30. Keaton Running Away
My mom and I are the only people in our family who don’t have our pilot’s licenses. When Harris started getting celebrity clients with big scandals and even bigger retainers and making real money in New York, the first thing he did was buy a small plane. He didn’t own a car or an apartment for years longer than he could have because all he really wanted was to fly. “Planes are freedom,” he says now as we sit on the runway at the tiny Beaufort airport. Salt barks from behind me as if in agreement. He is the cutest thing ever. He is buckled into one of the passenger seats of this sleek, shiny four-seater Cessna like it’s where he belongs. I snap his picture, wishing he had goggles and a scarf. That would really complete the look.
“Feels more like a claustrophobic death trap to me.” My mouth is dry, my palms are wet, and my heart is beating out of my chest.
“Don’t you want to learn to fly?” he asks.
I’m so terrified that my answer should be an obvious no. But then I think of Becks—of how, all those years ago, she learned to fly. I look down at the ring on my finger, the sparkling diamond that still feels like an interloper on my hand. I came here for a getaway, thinking that my heart would heal and that maybe I’d even find some answers about the grandparents I never knew. But I’m leaving with yet another broken heart and even more questions than I started with.
Harris fiddles with some knobs and dials and the plane buzzes to life, vibrating just a little. It’s like it hits me all at once what is happening here—that I am running away from the place and the people I have come to love so much, and I am doing so in a tin can that is likely to cause my demise—as the plane begins to roll down the runway.
“I think it would give you a sense of control and make you less afraid of being in the air,” Harris continues.
“Nope!” I squeal.
“Geez. Okay. You don’t have to learn.”
“No!” I shriek. “I mean, I have to get out. I can’t do this.”
Harris grabs my wrist. “Keaton, you aren’t getting out. Chill out. You’re fine. Have I ever let anything bad happen to you?”
I shake my head and he lets go of my wrist to take the yoke. Then, what feels like seconds later, the plane picks up speed and soars into the air. I squeeze the seat so tightly my knuckles turn white.
“Deep breaths,” he says. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
I take a deep breath. “I actually wanted to leave so badly I got on this plane,” I say, laughing through my panic in disbelief.
“Want to tell me why you’re running away?”
“Swallow so your ears don’t pop, Salt.” I know he doesn’t know what I’m saying, but he barks, which makes me feel like he does. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see the clouds we’re flying through, and Harris says, “Just pretend you’re on the boat. There are some waves and it’s a little choppy.”
I gulp a breath. “Anderson’s mom came back,” I say, “and I overheard Bowen telling her how he’d dreamed of this day for years.”
“Yikes,” Harris says. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Keat. What are the chances that two in a row would go back to their baby mamas?”
I roll my eyes, annoyed enough that I momentarily forget I’m suspended in midair. “You don’t have to kick me while I’m down. I know, I get it, and I’d just like to move on.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You can stay with me as long as you like.” He clears his throat. “Until Miss December returns my DMs, that is.”
I elbow him.
He groans. “I’m kidding.” He pauses. “How about I fully vet someone and just bring you home a husband?”
I nod and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes. “That would be great.”
After learning more about them, I can truly say I want what my grandparents had. Finding it was just a little harder than I had imagined.
“Keat,” Harris says. “Look, I’m no expert, but shouldn’t you at least hear the guy out? You could be walking away from something great because of a misunderstanding.”
“Interesting,” I say, “that for the last couple of weeks you’ve made this relationship as hard as possible on me and now you want me to hear him out?”
“If you’ll recall, I am your brother. My job is to keep guys away from you.”
“That was your job when we were kids. Now your job is to be supportive and caring.”
“Look,” he says, “I just don’t want you running away from him or your old-lady friends or the house and that big commission without getting the whole story. I think you’re being hasty.”
I turn to look at him. “Right now, I’d like to go home. If I change my mind, my handsome, brave big brother will fly me back.”
“You are a total pain in the ass.”
“But I’m so worth it.” I look over at Harris, who is so comfortable at the helm of this plane, one that he worked hard for. I’m proud of him. And I feel myself relax. Because I have always been safe with him. “It’s funny to think they left out of that very same airport every single week, isn’t it?”
I think Harris might ask who, but he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s sort of weird, actually. Like history repeating itself or something, like we’re living out the part of their life they loved most.”
“Hey, I forgot to tell you. Dr. Scott asked me about Becks and Townsend’s plane. Has mom ever said anything about it to you?”
Harris shakes his head. “Nah, but that’s not surprising. Surely they at least sold that, right?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. Honestly, I wouldn’t put anything past them. I still don’t get how you walk away from a house and never come back. I mean, all their stuff is there. All their memories.”
“Oh my gosh, Keaton! Speaking of memories!” He’s so excited, I forget for a moment that we’re in the air—but only for a moment. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I was running into the kitchen the night of the foot injury—”
“You mean the night I almost died of blood loss,” I amend.
He rolls his eyes. “You lived. You can quit being so dramatic.”
“I think I get at least six months’ free rent for that.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Because you were going to pay me rent.”
I obviously wasn’t but this gave me an excuse. “Okay, sorry. Continue.”
Harris reaches into the bag behind him and starts rustling around.
“Umm, do you need something?” I ask nervously. “I could get it for you and maybe keep you from, like, crashing the plane you’re supposed to be flying.”
But he retrieves one of Townsend’s journals and hands it to me. “Read the last entry. This is what I was trying to show you that night.”