Fear of Flying

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Zach

Drew was gone. Like took all his stuff gone. Like there had to be some other, rational explanation except there wasn’t gone. Like he just left and didn’t even leave a note gone.

Zach had searched the entire suite. Twice. Hoping in vain that he’d find Drew and be able to joke about how he’d gotten lost in their ridiculously large hotel suite. Though it wasn’t really “theirs,” was it? It was Drew’s. Drew’s law firm’s.

It didn’t matter. He needed to check out.

Zach sat in one of the armchairs facing the TV, biting his bottom lip and clutching his phone so tightly in his hand that his fingers were starting to cramp up. He glanced at the screen—he’d woken up forty-three minutes ago. The alarm he’d set last night was due to go off in seven minutes. Because 9:30 a.m. would have given them a little time to snuggle, a little time to pack their few things, and then extra time to get through security before they grabbed breakfast closer to their gate with hopefully plenty of time to spare.

But Zach was already dressed and ready to go. His first search of the room had left him feeling a deep, penetrating cold and a strong desire not to be so casually vulnerable in just his boxer briefs. He even had his socks and shoes on because padding around in their suite barefoot had suddenly seemed too intimate.

Their suite. How the hell had things gotten to jointly owned status in less than two days’ time? But yeah, just like that, nothing was “theirs” anymore—gone faster than it had taken to become a thing. It wasn’t their suite, and they wouldn’t be leaving a little early to get to their gate or their flight.

It was just Zach’s flight now, and he was trying hard as hell not to think about how that was going to go and whether or not he’d even be able to get on the plane. His whole body was buzzing with anxiety, and there was plenty of tension and tingling to accompany the leaden knot in his stomach. His anxiety was having a field day, and there were only two options for topics to fixate on:

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

God, the urge to cry was pressing out from the center of his chest, like he could feel it trying to force its way past his lungs, which were doing a shitty job of breathing.

Was there a better option of the two?

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

Zach let out a growl of aggravation that sounded far too much like that of a strangled animal. He just had to focus on the next thing. Just one thing. He needed to shove his few belongings into his duffle bag and vacate the suite. He wasn’t sure if Drew had officially checked them out or if their request for late checkout was still being honored. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t think Drew would be that callous, effectively kicking him out without even waking him, but he also hadn’t thought Drew would—

Goddammit. Why had he left ?

Hot tears spilled out of Zach’s eyes, and his anxiety maintained its steel grip on his chest and shoulders and neck and every other part of his goddamn body.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Just focus on the next thing. One thing. Packing.

Zach shoved his phone in his pocket and stood, flexing his fingers to try and get feeling back into them. One foot in front of the other, Zach forced himself to move to where his duffle bag was, just outside the main bathroom. From the bathroom counter, he grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, not having the heart or the energy to actually brush his teeth right now. The only other thing he’d unpacked from his toiletry bag had been—

Zach swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, as if he could somehow swallow back all the memories of their intense lovemaking. God, he didn’t even want to grab the lube. He should leave it here, hopefully along with the memories. But a strong pull of anxiety made him walk over to the nightstand and grab it anyway.

He hated— hated —that his anxiety was calling the shots right now. Because it didn’t fucking matter if the housekeeping staff saw it and had to throw it away. It didn’t matter if they realized that—gasp—people had had sex in the bed. It didn’t matter even more because they had no idea what Zach’s name was or who he was, and Zach was never going to have to see these people or know if or how they reacted to anything that had happened in this room.

It literally didn’t fucking matter. But his anxiety wouldn’t let him let go of all the thoughts and the potential embarrassment. He stalked over to the bathroom again and shoved the small bottle back into his toiletry bag, which he then shoved into his duffle bag. And his breath hitched painfully in his chest when he turned and his eyes landed on the only other personal belonging left in the room .

He choked out a sob as he reached toward the towel rack and grabbed the pajama pants Drew had borrowed and subsequently—

Zach screwed his eyes shut, cutting off the thought, or trying to. Right now, he didn’t want to remember touching a man for the first time, making love for the first time, stroking his lover to climax for the first time minutes after he’d had his own. He didn’t want to think about how they’d laughed breathlessly or how incredibly awkward but ultimately intimate it had been to clean themselves up and hastily wash the pants in the sink, then hang them to dry.

Fuck. He hated this. It hurt—hurt so fucking much. And when he tried even harder to shove the memories of Drew away so they couldn’t cause so much pain, his anxiety jerked the steering wheel sharply, aiming his thoughts squarely back at flying.

Because there was only one way to escape this hell—he had to leave, go home, and bury himself in his work. But goddddd. Flying. Flying.

Fuck.

He’d actually slept great last night, no tossing and turning because his brain was busy running scenarios about plane crashes. Nope, he’d slept great. With Drew. In Drew’s arms. That is, for at least half of the night he had, blissfully ignorant of the fact that he’d be flying alone today and apparently flying solo in his love life too.

He closed his eyes and tried his damnedest to take a deep breath and calm himself, but his chest was too tight. On the third attempt, he gave up, huffing out what little air his lungs had let him take in, and he grabbed the pants and shoved them in his duffle, zipped up the bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he made a beeline for the door, through the living area with its giant TV and stupidly arranged couches, and out of the most ridiculously posh hotel room he’d ever been in .

Zach wished the door would have slammed shut behind him, because maybe it would’ve helped fuel his anger. Because anger might be the only way he would survive the day. He managed not to fall apart in the hallway or going down in the elevator or even during the walk across the hotel lobby. But whatever daze or trance he must have been in ended the second the sliding doors of the hotel entrance opened in front of him.

It was as if the air in Pittsburgh International Airport was thicker, louder, because suddenly it was hard to breathe again. He had the urge to clamp his hands over his ears, but he didn’t. Instead, he started moving forward again the second he realized he’d stopped—he didn’t want to be in anyone’s way or draw any extra attention to himself. And he wanted to get the fuck home.

But with every step he took, it felt more and more like the world was closing in on him. He tried to keep his head down, eyes up just in front of him, and bag hugged tightly to his chest so he took up as little space as possible, but still he was bumped and jostled what seemed like every other step.

He wasn’t sure how long he fought the crowd—moving forward, always moving so he wouldn’t stop and freeze—but when the organized yet chaotic flow of foot traffic suddenly scattered around him, everyone heading in different directions, he came to a grinding halt and looked up, his heart pounding. He must have made it to one of the main terminal hubs, but fuck if he knew which one or where he was or which way he was supposed to be headed.

People bumped and jostled him from behind as they also came to a stop. Zach’s gaze darted around, his eyes trying to settle on a sign, any sign, so he could read it and try to figure out which way the security checkpoint was. But his eyes wouldn’t focus and his mind was racing frantically, trying but failing horribly to orient himself .

He sucked in half a breath, willing his lungs to take more in before they pushed the air back out again. He needed to move. He needed to get out of here. He needed people to stop bumping him. He needed for the signs to stay still and stop swimming around. And he needed to sit. Needed to sit before he passed out.

Somehow, he managed to work his way toward a wall. And somehow, there was an empty seat. And somehow, his whole world shaking, he sat down hard and succeeded in taking a deep breath. Well, deeper, anyway.

Zach pulled his phone out of his pocket, and he flinched and almost dropped it when the alarm went off. He hastily thumbed the screen, trying to get the thing to stop. It was 9:39 a.m. At some point during his anxiety-fueled departure, his alarm must have gone off in his pocket, vibrating and clanging and snoozing itself without him even noticing. He made sure the alarm was really off instead of just snoozed again—the last thing he needed was more sensory input.

Fuck, why had he even gotten his phone out?

He thumbed the screen frustratedly, swiping away the picture of Times Square at night that he’d made his home screen picture. The time. He’d just wanted to check the time. Right. It was nine forty. His flight was at one. Almost three more hours in this airport, then he had a short layover, and god, trying to calculate in his mind the hours and hours of airports and crowds and planes and takeoffs and turbulence and landings that waited for him the entire rest of the day made his chest tighten even more.

How the hell was he supposed to survive?

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

His anxiety seemed to taunt him, repeating both things in his mind until they melded together, as though he had to pick just one .

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

Flying or Drew. Flying or Drew. Flying or Drew.

Fuck. What if Drew was still on the same flight? No, that didn’t make any sense. Drew would have definitely made arrangements for a different flight if he was—if he was trying to never see Zach again. There was a stabbing pain in his chest that grew and spread and morphed into a dull, heavy tension.

God, he hoped Drew wasn’t still in the airport. What time had he left this morning? Was he already long gone, driven by some urgent need to get as far away from Zach as he could? Or was he somewhere here, waiting at his new departure gate and hoping like hell he wouldn’t see Zach?

Both options pushed all the air out of his lungs again. And added more fuel for his anxiety to flare.

Fuck. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get up, force himself to push through the messy crowd and find the security checkpoint, make his way to his gate, and then—and then get on the airplane. Alone. Alone and broken and, fuck—

Drive. He could fucking drive home, right?

He looked back at his phone, swiping it open and quickly navigating to the Maps app and then doing a search for “Home.” About twenty-four hours, though that was straight through—maybe he could drive it in twenty-six or so. And there were no traffic or weather alerts, so it seemed like the roads were clear enough now after the storm, at least the main ones. He didn’t need to calculate a stop for sleep; he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while.

Zach swallowed past the grief and pain that was trying to rise up out of his chest. He couldn’t think about that. About him. Not right now .

So, twenty-six hours would get him home tomorrow, around lunchtime. That was fine, he had the day off. Zach finally took a deep breath—a mostly deep breath—his chest and lungs already feeling a bit less tense. He had the time, and he probably was going to need time alone.

Shit. Jen. He was supposed to have lunch with Jen tomorrow. But... fuck. She’d understand. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d not made it onto a plane. Before his thoughts could latch on to “lunch with Jen” and “best friends” and “talking,” he looked down at his phone again and started up a web search for rental cars. He couldn’t think about talking to Jen right now. She would... god, she would be so angry at Drew on Zach’s behalf, ready to fight and call him names and... Zach wasn’t ready for that. He needed time. Like twenty-six hours of time.

Zach was relieved to see that it was only about $150 to rent a car for the day, picking it up here and dropping it off in Albuquerque. But then he groaned, frustrated with himself, and adjusted the time. The bastards counted things in twenty-four-hour periods, not days. Or something. Some secret math that always ended up twice the price, somehow. He set the drop-off time to 6 p.m. tomorrow, which he hoped would be plenty of time.

The price jumped to $250. Plus gas and stuff. And he’d be out the money for the plane ticket—nonrefundable—more than a few hundred dollars that had come out of the rescue’s pockets. He felt the knot in his stomach twist a little with guilt, and his jaw clenched as he tried to push the feeling away. It would be fine. Really. He’d just work a few more hours to make up for it. He already did that anyway.

So it was settled. He was going to drive home.

Tension lingered in his neck and shoulders and chest, but he already felt an order of magnitude better knowing he didn’t have to suffer through two more takeoffs and two more landings .

He looked up from his phone and surveyed the crowd. There were still a lot of people, and everything was still loud and chaotic, but it wasn’t as painful to exist in the same space anymore. It was more tolerable now. He just had to navigate his way to the rental car counters, get a car, and be on his way. With a short, shuddering breath, he forced his eyes to read the signs up overhead, and then he stood, clutching his duffle bag, and started in the direction of the car rental counters.

Forty-five minutes later, he was on the road, driving a silver Toyota Camry that he’d let the sales attendant upgrade him into because he’d been too anxious to tell the woman no. It didn’t matter, though. It was only a few more dollars out of his pocket. He’d gotten what he’d needed, and he was on his way home. And he just needed to focus on keeping his eyes forward and trying not to count the miles of distance he was putting in between himself and Drew. Because that was dumb, his anxiety reminded him—Drew could be in the air or headed somewhere entirely different than Dallas, for all he knew, and there was no way he could count the miles.

For the first almost-hundred miles, Zach had existed in this state of numbness, maybe. Whatever state of being it had been that he’d needed to survive the rental car process without publicly melting down. But around twelve thirty, his anxiety started ramping back up, creeping back out from behind whatever magic armor had been holding it at bay. The familiar buzz of a text against his thigh startled him, making him pump the gas pedal for half a second. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it on the passenger’s seat. It could yell and buzz all it wanted. He couldn’t handle it right now. He couldn’t handle anything other than eyes forward. On the road.

But what if it’s Drew? his mind whispered .

Dammit. His heart clenched, and he held his breath for a few seconds.

No, it couldn’t be Drew. It wasn’t Drew. It would never be Drew. They’d never remembered to exchange numbers last night. Zach had thought they’d have the whole morning, the whole day practically, together. But now, conveniently for Drew, they had no way of contacting one another. At least not without a lot of effort.

And suddenly, Zach was trying not to think of how little effort Drew must have thought he was worth. His eyes burned, and his throat and chest tightened. Hadn’t he already used up all his tears during that first hour or so, when his vision had been a little too blurry and he’d really wished he’d had some tissues or a fast-food napkin to wipe his nose?

God, it hurt so much.

His phone was vibrating still, but now it was with those longer, sustained vibrations that meant a phone call. It had to be Jen. Because she was worried he wasn’t answering her routine series of “get your ass on the flight” texts.

But he didn’t want to talk. Not yet. Not yet. He needed more time.

And he wasn’t even sure he could talk, not without struggling to get the words out around the sobs. God, he was a pathetic mess. A pathetic, unwanted mess. It was better for him to focus on driving now, anyway. Safer that way. And not at all just a justification for not wanting to talk.

His bladder and the threatening cramp in his hip were going to force him to stop soon, though. Still ignoring his phone for now—and the newest short buzzes that probably meant a voicemail or another text or both—he focused his attention on the road signs and navigated himself to the next exit that claimed to have gas and food .

After using the facilities and grabbing some bottled water, a soda, and some snacks for the road, Zach drove over to the far edge of the expansive parking lot of the travel center. He was sure he’d cry more even just reading Jen’s texts, so he wanted to be away from any curious onlookers.

The anxiety hangover was setting in, like it always did after really intense anxiety attacks. His body had finally had enough of the overly taut muscles and anxiety pricking at his every nerve, and now he had this feeling of numbness, his limbs a bit leaden, though the anxiety still hummed just under the surface, like it always did.

Zach stared over at the small pile of stuff on the passenger seat. In it, his phone buzzed again—either a new text or a reminder of voicemail, he wasn’t sure—but he reached for one of the protein bars instead.

His appetite was nonexistent, and he was a bit concerned that he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down given this nausea he had. But he knew he needed to eat something, and the protein bar was quicker and easier than trying to stomach a fast-food burger. He forced himself to eat, wishing that the effort of lifting the food to his mouth, biting, chewing, and swallowing wasn’t so tiring. Even though it was one of his preferred choices when he was on the go, the bar was almost tasteless, its texture like sandpaper.

He washed the last of it down with a swig of soda, and then stared at his phone again. It felt like there was a lead weight in his chest, and the phone was far heavier than it was supposed to be when he picked it up. He turned it over in his hand so he could see the screen.

Eleven texts and one voicemail. All from Jen.

Zach clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the conversation he was about to have. He’d read the texts first—so he would know where her mind was at, which was reasonable and logical, he told himself, and not at all a stalling tactic. But he knew what they would say. The first ones were always the same, every flight, and he had a damn good guess what the follow-up texts would be. He took one more deep breath and swiped the screen.

Jen: Hey, you! It’s go time. Tell me your butt is in a seat!

Jen: ON THE PLANE, not in the airport.

Jen: You’d better not be freaking out!

Jen: How are the air vents in this plane? Good? Bad? Text me back to complain about them!

Jen: Dude, I’m trying not to worry here. Or be offended. Like, are you totally hung up on your new hunk of a man and ignoring my texts??

The words hit him straight in the gut, robbing him of breath. He hadn’t expected—ah god. Fuck. Shame and sadness flooded through him with a heavy heat. He wasn’t even sure why the shame was there. It wasn’t like Jen would actually have been mad or he’d done anything wrong. But god, he was feeling all sorts of insecure, and he was doubting every single decision he’d made in the past forty-eight hours.

Jen: Okay, I’m going to choose to believe that you’re just being rude and ignoring me in favor of making cartoon love eyes at your seatmate.

God, Zach wasn’t the one-night-stand type of guy—he’d been a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Not that he’d been saving himself or anything like that, but he had planned on his first time not being just casual sex. Hot tears almost burned as they started slipping out and down his cheeks.

Had everything been a big fucking lie? Had he lost his virginity to some guy who couldn’t have cared less about him? Who had lied and told him everything he’d ever wanted to hear and more just to get him into bed?

No! He shook his head violently, as if to rid it of the thoughts. He wouldn’t let himself believe that. There had been something there. There had to have been. A sob wracked his chest, and he let out a pitiful whimper. Clearly, it hadn’t been love. But there had been something .

Jen: And that’s fine! I’m not mad. Just like hella jealous. But maybe you just shoot me a quick text?

Another sob hit him, the accompanying wail sounding far too loud in the small space of the car.

Jen: Also, here’s your friendly reminder that Superman says flying is statistically the safest form of travel !

Yeah, Drew had said that too. It’d been one of the things that’d made Zach feel a bit more comfortable, capable of conversing with a stranger he’d be stuck in an enclosed space for hours with. Because he’d used the same line on him as his best friend had.

But nothing about flying felt even remotely safe now.

Jen: Remember to breathe, alright? Like, this goes for kissing too. Not sure if you realize, you know, you’re supposed to pause to breathe (and maybe text your best friend who is definitely not freaking out).

Jen: Okay, maybe Mr. Great Ass has cured you of your fear of flying?

Tears were dropping down from his chin and hitting the phone screen and his thumb, and he could barely focus enough to read the words. They hurt too much.

Jen: Okay. Serious time, Zach. I just called your phone, expecting to get sent to voicemail straight off, but it rang through. Which means your phone is ON and NOT 30,000 FT IN THE AIR WITH NO SIGNAL. Hot hunk or not, you need to call me STAT. I need to know if I should call the fucking police or not.

Fuck. Fuck, he hadn’t—he’d been working so hard on holding himself together that he hadn’t let Jen or his mom know. Immediately, he tapped on her number on the screen to call. She answered on the first ring .

“ZACH!! Are you alive? Are you okay? Where the hell are you?!”

“Ohio,” he managed to croak out.

“Ohio, okay,” she said slowly, like she was taking a few beats to change gears, obviously reading his tone. Like she always did. “We’re driving. Okay.”

God, it helped to hear her voice—not a lot, but it helped—and if he responded right now, he’d start crying all over again. He wasn’t sure why he was stalling, though—him crying on this call was a foregone conclusion.

“Za-ach,” she admonished, like always, taking up two whole syllables to say his name. “And you just... forgot to text the two most important women in your life? You know, let them know you’re alive, just being—”

“J-Jen...” His voice broke, and he tried to hold in the sob that was threatening.

“Oh god, Zach, what happened?” Her tone shifted in an instant, and the care and love he heard destroyed the last of his fragile resolve.

Zach cried into the phone for he didn’t know how long while Jen murmured softly—telling him he’d be okay and he was loved and he wasn’t alone. She didn’t even know what was wrong yet, might not even have had time to guess what was wrong. He sobbed and sniffled and whimpered, and she just kept talking. He wanted to believe her, wanted to hear her telling him he’d be okay and believe it, but he honestly didn’t think he’d be okay ever again.

The only thing he was certain of was that he didn’t deserve a friend as good as Jen.