I don't know much about their life before I was born, except to say that they had difficulty having children. I was born ten years after they married, and then my sisters six years after that."
"You have sisters?"
Miranda turned and looked at her in surprise. "Yes, is that so difficult to believe? I was in second grade when my parents brought them home from the hospital—Ellen and Louise, or Ellie and Lou. Looking back, we all had such matronly names, it's no wonder we used nicknames all the time," she said. "I imagine my father would have corrected me just now for using 'matronly' and said something about how anus is the Latin word for an old woman," she said with a chuckle.
"Aww I don't think 'Miranda' is matronly at all—or, as your father would have it, anile," Andrea said.
Miranda pursed her lips and paused for a moment.
Andrea shrugged. "Still don't think it's matronly. What was your nickname?"
"My father called me 'Ria.'" She stiffened and looked out the window into the darkness. "The rest of my family and a few friends called me 'Mim.'"
"Interesting," Andrea said. "Anyone still call you either of those?"
"No," she said. She opened her mouth to continue speaking, but then closed it. She repeated this several times, until Andrea finally interrupted.
"What?" she asked.
"'Miranda' isn't my name," she whispered. She held her breath, waiting for some sort of reaction from the young woman, but there wasn't any. "Did you hear me?" she asked, leaning closer.
"Yes, I heard you," Andrea said. "I was just waiting for you to say more."
"Doesn't that bother you?" Miranda couldn't understand why this former assistant sitting next to her wasn't fazed by the knowledge that Miranda was a construct.
"No. I really don't care what your name is, no offense."
Miranda sighed and sat back in her seat. Nearly an hour had passed before she found her voice. "It's Miriam, Miriam Princhek."
"Well," Andrea said, turning her head to face Miranda, "when you put it that way, it is quite matronly."
Miranda looked up and smiled.
The women slept for several hours as the plane made its way across the country. Andrea woke first, and upon looking over at the sleeping woman, she felt a sort of privilege. Humans are already so vulnerable while they're asleep, and to be asleep next to this woman who just revealed something that was clearly very personal, in her own way, Andrea felt this was her gift. "Thank you, Nigel," she whispered.
Andrea could see a glow coming from behind the window shade, so she quietly lifted her armrest and leaned over Miranda to lift the shade. The beauty of the sunrise caught her breath, and also woke Miranda.
"Sorry," Andrea said, gently resting her hand on the woman's arm. "Look," she pointed out the window.
"Mmm, morning already," Miranda said, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as she yawned.
"Yes, and I've never seen a sunrise above the clouds like this," she said. "It's breathtaking."
Miranda pulled her eyes from the window and studied Andrea's features. The woman looked so young, her eyes so filled with wonder. She didn't realize how long she was staring until Andrea's eyes turned to her.
"I didn't mean to wake you—it's just, that was incredible," she said.
"Had I known you never saw a sunrise on a plane, I would have woken you sooner," she said.
Andrea smiled. Even though she was no longer looking out the window, she was still leaning over into the editor's space.
"Andrea, you are a beautiful woman," Miranda whispered. "I don't think I've ever told you that."
"Thank you," she said, blushing.
Miranda gently patted Andrea's hand. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom," she said.
The young woman nodded and moved back over to her seat, unfastening the seat belt, then standing up in the aisle. It felt good to stand and stretch after sitting for so long on the plane and in the airport before that. She closed her eyes as she wiggled her toes and thought about how Miranda said she was "beautiful."
Suddenly she heard a thump and noticed that Miranda had fallen.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "Did you trip?"
The older woman was on her knees between the seats. She blinked slowly as she pushed herself up off the ground. "Ohh," she sighed as her eyes shut again and she slumped awkwardly against the seat back.
"Miranda?" Andrea gently took her hand and cupped her cheek as she tried to direct her to sit up straight. Her eyelids were heavy, but at least she was awake. "Hey," she said when the woman fully opened her eyes. "I think you passed out or something. Are you okay?"
The woman nodded and tried to get up.
"No, no, no. Stay here for a minute—I don't want to be picking you up off the floor." At least that earned a smirk. "Can I get you a glass of water or something?"
"Yes, thank you."
Andrea quickly retrieved a bottle of water and a cup from the flight attendant—one of the only perks of sitting in the second-to-last row. The attendant offered Andrea some ice packs and explained that sometimes people get really bad panic attacks on long flights like this. She declined, and returned to sit with Miranda, who was sitting in the middle seat in their row. "Do you feel flushed or nauseous?" she asked, pouring her a cup of water.
Miranda took the water and shakily took a drink. "No, just a little lightheaded."
"Okay…is that normal?" she asked. "I mean, good thing the armrests were up or you would have gotten a black eye for sure."
Miranda finished the water and handed the cup back to Andrea. "I think this is from my medication. I missed it this afternoon, so I took it at the airport, which, in hindsight, was not the best idea." At Andrea's puzzled look, she added, "It causes my heart rate and blood pressure to drop."
"Why don't you lay down for a little while, then? You know, with your feet elevated?" Andrea suggested.
"No, no, no. Where will you sit?"
"Right here. You can use these two seats, and then drape your feet over my lap."
"I will not have my feet dangling out into the aisle," Miranda said.
Andrea rolled her eyes. "First off, you're not that tall. But, I'll hold them, and even massage them a little to get the blood flowing. Plus, everyone back here is asleep anyway. I'm not giving you a choice, Priestly," she added with a smile.
"I guess you're not," she said, toeing off her shoes and laying down. As she turned onto her back, she was supremely conscious of the fact that her ass was directly against the young woman's thigh. "Ohh," she sighed as Andrea began to gently work her thumbs into the soles of her feet. "This should not feel as good as it does," she said.
Andrea smiled. "Just relax and take some deep breaths. Try and flex your pelvic muscles if you can."
Miranda brought her hand up to cover her face. "Oh my god, where do you come up with this?"
"First aid training. I've been CPR certified for the last twenty or so years," she said as she continued to gently knead the woman's feet. "Is this okay?" she asked, moving a little farther up to her ankle and calf.
"Mm-hmm."
"Just think, if only Nigel could see us now," Andrea said.
After a while, Miranda gestured for her to stop, and Andrea held out her hand to help the woman sit up. "Thank you," she said.
"Feeling better?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Good. Still need to use the bathroom?"
"Yes, actually," she said, slipping her shoes back on.
Andrea stood, and this time, held out her hand to help the woman up. When they were both standing in the aisle, Miranda squeezed her hand before letting go. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but it felt good.
"Did Nigel ever talk to you about—about me?" Miranda asked once she was back in her seat.
"Yeah," she replied, nodding. "What about me?"
Miranda gently chewed on her lower lip and nodded. Their eyes met briefly before she turned back to her hands in her lap.
"It's not—"
"Andrea, I—"
They both spoke at the same time. "Andrea, I am not who you think I am. This Editor-in-Chief thing is just a persona, a character. You have been misled."
"Well, I guess that's a good thing, then. I was just going to say that it's not like I really even know you at all. But I do think I would like to get to know you—the real you, if I may," Andrea said. She stretched out her hand and set it on the empty seat between them.
Miranda thought for a moment, then reached out and placed her hand on top of hers. "Yes. Yes, you may."