October 1999

Standing beside the streak-free windowpane of the Aéroport de Fort-de-France's Gate 14, Stacy lifted her arm under the weight of her carry-on, frantically pointing one stiff, rigid finger toward a jet that had begun to taxi across the runway. "We missed it, Greg!" Stacy glared at Greg. If the anger clawing its way up her throat could produce fire, Stacy would have spit it all over Greg's red, sun-burned skin. Instead, Stacy settled for another wild gesture toward the plane and, not caring if the volume of her voice attracted the attention of airport employees and passers-by, shouted, "See? We missed it. I told you we'd miss it!"

Greg shrugged his carry-on onto the floor, heaved a scornful laugh, and rolled his eyes.

"No, don't-" She dealt a backhanded slap to his arm.

"Hey!" Greg scowled at her. His hand curled protectively around his forearm.

"Don't roll your eyes at me."

"Jesus. No need to get violent." He cradled his arm against his body, carefully soothing his skin. "We'll catch the next flight to Newark. Big deal."

"Big deal?" Stacy echoed, pinching the fabric of his shirt sleeve, and forced him to stand beside the electronic board of departures. "That was the last one, Greg. There is no 'next flight' tonight."

Greg jerked his arm free and fussed with his t-shirt, properly situating it across his shoulders. "Okay, fine. Let's go back into town, back to the hotel-"

"We can't," she said, one hand slapping against her thigh. "We have no room. The hospital only booked us a room until the end of the conference."

"We could pay for our own-"

"And we can't pay for our own because you failed to do the one thing you were supposed to do before we left." Stacy raised herself on her tiptoes, leaving a sliver of airspace between their faces, and met Greg's stare, unblinking. "Call our credit card companies and notify them of our travel plans, so they wouldn't freeze our accounts due to 'suspicious activity'." With a huff, she about-faced, starting to pace a path along a row of vinyl seats.

"What a dumb-ass policy." Greg scoffed, following her to fall backwards into a seat at the end of the row. "Seriously, who steals a credit card and heads for a medical conference in the French West Indies?" He stretched his legs, forcing Stacy to hurdle his sandaled feet. "Not exactly a tropical locale that immediately comes to mind. The Bahamas, maybe. Or Cancun. Or-"

"Greg!" She spun abruptly to face him, nearly knocking herself off balance. Her hair whipped at her cheeks. Her hands curled into fists at her side. "I don't care. That's not the point. The point is that we're out of cash, we have nowhere to sleep tonight, and this"-she swept her arms through the air-"is your fault. You need to fix it."

"Oh, no," he replied, pointing, shaking his head at her as he stood. "You can't blame me for this. You didn't have to-"

"You cornered me in the shower. You hid my clothes, and-and-" Stacy felt her cheeks flush with heat, her memories of the evening looping in her mind, despite her anger. Greg had kissed her, pressed himself against her, and touched her with such desire and need that she'd lost the will to refuse him. When he'd lifted her, hooked her legs over his elbows, and slid inside her, nothing else had seemed to matter. Stacy shook her head as if to clear it, remembering her frustration, and poked the center of Greg's chest with her fingertip. "You knew I wouldn't be able to say 'no' to you, you-you jerk."

A smile slowly pulled across Greg's face, revealing a pair of dimples in his cheeks. Stacy nearly mirrored it, but she stifled the urge.

"Stop it, Greg. It's not funny," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Our flight was in an hour. We were already running late. You knew we'd miss it."

"Come on, I spoke to you in French. How much sexier do you want me to get?" Still smiling, he stepped forward, reaching for her.

Stacy slapped his hand away and hissed, "Calling out 'oui' during your orgasm does not count as speaking French."

"Technically-"

"Shut up." Stacy steadied her eyes on his face, holding his gaze, before she bowed her head, heaving a sigh and pushing both hands through her hair. Anger and frustration seethed in her chest as her brain struggled to forge a solution. She turned, heading for the nearest empty chair, but stopped when Greg's hand wrapped around her wrist. She let him pull her toward him, but she knew better than to hope for an apology.

"Stace, it's not the end of the world," he said, his voice even, softer, as if he were trying to coax her into compliance. "We'll catch the first flight out in the morning. Be home by lunch." His hand traced the curve of her hip. "Haven't you ever been stuck in an airport before? It could be fun."

Despite the gentleness in his voice and his touch, Stacy's aggravation and anxiety lingered in her chest. This was anything but fun. She stepped backwards, rifling through her bag. "Okay," she said, her voice tight and strained. "If it's so much fun"-Stacy took hold of Greg's hand, spread his fingers, and slapped both of their tickets into his palm-"you could exchange our tickets."

"Why me?"

A spiteful grin tugged at Stacy's lips, and she said, "Oh, I just thought you'd want to practice your French. It could be fun."

~~~

"Four letters." Greg leaned forward in his seat, his head bowed over a rescued copy of the Miami Herald, and absently beat a steady cadence against the crossword with his pen.

Without shifting her head, Stacy's eyes flickered to Greg's pen. Her fingertips massaged her temple, attempting to ease the headache she'd developed following their ticket exchange. Within two minutes, Greg had insulted the man behind the ticket counter, and Stacy had intervened, completing the exchange with a rudimentary knowledge of French phrases and a forced smile. She had stuffed their tickets into her carry-on, led Greg to one end of the terminal, and collapsed onto a row of unoccupied seats. Now, each tourist, each businessman that bustled past seemed to taunt her. The aromas of cafes and fast food restaurants made her empty, aching stomach twist with hunger. Beside her, Greg had been reading clues aloud for forty minutes, and each word he spoke, each strike of his pen against the page heightened all of the frustrations that still bubbled beneath the surface of her skin.

Stacy shifted in her seat to face Greg, narrowing his eyes at him, and, without preamble, announced, "Greg, I'm curious."

Greg groaned, tipping his head back to peer at ceiling. "This will be good."

"Are you ever capable of thinking of anyone but yourself?" She paused, despite the rhetorical nature of the question. "Or are you that focused on your own agenda that you're constantly oblivious to everyone else?"

Greg's eyes closed, and he sighed, lolling his head on the back of his seat. "Will you get to your point?"

"Insulting an employee, Greg? He almost called airport security. Did you think it would inspire him to cooperate? Did you want us to get thrown out of the airport?" Stacy pushed her hair away from her face, studying Greg's profile. "Or were you trying to piss me off? In either case, Greg, it was selfish, and childish, and stupid."

"Does it matter?" He lifted his head, twisting sharply to face her. "We're still here. I got us new tickets, and, since-"

"No!" The volume and pitch of her voice rose, and Stacy pointed to the center of her chest as she spoke. "I got us new tickets!"

"All right, fine, but, since it's taken care of, there's nothing left to talk about," Greg said, his voice tight but resolute, and he met her stare for a moment before he bowed his head over his newspaper. "Four letters. A wooden-soled Japanese shoe."

"No, Greg, there is," Stacy said, ignoring Greg's crossword clue. "I'm not finished talking about this-"

"About what?"

"-and, as long as you have ears, you'll hear what I have to say whether you like it or not."

"The answer's 'geta', by the way," Greg said, and wrote the answer into the crossword boxes.

In four years, Stacy had learned lectures rarely accomplished anything with Greg, but she couldn't drown the words hovering at the back of her throat. "Next time we plan to fly somewhere we're leaving on time. No. We're leaving early."

"Six letters."

"I know you insist on being late for everything, but we're not going to be late for this anymore. I don't care if you want sex, or food, or sleep." Stacy spoke over the audible gurgle of her empty stomach; she pretended not to hear it. "I'm going to catch our flight. You could stay behind. Have sex with yourself, and find your own way home."

"A severe food shortage."

Stacy glared at Greg, convinced that he had invented a clue in order to annoy her, poke at her buttons to spite her. Typical. Through clenched teeth, she said, "I will not get stuck in airport with you again, if I can help it. Once is bad enough. We could have been home by now, but we're not. We're here. Tired, and hungry, and-"

"Famine," Greg said. He leaned sideways, sneering at her. "So close. Five letters."

Stacy slid low in her seat and attempted to calm herself. She closed her eyes, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"Method of Divine retribution."

She inhaled a deep, measured breath and resisted the urge to gag Greg with his own newspaper. Another, louder gurgle rolled through her stomach, and Stacy covered her abdomen with her arms.

"No guesses? Not even one?" he asked with mock-cheerfulness, nudging her with his elbow. Stacy heard his pen scratch as he wrote. "Smite."

Before Greg finished the word, Stacy jerked his newspaper out of his hand, off of his lap. His pen left a blue streak across the page, an elongated, crooked letter "t".

"Whoa! Hey!" Greg shouted, stretching his arm across her body to recapture his paper. "Look! You made me mess it up."

Stacy stuffed the newspaper into her carry-on, out of his reach. "I don't care about your damn crossword, Greg. I'll smite you with it if you don't put your brilliant puzzle-solving skills to use and find us something to eat."

"Wow. You're bitchy when you skip a meal. Did you know that?" He abandoned his attempts to retrieve his newspaper and slouched in his seat. "Oh, God, you're not pregnant, are you? Would explain the preoccupation with food, the moodiness-"

"Hunger! Hunger would explain the 'preoccupation with food'," she declared, mocking his tone. "And you would explain my 'moodiness'."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're right. You're the poor little victim." Greg made a show of rolling his eyes. "You've gone longer than"-he raised his arm to glance at his wristwatch-"ten hours without eating, without all the complaining."

"Yeah, when I was working, when I was busy. I had other things-more important things-to think about, instead of-"

Greg shrugged. "So do that," he said. "Think about something else. You're not the only one who's hungry, you know. You don't see anyone else whining about it."

Breath left Stacy's nostrils with a dry snort, and her lips tightened into a thin, straight line. Any attempt to appeal to Greg's compassion would fail, and Stacy figured that, at this point, the best course of action involved positive reinforcement-a reward, a prize. She cleared her throat, and spoke in a firm, but smooth, even voice: "Listen, if you could-"

"No, no," Greg said, pointing at her. "That's your lawyer voice. Put that away. I'm not one of-"

"If you could solve our problem and find us something to eat, two things will happen. One, neither of us will be hungry. Two, I'll shut up for the rest of the night, and leave you with your crossword." She quirked her eyebrow, and one corner of her mouth twitched with a half-grin. "It's a win-win."

Greg breathed a laugh. "Tell me, Stacy. How am I supposed to solve our problem? Magically conjure a couple sandwiches? Sneak onto an airplane and raid the food carts? Stroll through the terminal and swipe a-"

When Greg cut himself off mid-sentence, Stacy raised her eyebrows. He tilted his head to one side, as if it were suddenly top-heavy, as his eyes flickered over her face, bright and focused.

"Greg?"

Springing into motion, Greg took hold of her hand, hauled her out of her seat, and tore through the terminal. Stacy resorted to a skip-run to stay close to him, trailing an arms' length behind, and nearly collided with him as he came to a sudden stop beside a thick, white pillar near a row of public telephones.

"Greg, what-" Stacy propped one hand against the pillar, pausing to catch her breath. "What are you doing?"

"Solving our problem," he said, calm and matter-of-fact.

"Last time I checked, public phones didn't produce food."

"No, but they attract people, who have wallets, which have money, which will enable us to buy food." To prove his point, Greg jerked his head in the direction of the telephones. A gray-haired man, nearing fifty years old and dressed in a business suit, pressed a phone to his ear as he replaced his wallet inside his jacket pocket.

Stacy swiveled to face Greg, her eyes wide and mouth open with astonishment. "No, Greg. No," she whispered, despite the distance between the pair of them and Greg's proposed target. "You've gotten yourself into enough trouble at home. I am not about to help you expand your criminal record to an international level. We could get arrested, Greg."

"The only way we'll get arrested, Stacy, is if you get out there and blow our cover."

Unwilling to believe what she heard, she gaped at him. "Our-our cover? This isn't a spy movie. You're not James Bond. This is-this is real life," Stacy hissed, punctuating each word with hand gestures. "We could end up in jail, Greg. In jail."

Greg chased her wrists until both of his hands wrapped around them, keeping them still. "Okay, listen," he whispered, pausing to peek around the pillar at the unsuspecting businessman. "Either we steal a little cash, or we go back to our seats, sit down, and snack on my newspaper."

Stacy searched his eyes, considering their options, torn between her empty stomach and her fears. With a sigh, she bowed her head and replied weakly, "I can't. Greg, I-"

"All you have to do is distract him," Greg whispered, his tone gentler. "When he hangs up the phone, ask him for directions, or flight information. Anything. Just keep him occupied. I'll do the rest."

With a sigh, Stacy lifted her head to glance over her shoulder. The man had already started to walk away from the telephone. She shook her head frantically, attempting to slide her wrists free of Greg's grip. "This isn't going to work. We'll get caught. We'll get fired-Greg!"

Stacy shrieked with surprise as Greg pushed her away from him, beyond the cover of the pillar, and into the passing businessman. She struggled to recover, to act naturally, and mustered an apologetic smile. "Pardon," she said, self-consciously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

The man mirrored her smile, and said, "Est-ce que je peux vous aider?"

Dumbfounded, Stacy froze, paralyzed by panic. Her eyes darted toward Greg, who hovered behind the pillar. Glaring at her, he gestured to the man, silently mouthing, "Come on."

With another smile-too wide, too obvious-Stacy attempted to speak, groping for words. "Uh, yes. I-" She swallowed, aware of Greg striding away from the pillar. "I need to find the, uh-In the airport, if you could-" Stacy bit her bottom lip, but released it to offer the man another smile. Heat and sweat coated her palms. As Greg drew close to the man, Stacy's whole body tightened, her chest and her ribcage constricting her breaths. Spliced words and phrases whisked through her brain and filled her mouth with warbled syllables.

The man touched her shoulder, oblivious as Greg slipped a hand inside his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and retreated to a telephone booth. He spoke gently. "Est-ce qu'il y a une problème?"

She glanced at Greg as he stood at the booth, the telephone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, and searched her brain for a word-any word. Greg. Doctor. Medicine. "I, uh-medicine. I need-" Stacy wiped her palms on her thighs. Medicine. First aid. Aid. "Help me. Help me find the, uh-"

Stacy watched the man nod repeatedly, encouraging her. In her peripheral vision, Greg turned, the man's wallet in his hand, and approached him. He looked intently into her face before he glanced at the man's pocket to replace his wallet, while Stacy's heart beat in her throat.

Desperate to keep the man occupied as Greg worked, she shouted, "The hospital! Help me find the hospital."

"L'hôpital?" the man asked as Greg disappeared into a cluster of people on the opposite side of the terminal.

Relief burned through her, and she breathed a quiet, short sigh. "Oui. L'hôpital," she repeated.

The man's face brightened as he nodded in understanding. Stacy waited while he obtained a pen and scrap of paper from his briefcase and drew a rough map of the airport, labeling the medical facility with a cross.

"Merci," Stacy said, taking the paper with trembling hands, and fled to the end of the terminal. She collapsed into her seat, fury yielding to weary relief as she waited for Greg to return.

After several quiet moments, Greg's voice boomed from behind her, startling her. She gasped as a wrapped, warm sandwich landed in her lap, and peered at Greg as he sat beside her.

"He only had enough cash for one," Greg said, nodding toward the sandwich. "Grilled chicken. Oh-" He waved a bottle of water between them. "And one of these." Breaking the seal on the bottle, he smirked at her. "If you're wracked with guilt, I'll eat that whole thing."

"Shut up."

As Greg drained a third of their water, Stacy devoured several mouthfuls of their sandwich. She stayed silent, as promised, until Greg shifted in his seat and said, "You're the worst sidekick ever, by the way."

Stacy swallowed, rolling her eyes. "You forced me out there," she said. "With no warning."

He set their water bottle at their feet before slouching low in his seat, stretching his legs in front of him. "You manipulate people on a regular basis. Amazing you're so bad at it on the fly."

"I've never tried to rob anyone. Not quite the same."

Smiling to himself, Greg crossed his ankles and folded his arms over his stomach. He drew a deep breath, his eyes drifting closed.

Stacy frowned. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Greg's head turned toward her, but his eyes stayed closed. "I'm going to sleep for the next few hours. I thought you were shutting up."

She glanced at the half-eaten sandwich in her hand, and nudged Greg's arm. "Greg, you haven't eaten. You need to eat something."

"My secret life of crime wears me out," he said, already beginning to mumble. "And I'm not hungry, so, again, shut up."

Stacy detected his lie, receiving confirmation when Greg's body betrayed him, his stomach growling loud enough for her to hear. "Honey, you-"

"You said you'd shut up."

Stacy sighed softly, finishing the sandwich, and watched as Greg eventually relaxed with sleep. Scooting closer to him, she cupped the side of his face, her thumb stroking his cheekbone as she studied him-dozens of details she already knew, had learned years ago. Stacy felt her chest tighten with affection for him, despite the frustration of the day, and she trailed her hand over his jaw, his shoulder, the side of his body. She pressed a kiss to his cheek before tucking herself against his side. Resting her head on his chest, she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of his breaths, to the beat of his heart, as warm and familiar as home.