Chapter 7
Callum
In our youth, my sister Isabel and I had frequently argued over which band was superior, Oasis or Blur. She was two years my senior, so I lost by default. Or rather, conceding was strategic—better for my peace. And there were more important things in life.
I was early, and there was time to reconsider, though I knew I wouldn’t.
The music crooned on—one of Oasis’s smoother tracks—but it failed to settle my nerves.
I tapped restless fingers against the steering wheel as I glanced around the car park, half expecting someone to spot me and wonder why I was here, waiting alone like an indecisive teenager.
Guilt gnawed at the edges, and I told myself again and again that this was harmless.
A friendly gesture. A simple kindness repaid. As if repetition would make it true.
My pulse kicked up as reality struck. Here I was, a tenure-track professor with a hard-fought career, edging closer to lines I’d sworn never to cross, trying to justify it all with clever semantics.
A sharp rap at my window yanked me from my thoughts. I turned to see Gabrielle smiling through the glass, her breath misting against the cold air.
“You’re early,” she said as I opened the door and stepped out into the chill, fumbling to recover my composure.
“Punctuality is a virtue.” I closed my car door. “Or so I was taught.”
She was, in a word, stunning. Gabrielle wore a brown leather bomber jacket with a fur collar, complemented by a cozy cream jumper underneath.
Her fitted tactical trousers struck a perfect balance between flattering and functional.
Sturdy ankle boots gripped the pavement, and vintage-inspired aviator sunglasses perched on her head.
She embodied the striking spirit of an adventurous aviatrix.
Words eluded me. Here was a woman who could remake the world in her image, sweeping away the gray with every self-assured stride. I stood in awe, the chill of the afternoon forgotten as my heart drummed a desperate improvisation.
“Are you ready to go?” Her eyes sparkled like spring’s first green, her voice as crisp and clear as the air.
“Yes.” My voice had bolted ahead without consulting me. “Where should I watch from?”
She dipped her head back and laughed—a sound so light it rose above us, carried by the wind. “Watch? No, silly. You’re coming up with me.”
I must have gone pale because she offered a quick smile—the kind meant to reassure, though it only compounded my panic.
“I thought…” My words faltered as I imagined the dizzying height, the earth shrinking beneath us, and my stomach turned traitor, somersaulting wildly.
“You’re not afraid of flying, are you?” she asked, a hint of disbelief mingling with concern.
“No,” I lied. A fierce wind whipped across the lot, rifling through my hair and sending a shiver up my spine. My mind reeled—of course she meant for me to join her. How had I not realized? The prospect of being airborne filled my mouth with the tang of metal and nerves.
Gabrielle watched me, expectant and eager.
I took a cleansing breath. “Lead the way.”
She turned toward the tarmac, her stride confident and sure. I followed, legs stiff with dread and exhilaration—a peculiar cocktail that blurred sense and certainty.
The smell of aviation fuel hit me first, sharp and strangely sweet. A compact plane sat waiting for us, its propeller still and wings gleaming in the pale sunlight. White with sleek blue stripes along its fuselage and a red-and-blue checkered tail, it looked almost playful—deceptively harmless.
I swallowed hard, feeling absurdly large for something so compact.
“Is this it?” My voice cracked as I took in the plane’s intimate dimensions.
“This is it.” She ran her hand affectionately along the fuselage. “A Cessna 150 Aerobat.” She pulled open the door, revealing a cabin just wide enough for two snug seats. She gestured to the right-hand side. “Hop in.”
I hesitated at the word “hop”—as if ease and agility were required qualifications—and considered my long legs and lack of coordination.
My brain scrambled for plausible excuses—any reason to remain earthbound—but none came except cowardice.
I forced a smile, even as my stomach executed another nauseating tumble.
She gestured toward the right-hand seat again. The tangle of brown canvas restraint straps made my heart lurch.
“Are you sure I’m meant to sit up front?”
Gabrielle chuckled softly, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy.
“Ah,” I ventured, trying for nonchalance. “It’s just…I assumed there’d be a back seat.”
She smirked. “It’s a basic two-seater. Up front is all there is.”
I took a step, then stopped. “Am I dressed appropriately?”
She glanced at my gray trousers and black jumper, clearly fighting back laughter. “You’re fine,” she said gently, sensing my last-ditch attempt at delay.
With no further excuses, I climbed in, maneuvering with all the grace of a giraffe folding itself into a shoebox.
I wedged myself into the seat, wondering how I was meant to get back out again.
Before I could fumble with the harness, Gabrielle leaned in to assist. Her closeness sent a jolt through me—equal parts thrill and panic.
I focused on breathing as she threaded the straps into place.
She cinched the four-point harness, gave it two sharp tugs, then flashed a devilish grin. “You’re gonna want that nice and tight.”
My breath caught, and my pulse thrummed erratically.
Gabrielle climbed into her seat and shut the door with a solid clunk.
The sudden enclosure magnified everything—the close air, the scrape of fabric, the creak of sunbaked metal as the cabin settled around us.
Heat radiated from the panels, pressing in until it felt as though the machine had swallowed me whole.
She reached for the ignition key, fingers moving in confident rhythm across the switches.
Then she paused and turned to me, her tone suddenly serious.
“Last chance to escape.”
I stiffened.
She smirked. “Do you trust me?”
I let out a nervous laugh that felt more like a hiccup. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Good enough.” She reached forward, her voice light again. “Clear prop!” she called out the window.
Before I could ask what it meant, she twisted the key.
The engine roared to life, an explosion of sound slamming into me. The entire plane vibrated through my seat, up my spine, and into my teeth. I clutched the harness instinctively, my mind screaming, What have I done?
Gabrielle adjusted the throttle, and the deafening rumble settled to a steady, throbbing drone—but still loud enough to rattle my skull. She grabbed a pair of bulky aviation headsets from beside her seat and handed one to me.
Her voice barely cut through the din—something like, “Put these on!”
“What?” I shouted back, though I could scarcely hear myself.
“Headset!” she repeated, tapping the ear cups and miming putting hers on.
I fumbled with mine, nearly dropping it as I fit the clunky earpieces over my head. The moment the headset sealed over my ears, the world changed.
The engine noise collapsed into a muffled hum, like being dropped beneath deep water.
Everything felt insulated, distant—as if reality had slipped a layer away from me.
My breath, now loud and rhythmic inside the headset, sounded like rolling waves in an empty ocean.
For a moment, the contrast was disorienting—as though I had been yanked from one world and deposited in another, where the rules of sound had shifted.
Gabrielle’s voice crackled through the headset—clear, close, and strangely intimate. “Better?”
I let out a shaky breath and nodded.
She grinned. “It’s too loud without these. This is the only way we’ll hear each other.”
I adjusted the clumsy, alien-feeling headset, still not used to the insulated silence. “Seems our roles are reversed today,” I managed, clutching my harness. “You, the instructor. Me, the pupil.”
She smiled, the expression genuine and disarming—and for an instant, I thought she might have blushed before she turned away and slid her hands over the throttle, her voice crackling back into my ears.
“We’ll keep it simple,” she said. “A quick hop over Lake Texoma and back. You ready?”
I nodded, though I had no idea if I was or not.
Gabrielle flipped the radio switch, her tone shifting to calm and practiced—professional but effortless.
“Grayson traffic, Cessna 150 Aerobat taxiing to runway two-niner.”
No response—just the steady crackle of an open frequency. A beat passed before Gabrielle released the brake, and the plane rolled forward. No permission granted. No unseen authority approving our fate.
“Isn’t someone supposed to answer?”
“Nope,” she said easily. “Not unless there’s a problem. This is Class G airspace.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s no control tower. We announce our moves on an open frequency. If no one objects, we’re good to go.”
My stomach twisted as she maneuvered onto the taxiway, feet on the rudder pedals, hands light on the yoke. The aircraft bumped and rattled over the pavement, the vibrations crawling up my spine.
Yellow taxi lines stretched ahead, curving past painted numbers and runway markers that meant nothing to me but seemed to anchor her. Gabrielle moved with certainty, following rules I couldn’t decipher, her gaze flicking between the tarmac and the horizon.
Painted on the asphalt in stark white: 29. Bold and final. The end of solid ground. We paused at a white line just short of the runway—the place where everything stopped. She scanned the sky, eyes sharp and assessing, and keyed the mic again.
“Grayson traffic, Cessna 150 Aerobat departing runway two-niner, northbound.”
She tilted her head, listening. Nothing but silence.
She looked at me, her expression edged with amusement. “Last chance to back out.”
I swallowed hard, gripping the seams of my trousers. “Just get us in the air before I come to my senses.”
Her smirk widened. “Copy that.”