To 707: I meant to post this response along with chapter 14, but I accidentally omitted it in my enthusiasm to actually get a chap out early. So sorry. I'm glad you picked up that Chip received Ed's reprimands and ill-conceived speeches on consequences perhaps a little late in life and what that may imply. And yes, whereas he used to take his family's wealth and status for granted, now I actually think Chip would rather die than benefit from Crosswire privilege. We've reached but the tip of the Crosswire Family Drama-berg, though. I'll continue to touch on these things and more in DG and in ADPOV, so be on the lookout. On Fern, I'm extremely flattered you find her euphoria-inducing. This version of Fern, the crafty, rebellious spitfire, is something I've had in my back pocket for ages, and I've been waiting for these moments to come, when I could finally unleash her. It's great to hear you're enjoying her because there's a lot more of her on the way. Thanks so much for the thoughts and compliments!

Chapter 15

The Pilot

1992

Tonight would change her life forever. That was what the bone-deep, unshakable feeling meant. It had nothing to do with the cold and torrential rain, nor did it have to do with her soaked ankle boots and jean cuffs. Destiny awaited. It was in the air, along with the condensed odor of stale cigarette smoke that always hung around the pub's entrance, whether or not anyone was outside, lighting up. If her source came through for her—and he had not let her down thus far—this could be it; she would have a new lead in the story she had been chasing, and she would be one step closer to knocking her editor's socks off. Stories like this one and the opportunity to tell them had sparked her desire to become a journalist in the first place—a real journalist, and she would show Phil just how much of her potential had been wasted on penning puff piece after dull and tedious puff piece. From there on out, her career would be devoted to spotlighting the seedy underbelly of this city. It was her raison d'être. If only Elliot would hurry up and get here.

Bitzi Spencer had been shivering out here for over ten minutes, taking refuge from the weather under O'Shaughnessy's green awning. The rain had let up, but that was not saying much, for it still came down hard, assaulting the sidewalk, jettisoning from gutters and collecting into a rushing curbside current that eventually found its way down the grated sewer drains along the street.

Maybe the storm held him up.

She drew a hand from the pocket of her leather jacket and checked her pager. Nine on the dot, and the last transmission she had received was from the convenience mart payphone Elliot had used to contact her. Before the page, Bitzi had planned on spending her evening editing, ordering Chinese, and checking in on Cheers.

"On my way into town from Wayunga," Elliot had said upon answering the payphone, not wasting time on a greeting. She had known it was him from his scratchy baritone. Perhaps owing to his lifestyle, it always sounded worn, well past his thirty-two years of age. "Got the goods if you got the time. O'Shaughnessy's in thirty. You in?"

Elliot had promised not to risk calling her again so soon unless he had real game-changing stuff to divulge. This was by far a more interesting way to spend her evening, and Bitzi had definitely been in. She grabbed a pen and small notepad and was out of her apartment in a flash, but not before changing into faded jeans with strategic rips in the knees and thighs, her Rolling Stones tee, and swapping her raincoat for black leather. Now she was here, waiting on him outside O'Shaughnessy's, a pub near Katzenelenbogan Airport, where the two frequently made transactions: Elliot would give her the dirt, and Bitzi would pay for his meal. A struggling addict, Elliot had been on a clean streak for many weeks now, and she was more than happy to contribute to his weight gain, hoping this time he would be able to break the cycle for good. The wind whipped at her legs, touching them with icy fingers through her holey jeans, and Bitzi decided to continue waiting for him and her destiny inside, where it was surely warmer. Before going in, she checked her appearance, reflected in the window of the pub's entrance, weakly lit underneath the awning. As advertised, her waterproof mascara had done its job, and the handful of mousse she had applied to her hair still held her damp locks in place, scrunched to tousled perfection. She looked like a bona fide wild child. Maybe she was.

Despite the domestic draft special, the storm had kept a lot of O'Shaughnessy's business home. Usually bustling, the lower level was practically deserted tonight save for a couple of occupied tables in the center section and a middle-aged same-sider couple canoodling in a corner booth. The place still smelled of smoke, wood polish, and fry grease, but Bitzi could actually hear the music overhead, loud and clear. It was Fleetwood Mac, "Seven Wonders". She headed to the bar, where it would be easier to keep an eye on the door. She waved at the bartender, a moose man named Drew, who waved back then went to work on her usual. The only other patron at the bar was a slim rabbit man, seated squarely in the middle. He was an airline pilot, by the look of him, dressed in a crisp, white shirt adorned with gold epaulettes. A small rolling suitcase sat in the floor next to him, and his jacket was draped neatly over the stool to his left. Bitzi took the next stool over and crossed her arms atop the bar, thanking Drew quietly.

"Your fella stood you up, eh?" Drew said with a smile as he placed the drink in front of her, dropping first the straw then the cocktail-skewered cherry in with a flourish. "Shame…"

"You know full well he's not my fella," Bitzi laughed as he walked away. "And he'll be here. He's just running late."

She glanced over her shoulder to confirm Elliot was still absent, then took a small sip of her beverage.

Really late.

"Hey, I have that same exact shirt," came a voice.

Bitzi looked to see the pilot regarding her with a small smile. He seemed tired but friendly. And young. He could not have been more than a couple of years older than she, twenty-five, twenty-six at the most.

"You like the Stones?" he continued, appearing to be genuinely interested, ignoring his bacon cheeseburger and beer to swivel his stool slightly in her direction.

Bitzi quickly noted that Drew had placed a fresh pint next to the pilot's empty glass, a second round, and she could not help herself. "Dear lord," she said, half joking and half concerned, "please tell me you're not about to take off."

The pilot followed her gaze then chuckled. "Ha—no. Just touched down, actually. Landed in this storm. Everyone on board clapped, according to one of the attendants." He sounded so pleased with his success. He lifted his glass and eyed the amber liquid like a prize. "Not bragging, but I think I earned this. Then I'm taking a cab home. After eleven hours in the air, I'm ready for a nap. Also well-deserved."

Bitzi watched as the pilot took a long sip, savoring it in a blissful, eyes-closed kind of way.

"And where is home?" she said.

"You want an address?" he said, sounding a bit more playful.

"A general location, flyboy. A city? A neighborhood?"

"Oh… Belmont Heights."

"I'm guessing you're not from there."

He did not sound like it. His accent was subtle, but there was a softness in his Rs. New York, possibly Jersey?

"Born in Michigan but grew up in Albany."

"Really? I went to college near Albany."

"So…SUNY? Or Queensbury?"

"Queensbury," she said with a nod. "Journalism."

"Small world."

"Small world… Loved it there."

"Me too. I miss New York, but Albany especially. My favorite vinyl shop is there—Costello's."

"I've been in Costello's a few times."

The pilot's eyes lit up. "You collect?"

"Dated the owner's son."

"Anthony? He was a buddy of mine. Small world..."

"Small world…"

Bitzi was unaware that, caught up in this conversation, she had swiveled her stool in the pilot's direction, and the two strangers were now facing each other full-on.

"I can't believe this…" the pilot said, shaking his head. "So, journalism… You don't look like a journalist."

"And how does one look like a journalist?"

"It's just… I mean, the jeans…and the hair. I would just expect a little more…"

"I get it," she teased. "I left my fedora with the press badge sticking out of its band at home. Sorry."

He laughed, looking embarrassed by his ignorance. "Yeah, that would've been a dead giveaway… Well, can I buy your drink?"

"Nah, save your money. Besides, this is only ginger ale. I never drink on the job. The cherry is just for fun," she added before picking up the skewer and pulling the cherry off with her teeth. The pilot watched her chew, mesmerized.

"Working, huh?" he said in a far-off tone, steadily fighting to come back to his senses. "Like, um, journalism-type stuff? Wait—are you here incognito?"

"Major journalism-type stuff," Bitzi said. "Elwood City Times. I'm meeting someone who's been helping me with a story. If he ever shows up…" She had briefly forgotten about Elliot, and now she realized just how long she had forgotten about him. She looked to the door again; he was still a no-show. "He's never exactly been punctual, but he's also never been this late."

"Well, it is a rough one out there," said the pilot. "Cut him some slack. It's hard to travel, whether you're in a seven-forty-seven or a car. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of story are you working on?"

"Can't tell you," Bitzi said apologetically.

"'Cause…then you'd have to kill me?"

"No." She gave him a devilish smile. "Because I just can't tell you. I mean, I only met you ten minutes ago. For all I know, you also have crazy coincidental connections to the people I'm trying to expose. I may have risked my life talking to you as much as I already have."

"Hey, I'll have you know, madam, that I'm a very nice—"

"He's here!" she said, heaving a sharp intake of breath. "Finally."

Elliot Bobeck stood just beyond O'Shaughnessy's doors. Dressed in baggy flannel, drenched from the rain, the scrawny aardvark man looked like a reject from the Seattle grunge scene as he scanned the pub, looking for Bitzi. He caught sight of her, and she waved, calling out, "Grab a table—I'll be right there!" Bitzi turned back to the pilot, almost wishing she did not have to leave him. This had been fun, but she had a date with destiny. Inspiration hit her. She glanced at the pilot's left hand, making sure. No ring. That made sense. He probably would not be taking meals in a place like this before going home if he were married. She grabbed her pen and pad from her jacket and scribbled her phone number down hastily. She had never tried to pick up someone like this before, and yet she was doing it tonight without much thought or hesitation.

"Are…you going to be okay, alone with that guy?" said the pilot doubtfully.

Bitzi looked up to see that he had not taken his eyes off Elliot, who now stood by the booth in the corner opposite the necking same-siders. Her new acquaintance's friendly face had contorted, and his brow was now creased with concern.

"Him?" said Bitzi. "He's harmless."

She wrote a quick note to go along with her number:

I don't know you, but I'd like to change that.

Your move, flyboy.

She signed it with a smiley face and slid the note toward him.

"Good chat," she said with a wink. "Hope you get some rest."

Bitzi got up from her stool and grabbed her ginger ale, carrying it with her as she crossed the floor to meet with her most reliable source of information.

"You're killing me, Elliot," she said with exasperation, shaking her pager at him once she got there.

"Sorry, Bitzi," Elliot said, raking his fingers through disheveled, sand-colored hair. "I know what I said, but I had to shake a tail. Youse guys're in a hurry for this info, I know, but I can't let 'em catch on."

Bitzi thought about this while she took in his appearance, disheartened. His eyes were sunken with dark, reddish circles underneath. Had he really needed to shake a tail, or had he merely imagined that?

"You talked to Josie?" she said, pressing on.

Elliot nodded.

"And Stephens?"

"If I hadn't talked to Stephens, would I even bother showing up?"

She supposed he had a point. She nodded this time, indicating she understood what he was implying. Then, "When was the last time you ate?"

She was here to conduct business, but she could not help her sweeping concern for him.

Elliot's eyes shifted, then it seemed he forced them to meet hers as he told his lie. "This morning. Yesterday morning, maybe. I don't know, I've been sick."

He scratched his neck. Did he think she was naïve? Or did he know that she knew and was deflecting, his way of telling her he didn't appreciate her prying? Whatever the case, Bitzi ceased her questioning, satisfied Elliot was using again.

"Well, I'm glad to see you up and about, then. Come on. Tell me everything. And I'm not leaving until you've had some chili cheese fries…"

Elliot sat first and Bitzi followed, flipping her notepad open to a fresh blank page. In the soft yellow glow of the pendant light hanging above the table, she could make out the impression of the previous note she had written, the one she had left for her new friend. She caught motion out of the corner of her eye, and she looked to see the pilot, finished with dinner and leaving O'Shaughnessy's. His jacket now on, towing his suitcase, he paused on his way to look at her and held her note up, smiling softly before tucking it safely inside his jacket pocket. He gave her a small and tilted two-finger salute before walking out the door.

Present day

"What the—" Bitzi whispered sharply to herself in the Times breakroom Thursday afternoon. "Oh, dear lord…"

The microwave had looked like a murder scene upon opening it, its white interior splattered with orangey-red sauce, presumably, hopefully marinara. The microwave certainly smelled strongly of someone's last-night's spaghetti, and brownies, for some reason. This was not the first time one of the breakroom appliances had been abused or left defiled.

"Adults work here, right?" she said to no one as she lathered up a dishtowel under the tap, wondering who the culprit was.

Harry was definitely out; it was his and Paige's anniversary, and he had taken a long weekend to celebrate with her. That still left quite a list of suspects. She would have to send Harry an email, keeping him abreast of what happened because they were definitely having a staff meeting about this tomorrow morning. The posted signs, the ones that said "Remember Your ABCs: Always Be Cleaning" and "YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T WORK HERE, SO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF" obviously were not doing the trick. The sauce only started to give once Bitzi really put the elbow grease to it, scrubbing vigorously. Did that mean someone had used it after the defiler, allowing it to bake on and harden? And they did absolutely nothing about it? Even her fourteen-year-old knew better than this, she thought, rinsing the towel out and leaving it to dry on the sink's divider.

"My fourteen-year-old boy," she muttered, punching the buttons on the mic to heat the lunch she had brought, leftover Alfredo.

Bitzi leaned on the counter while she waited, thinking about this. Buster had offered to help her and Bo clean up last night, but Bo had sent him upstairs, suggesting he finish his homework since it was getting late. She knew then what that meant. It meant Bo wanted to talk, one-on-one.

She had turned him down after Dr. Chen's Monday evening when he asked her for coffee, excusing herself with, "I'm kind of tired, if that's okay."

Bo had taken it in stride. "Okay," he had said. "Next week, it is, then. Same time, same channel."

"We're still on for dinner Wednesday," she quickly reminded him.

"Sure thing. Alfredo, right?"

Bitzi then drove home, wishing she could have gone with Bo. She had to start distancing somewhere, and giving in tonight might make it harder to do in the future. She had done the right thing, so why did it somehow feel wrong? And how much longer could she keep her mouth shut?

Their post-dinner talk had started out simple enough. Buster had introduced his father to a band called Clutch, and Bo floated the idea of purchasing concert tickets and surprising his son with a live performance. Bitzi thought that was a great idea, a nice opportunity for them to bond over something they both enjoyed, and she told him so. Her thoughts had drifted, though, somewhere in the middle of Bo's work anecdote, his voice fading away somewhere around Rick insisting Ingram Flight School offer birthday parties and how April was scrambling to figure things out with their insurance company. If Bo had said how the service would affect their rate, she had not heard. She had looked at him, wondering how she was going to tell him this had to end.

"And then, if you can believe it, my hair caught fire…"

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding at him blankly.

"I knew it," he said. "You're not listening to me."

"What?"

Bo had stopped talking, stopped cleaning the counter. He looked at her, the kitchen towel now balled up in his hand.

"Huh?" she said. "No, I'm listening. Birthday parties…"

"You haven't been yourself," he said. "Anything to do with what you were holding back Saturday?"

"You…you knew I was holding back?"

"I know you."

He did. She should have known he would pick up on it sooner or later. Bo was no stranger to witnessing Bitzi not act like herself.

"You can tell me," he said gently.

"I've been thinking a lot," she said after a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Are you happy?"

"Am… Am I happy? You're worried about that?"

"I feel like…you swallow a lot for my sake. You always have, even if it makes you…unhappy."

Her eyes were stinging and she blinked rapidly.

Instead of answering right away, Bo tossed the towel onto the counter and pulled a chair out for her at the kitchen table, gesturing for her to sit. He took his own seat before he answered.

"I pretty much agree," he said slowly, "but I'm getting better at not doing that. That's what finally got us into counselling, remember?" He gave her an encouraging smile.

"So if something is on your mind," she said, "I can count on you to speak it? Because I want you to."

"Sure. Wait— Is there something I've missed?"

"I just need to know you're happy."

"Okay… Well, I'm not unhappy."

"What does that mean?" she said.

Bo cut a glance upward, as if he were searching his mind for a direct answer. He shrugged. "I don't know, Bitz. It means what it means."

"Nonono—it definitely means something. So what's making you unhappy?"

"I just said I wasn't unhappy—"

"But—"

"What's making you feel guilty?" he said, concern rising in his quiet voice. "Tell me that."

"Bo— God…" Her breath hitched, and she was sniffling before she knew it. "I hurt you so badly, and I'm so sorry."

She put her head in her hands. This was not exactly where she had been aiming, and yet she had ended up here. Apparently, it needed to be said.

"I know that," he said calmly. "You tell me that every Monday. Maybe not in those exact words, but… And I forgive you. Maybe I should've said it by now."

Bitzi looked up. "You do? Just like that?"

"After eleven years to think it over and weeks on Dr. Chen's sofa, I wouldn't say it's just like that. And before you ask, I'm not saying it because I'm afraid it'll eat you up inside. Life's too short to drink poison. I forgive you. End of story. Bitzi…"

He offered a hand across the table, and without thought or hesitation, she took it. To her, it was as warm and welcomed as a comforting hug.

"This," he said, motioning back and forth between the two of them, "what we're doing here and what we've been able to accomplish, is great. It's rough, but I'd take nothing for it. I get to see Buster all the time now, things are going well in my career…and I've got a bitchin' new ride..."

He paused so she could give a tearful laugh, thinking of Stella.

"I don't have any complaints. Things are better than they've been in a long, long time."

"What's missing, then?" she said. "What's the thing that would move the needle from 'not unhappy' to just plain 'happy'?"

"I'm…not sure yet. And that's the truth."

"Promise me something? When you find that thing, the thing that makes you happy—whatever it is, will you run to it? Don't hesitate. Run. It's what you deserve. Please?"

"I will," he said, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "Don't worry... I want that for you, too, you know…"

That was a relief to hear, and yet she still had not found the courage to break it to him.

"Hey, lady!"

Bitzi jumped at the smooth and familiar voice. She turned from the now beeping microwave to see Joel Noonan, leaning in the breakroom's entrance, a visitor's badge clipped to the pocket of his mustard-yellow trousers. A handsome fox with silvery curls, he looked confident and perfectly at ease for someone wearing such a bold choice of button-up, checkered with various autumnal colors.

"Joel!" she cried.

"Woah, didn't mean to scare ya," he said, laughing.

"Please, please tell me you haven't been watching me zone out for two minutes."

"Oh, no—did I miss something embarrassing? Do you talk to yourself? I do that, too, sometimes… Actually, I just got here. Thought I'd swing by and try to snag a lunch companion. I always feel a little awkward when I eat alone."

Bitzi smiled at him. "I don't believe you've felt awkward a day in your life," she said, taking her food from the mic. It was hot, and so she held it gingerly around the edges with her fingertips.

"How 'bout this, then? I was hoping to see a certain someone… But maybe I should've called. I can see you've already got lunch sorted out."

"Yeah, sorry. This is coming back to the office with me. Working lunch—conference call in about ten minutes."

"Exciting stuff."

"Oh, yeah," she said with playful sarcasm. "If it gets any wilder around here, we'll be the new Branson, Missouri. Believe me, I'd much rather have lunch with you."

Joel's jaw dropped. "Is that a fact? You're finally saying 'yes' to me?"

Bitzi hesitated, thinking about what she had just said, then she went for it. "Tell you what," she said, breezing past the curious Joel and out of the breakroom. "Why don't you show up at Café con Leche tomorrow, say around one-thirty, and find out."

She did not allow her knees to shake. Joel would probably watch her walk away until she was out of sight. She had finally done it. In accepting Joel's invitation, she had forced herself to confront Bo. Things were set in motion, and she would not be able to stay silent forever.

To be continued…