Grounded: A Pilot Layover Story

I've been hiding for twenty-three years.

That's how long I've been flying for TransGlobal Airways. Started as a first officer at twenty-six, made captain at thirty-four, and now at forty-nine I'm one of the most senior pilots in the fleet. I've flown everything from short-haul domestics to sixteen-hour transpacific routes. I've landed in crosswinds that made the passengers pray and taken off in conditions that made my copilots sweat.

None of that scared me as much as being honest about who I am.

My name is James Reid. I'm a captain with TransGlobal. And I've been in love with men my entire adult life without ever acting on it. Not once. Not even close.

Until Tokyo.

The layover was supposed to be fourteen hours. Just enough time to sleep, eat, and get back in the cockpit for the return flight to LAX. But mechanical issues grounded the aircraft, and suddenly we had seventy-two hours in one of the most expensive cities on Earth with nothing to do but wait.

My first officer was new. Derek Okonkwo, transferred from our London hub three weeks ago. Thirty-two years old, Nigerian-British, the kind of handsome that made the flight attendants whisper. He was also sharp, professional, and had the calm demeanor of someone who'd seen things go wrong and knew how to handle it.

I tried not to notice how attractive he was. I'd gotten good at not noticing, over the years.

"So," he said as we rode the crew shuttle to the hotel, "seventy-two hours in Tokyo. Any recommendations?"

"I usually just sleep."

"That seems like a waste."

"At my age, sleep is never a waste."

He laughed, easy and warm. "You're what, fifty? Hardly ancient."

"Forty-nine. And feel free to stop estimating."

"You look good for forty-nine."

I didn't know what to do with that, so I said nothing. We checked into the hotel, separate rooms, same floor, and I told myself I'd do what I always did on layovers: order room service, watch whatever was on TV, and avoid any situation that might compromise my carefully constructed life.

That lasted about four hours.

He knocked on my door at eight PM local time, still in his uniform shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"The crew is going out. Dinner, then a bar the flight attendants know. You coming?"

"I don't usually, "

"I know you don't. That's why I'm asking." He leaned against the doorframe, and something in his expression suggested he knew more than he was saying. "Seventy-two hours, Captain. Might as well make them interesting."

I went. I told myself it was to be a good sport, to bond with the crew, to do all the things senior captains were supposed to do. I told myself it had nothing to do with Derek's smile or the way his uniform fit his shoulders.

The lies we tell ourselves.

Dinner was at a izakaya, small plates and beer and too much laughter. The flight attendants were in full gossip mode; the relief pilot fell asleep at the table after his second drink. Derek and I ended up at the end of the table, talking about nothing and everything while Tokyo glittered outside the window.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"Depends on how personal."

"Why aren't you married? A guy like you, career like yours, I'd have thought someone would have locked that down ages ago."

"I was married. Once. A long time ago."

"What happened?"

What happened was that I'd tried to be normal, tried to want her the way I was supposed to, and failed spectacularly. What happened was that I'd woken up at thirty-five realizing I couldn't keep pretending, but I also couldn't come out, not in aviation, not in the nineties, not when everything I'd worked for could disappear in an instant.

"We grew apart. It happens."