Chapter 12 Caleb
The gate area is crammed with early morning travelers, but we manage to snag a cluster of seats near the window.
Mom's already pulled out her knitting; some kind of infinity scarf she swears will be done by the wedding, while Dad stands with his nose pressed against the glass, monitoring takeoffs like he's personally responsible for aviation safety.
My cold brew only feeds the jittery buzz crawling beneath my skin, but I needed something to get through this morning.
Ivy sits cross-legged in the seat next to me, sipping her chai latte, while Mom talks about the wedding flowers she helped pick out.
Which somehow turns into a conversation about the meaning of different blooms.
"NOW BOARDING GROUP THREE."
"That's not us," I say for the fifth time. "We're group five."
Dad's already half-standing, passport clutched like it might sprout wings and escape. "We should line up."
"They haven't even called group four."
"Do you want to miss the flight?"
Mom rolls her eyes.
Ivy's been doodling in her little notebook, probably manifesting our safe arrival or whatever. Must be nice, having that much blind faith in the universe. Me? I trust math and metal, and right now both are saying we're about to hurtle through the sky in a tin can.
My leg won't stop bouncing. Every time a plane takes off, the windows rattle, and pressure builds in my gut, tight and twitchy, just short of nausea. I crack my knuckles. Then my neck. Then start on my fingers again.
"You okay?" Ivy glances up, catching me mid-anxiety spiral. "You look a little pale."
"Fine." I wipe my palms on my jeans. God, when did it get so hot in here? "Totally fine."
"Wait." Her notebook snaps shut. "In ten years of friendship, how did I not know you're scared of flying?"
"I'm not—" Another plane roars past, making me flinch. "I just think humans weren't meant to be catapulted through the air in metal death traps at five hundred miles per hour. Like, what's wrong with driving? Or trains? Or just not going places?"
She presses her lips together, failing miserably at hiding the amusement. "The guy who once jumped off Old Gillmore's Bridge is afraid of planes?"
"That was different. I could see the bottom."
"NOW BOARDING GROUP FOUR."
Dad practically levitates. "We should go."
"For fucks sake, for the last time—"
But he's already barreling to the gate. Mom trails behind with an apologetic smile, her half-finished scarf hanging from her knitting needles. Ivy leans closer, her shoulder brushing mine.
"Want to play a game?"
"Does it involve some weird meditation or breathing technique?"
She rolls her eyes. "Rate people's airport outfits. Out of ten. Go."
"What?"
"That guy." She nods toward a businessman in slides and dress socks. "Rate him."
Despite myself, I snort. "Negative three. He should be arrested."
"Lady in the full tracksuit and heels?"
"Two. But respect for the commitment."
We're still playing when we finally board—group five, despite Dad's best efforts to convince the gate agent we're actually group four.
The flight attendant's wide smile and "welcome aboard" does nothing to ease the way my stomach drops at the sight of the narrow aisle. I count the rows as we shuffle forward.
12 . . . 13 . . .14 . . .
Our row is 23. That's . . . that's a lot of rows to get past if something goes wrong. The overhead bins seem too small to hold all these bags. Are they supposed to bend like that?
"Window or aisle?" Ivy asks when we reach our row, ignoring how I've nearly torn my boarding pass in half.
"Take the window." I swallow thickly, noting how the wing flexes through the narrow pane of glass.
"You sure? I don't mind—"
"Definitely sure." I focus on stuffing my bag under the seat, purposely not looking at the safety card with its cheerful drawings of water landings.
The flight attendant's voice crackles over the intercom, asking us to fasten our seatbelts and put our tray tables up.
I fumble with the metal clasp, clicking it three times to make sure it's secure as the flight attendants start their safety demonstration, pointing at exits that seem impossibly far away.
A woman with a sweet smile holds up an oxygen mask, demonstrating how to "place it over your nose and mouth, and breathe normally".
As if anyone breathes normally when oxygen masks drop from the ceiling.
"You good?" Ivy asks.
"Peachy," I mutter, watching as they pantomime inflating the life vest. Because drowning is totally what I want to think about right now.
The wheels lurch into motion and—fuck. My hands lock onto the armrests like they're personally responsible for keeping this tin can airborne. The engines rev up, and some kid starts wailing, which feels appropriate because same, buddy. Same.
Then Ivy's hand slides into mine.
"Guy in 21C," she whispers, like we're not about to die. "Hawaiian shirt. Combat boots. Discuss."
"I—" The plane lurches forward, but she squeezes my hand.
"Four," she decides for me. "But only because the shirt has flamingos."
She keeps going, riffing on airport fashion disasters until we're airborne, and I realize I'm still death-gripping her hand.
I let go. "Sorry, I—"
"Want to watch a movie?" She's already pulling out her iPad like I didn't just try to break her fingers. "I downloaded a few options for the flight."
"Please tell me it's not one of your weird horror movies. I don't think I can handle possessed nuns while we're thirty thousand feet in the air."
She grins. "Actually, I got your favorite."
"If you say How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—"
"The very same." She waggles her eyebrows. "Relax, your Matthew McConaughey obsession is safe with me."
"I do not . . ." I stop at her pointed look. "It's a good movie, okay?"
"Sure, sure." She hands me an earbud. "Your secret's safe with me."
The hour and forty minutes to Dulles passes faster with Kate Hudson's terrible journalism ethics to distract me. Ivy doesn't mention how I grip her armrest during every bit of turbulence, just keeps quoting along with the movie like we're on her couch.
The landing is smooth, which doesn't stop me from leaving finger-shaped dents in the plastic. Ivy pretends not to notice, just keeps debating whether the love fern deserved better.
The wheels haven't even touched down when Dad's seatbelt clicks open. He's already standing before the plane stops moving, yanking his carry-on from the overhead bin while the seatbelt sign is still lit. Honestly, I'm shocked he's not one of those people who clap when we land.
"Sir, please remain seated," the flight attendant calls from the front, but he's already got his jacket on, huffing impatiently across the aisle from us.
The sweet elderly lady next to me, who spent the whole flight giving Ivy and me these soft looks, starts gathering her things. I stand to help her with her bag from the overhead bin.
"Oh, thank you, dear." She beams at Ivy. "Your boyfriend is so thoughtful."
Ivy's cheeks flush pink, but before she can correct the woman, I throw her a wink. "She only keeps me around for the heavy lifting."
"And the free pizza," Ivy adds, with a little smile.
Dad ruins the moment, shoving past in the aisle and earning a scowl from our row-mate as she's forced to press against her seat.
"If we don't hurry—" he starts.
"The bags will still be there," Mom says, with the patience of a saint.
Ivy falls into step beside me as we navigate the terminal. "So . . . rental car for three hours with Greg?"
"Last chance to fake food poisoning and catch a flight home."
"Please." She adjusts her backpack strap, which is slipping off her shoulder because everything's too big for her five-foot-two frame. "I once sat next to Salem during his explosive diarrhea phase. I've trained for this."
The mental image makes me laugh, which earns us a stern glare from Dad, who's already stationed himself at baggage claim like a sentinel, checking his watch every thirty seconds.
I grab both suitcases from the carousel before Ivy can protest. Not because I'm being gentlemanly, but because her wrestling a suitcase nearly her height is basically a public safety hazard.
"I can get that," she says, hands on her hips.
"Sure you can, Shortcake." I grin down at her. "Just like you can reach the top shelf at home without that stepstool you pretend doesn't exist."
"That stepstool is for decorating purposes only."
"Keep telling yourself that."
The rental car counter is its own special circle of hell.
Greg insists on reviewing every insurance option like he's negotiating nuclear treaties.
Mom takes one look at the situation, mutters something about "grabbing snacks for the drive," and disappears toward the nearest Hudson News. Smart woman.
Ivy leans against the wall next to me, humming under her breath.
"Let me guess, manifesting patience?"
"Don't judge my methods." But her lip quirks. "They work."
"Like that time you tried to manifest good weather for the summer festival?"
"It only rained a little!"
"It was a monsoon, Ivy." We both burst out laughing.
Finally we get the keys, and Dad immediately launches into a debate about the best route to the vineyard, even though the GPS is literally right there.
"These apps don't know what they're talking about," he insists, jabbing at his phone. "I looked at the map last night. If we take the back roads through—"
"Dad, it's literally showing us the fastest route."
Mom returns with an armful of chips and water bottles, effectively cutting off what I'm sure would have been a fascinating lecture about satellite technology conspiracies.
The parking garage is a maze of identical white SUVs and, as I'm loading bags into the trunk, Ivy appears at my elbow.
"Hey. Thanks for doing this. Seriously."
"It's nothing." She waves it off. "A trip to Virginia, plus a wedding? I'm in."
"You say that now, but wait for the madness. I guarantee Sarah's already planning to adopt you into her bridal party."
"Honestly? I don't mind." Her eyes go dreamy. "Weddings are such powerful moments of pure love energy—"
"Okay, Moonbeam." I tug her hair playfully, making her squeak. "Save the crystal talk for Sarah. I'm sure she'd love to hear about wedding chakras or whatever."
"That's not even a thing and you know it." She pinches my side where she knows I'm ticklish, and I crowd her against the car before she can escape, both of us laughing.
But then the laughter dies.
I've got my hands braced on either side of her, boxing her between my arms and the rental car, she's looking up at me with those wide blue eyes . . . and something shifts. Her breath snags; this barely-there stutter that sends electricity crawling up my spine.
Her cheeks flush pink, the same shade as her lips, and fuck—when did I start noticing the exact color of Ivy's lips? They're slightly parted, hovering on the edge of words that never materialize.
The parking garage shrinks around us. The fluorescent lights buzz too loud. The concrete walls press in—
SLAM.
Dad's door bangs shut, and we spring apart so fast I nearly trip over a luggage cart. Ivy suddenly becomes fascinated with rearranging her backpack straps, gaze drilling into the floor, while I drag fingers through my hair and try to jumpstart my lungs back into a normal rhythm.
"You two coming or what?" Dad barks, already claiming his throne behind the wheel.
"Yeah, just . . ." I clear my throat. "Coming."
I shake my head, hard, as if I could physically dislodge whatever the hell just happened. Because nothing happened. We were just messing around. Same as always. That's it.
Right?
We take the back seat, letting Mom handle navigation duty up front, and there's a beat of awkwardness as we settle in.
Ivy tucks herself against the far window, while I'm suddenly hyperaware of the space between us.
But then Dad starts his fourth monologue about airport traffic patterns, and the weirdness evaporates under the sheer force of his complaints.
"These exits are all wrong now. They changed them," he announces, for the third time.
Ivy catches my eye and makes this tiny face—eyebrows raised, lips pressed together like she's trying not to laugh. The same expression she's been making at my dad's rants since we were sixteen.
In an instant, the tension's gone, and we're back to normal.
She wordlessly offers me one of her earbuds. The tinny sound of Taylor Swift only partially drowns out Greg's traffic manifesto, but it's better than nothing.
I take it from her. "Got 'Shake It Off' on there? Not that I care."
"Wow. Specific request." She raises an eyebrow, clearly delighted by this admission.
"It's just catchy," I mumble, ears burning. "And it helps with . . . you know, stress."
"Guess I'll keep your Swiftie expertise between us."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
And she's right. I don't.