Page 3 of Winging It with You

Theo

Boston Logan International Airport—Terminal E

Boston, Massachusetts

“Can you believe they’re grounding me?”

The flight into Boston deplaned faster than usual.

Tagging along behind the last of the passengers and crew making their way up the jet bridge, I was finally able to check my email.

Sitting in my inbox was the dreaded answer from my supervisor.

I’d maxed out my flying hours for the month, and the bottom line: I was forbidden from piloting any more flights.

Effective immediately.

“You’re being dramatic, and you know it,” Mark says as we cross the threshold into the busy terminal. “They aren’t grounding you, Theo. It’s protocol.”

“Cállate,” I say, and he laughs when I give him the finger.

But shutting up isn’t something Mark is known for.

Especially when he’s right. “Please don’t give me the whole protocol spiel,” I groan.

If there’s anyone who knows the FAA rule book front to back, it’s Mark.

He can, notoriously, rattle off random regulations in every conversation.

“Theo, listen to me,” he says, grabbing my arm, halting us in the middle of Terminal E.

“Maybe this is your sign to slow down a little bit.” He nods to the phone that’s still in my hand.

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but you’re the only pilot I’ve ever met who doesn’t travel for themselves.

Or even just use the time off you’ve earned.

Whether you like it or not, these rules and limits are in place to prevent burnout.

You know…safety and all.” Mark puts an arm around my shoulder.

“You know what Amelia asks me every time you leave?”

“Hmm.”

“She asks if I think you’re happy. Like actually happy.”

There’s no hiding anything from Mark’s wife. “And obviously you tell her that happy is my middle name, right?”

“Something like that.” Mark laughs again, dropping his arm and grabbing the handle of his rolling carry-on.

“Look, I’m not going to tell you how to live your life.

Never have, never will. But we’ve all watched you charm your way through the last couple of years, cracking jokes, making everyone laugh, so, this?

” he says, pointing back at my phone. “This is an opportunity, Theo. An opportunity to seize some semblance of normalcy .” It’s hard not to notice the emphasis he places on that word.

“I know we don’t really talk about your military service… ”

I step back, the sharp turn into more delicate territory taking me by surprise. “Yeah, I think it’s a little too early in the day to be unpacking all our emotional damage, sir,” I say, sarcastically glancing at my watch.

“Hear me out,” he says in response to my attempt to redirect the conversation. “You’re one hell of a pilot, my friend. One of the best I’ve ever seen. Shoot, I feel like I learn something new from you every day.”

His compliment means everything. Flying has always been my dream, and honestly, no matter how overworked or tired I am, there isn’t a single moment when I’m in the sky that I forget that.

It’s the one thing in my life that I feel good at, and now?

Having that taken away from me? It scares me more than I will ever admit.

“But do me a favor and try to remember there’s more to life than work, okay? Take some risks. Stop putting off that trip home. Strike up a conversation with a stranger. I don’t care what you do, but be spontaneous and step outside your comfort zone.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me at all.

” More to life than work, huh? What a foreign concept.

On every level, I know he’s right. But I can’t brush off the fact that I’ve spent the last couple of years on autopilot—show up to work, sleep when I can, and eat.

Rinse and repeat. And while it may be easier to just avoid…

everything, is that really the life I want to be living?

“I’m serious, Theo.” His voice is now filled with concern.

“As am I. I promise to talk to strangers and will do my best to remember there is more to life than work.” I place three fingers straight up. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re so full of shit,” he says, rolling his eyes. We both turn and continue making our way through the crowded terminal. “I know you’re mentally drafting a rebuttal email.”

He’s not wrong.

It’s useless, though. Decisions like this aren’t something that can be reversed, no matter how much I beg, plead, or throw back-to-back fits. And as much as I love a good professional grovel, I have to accept the fact that my flying days are officially on pause.

Once again.

“Speaking of,” I say, unlocking my phone to the email and handing it over to him, “have you ever seen something like this?”

Mark adjusts his bag on his shoulder and takes my phone mid-stride, reading aloud the email that’s already seared into my brain.

“?‘Mr. Fernandez, it’s come to our attention that you’ve exceeded the maximum flight hours allowed by the Federal Aviation Administration…

’?” He looks up at me before continuing, his lips drawn into a hard line like some disappointed father.

“?‘…for the third quarter in a row. Upon further review of your flying history and in coordination with the airline’s human resources department, we are mandating a three-week administrative leave, effective immediately.’?”

I can’t tell you the last time I took leave, let alone three weeks’ worth.

Come to think of it, as I’m standing here in the middle of the terminal, I can’t even remember the last time I had fun. Honestly, after twenty-five, what even is that?

“Go on,” I say, tipping my chin in his direction. “Read the last little bit there.”

Mark cocks an eyebrow but lowers his gaze back to my phone’s screen and continues reading.

“?‘After consulting with our Aviation Medical Examiner, and in alignment with the airline’s policy to assess the physical and mental well-being of each of our pilots…’ They’ve involved the Aviation Medical Examiner?

” he asks, and I can hear the surprise in his tone.

“Oh, just keep on reading,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall.

He narrows his eyes. “?‘…we are additionally requiring proof that during your administrative leave, you’ve taken the necessary steps to prioritize a healthier work-life balance and your mental health fitness.”

Mark hands me back my phone. “I’ve never heard of anything like this. Have you?”

“Nope.”

His brow furrows as he clearly tries to wrap his brain around this predicament. “How the hell do they expect you to provide proof that you’re prioritizing work-life balance?”

That’s the part of this that’s bothering me the most.

I could easily spend the next three weeks locked in my apartment.

Well, easily is subjective, since all this so-called self-care is a foreign concept to me.

But I could at least try. Hell, I could probably use the extra sleep.

But this? This proof they’re asking for?

I have no idea how I’m going to pull that off.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll take up manifestation or start a YouTube channel and document every second of my day.” Is YouTube still a thing? Who knows.

“You could…become a plant dad,” he offers with an unamused expression.

“I think the phrase you may be looking for is plant daddy . But sure, let’s go with that. I could do that.” I pause momentarily. “Well, my friend…since I suddenly have all this free time on my hands, wanna grab a bite?” I say, nodding my chin in the direction of our favorite spot just ahead.

“Of course,” Mark says, smiling as he dodges a very frazzled-looking family. “But it’ll have to be quick. I’ve got two more flights today and I need to close my eyes before my next weather briefing.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you!” I shout as a gaggle of kids weaves their way between us.

/////////////

If I were a betting man, I would never put money on an airport-terminal TGI Fridays becoming a time-honored tradition of mine.

But here we are, seated at our usual spot at the bar—yes, we have a usual spot—about to eat our weight in mozzarella sticks, something Mark and I have gone out of our way to do every time we pilot a flight together.

The airport seems busier than usual today, which only adds to my frustration about the whole grounding thing.

People are flying and those flights need pilots and instead of doing what I’m best at, I’m being forced to hang around.

I watch Mick place down a plate in front of the blond man who’s been chatting his ear off across the bar. “Hey, Mick! When you have a moment, can we grab an order of mozzarella sticks?”

Mick looks exhausted, which makes sense because it’s pushing closing. “Sorry, boys, the kitchen’s closed.”

I’m sorry, what?

“Hold up,” I say, sitting up straighter on my stool. “I just watched you deliver an order to that guy over there.”

Mick looks back at who I’m referring to, eyes rolling and shoulders slumped. “Yeah, well, he actually got the last batch, so take it up with him.”

“Oh, come on, Mi—” I start, but he puts his hands up, cutting me off.

“Look. I don’t know what to tell you—we’re short-staffed, the fryer’s been on the fritz all week and no one from corporate seems to want to do anything about it, and I need…I need to get out of here.”

With that, he turns and heads back through the kitchen doors, seemingly unworried that there are a few remaining customers who I’m sure want to close out their tabs.

“It’s fine, Theo,” Mark says, pushing back his stool and starting to get up.

“It’s tradition,” I snap, putting a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from moving any farther. “Stand by, I’m going to get you those sticks.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Mark says, already exasperated by my nonsense, but it’s too late, I’m afraid. My plan is already in motion as I round the bar, eyes on the cheesiest prize sitting untouched in a red plastic basket.