Chapter 6
Chapter
My nails dig into my palms, and I try not to whimper or make any other embarrassing noises as George communicates on the common frequency to let other aircraft in the area know we’re heading out onto the runway.
He guides the plane smoothly, using foot pedals to turn and drive the airplane while we’re still on the ground.
Which won’t be for much longer.
Soon the nose is pointed down one long stretch of asphalt, a blue sky spread above us.
“Ready?” George’s voice presses against my eardrums.
“Just get us in the air and keep us there, Bunsen,” I snap back, my normal urge to people please suppressed by the tightening of every single one of my nerves.
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he reaches out to give the plane full throttle. The propeller speeds, and we arrow forward, the airport passing us by.
If I’m going to die, at least this is the way I’d want to go, I think the moment before we rise. Fast, with the open sky before me, and hope mixed with the fear in my heart.
I’ve spent too much time these past few years worried about what my mom would see in the last moments of her life. Would it be Marge and me? Would it be the home we’d begun to build together?
Or would it be the off-white tiles of a hospital ceiling? The darkness of a room where she lies alone and in pain?
Terrifying as this takeoff is, I’d choose this option every time.
The ground falls away from us, and I gasp in bracing breaths as the landscape turns miniature while we lift higher.
Suddenly, a stretch of forest is visible, and I see the lake Mom and Marge like to kayak on.
If I follow the roads, I could map my way to Cornfield’s and our little patched-up cottage.
Farther off I can pick out the edges of a city.
I’m guessing that’s Arlington, where Shawn resides.
George turns the plane and I lose sight of the tight cluster of buildings, instead catching the shadow of far-off mountains.
And in this moment, I realize I’m breathing.
The act is stuttered, slightly erratic, but I’m not hyperventilating. Panic is eclipsed by elation, and I gaze out the window rather than shut my eyes in fear.
“How are you doing, Beth?” George asks. I glance over to find his sunglasses-covered eyes facing me. “Want me to land it?”
Go back down? Stand on the dirt instead of soaring through the air?
“No.” My word is slightly strangled, but the microphone catches it. “I want to keep going.”
He nods and refocuses on the instruments, something intense about his study.
“Is everything okay?” I try to remember what the measures on the instrument panel mean, but lingering anxiety steals all the memories I have of my book learning.
“All good,” he says.
I hesitate, then wave at the instruments. “Could you keep explaining them? I’d like to learn.”
Understatement of the millennium.
I expect hesitation, but just like when we were prepping the plane, George goes through it all.
He points out the attitude indicator that shows the artificial horizon. The air speed indicator, which tells us how fast we are moving through the air. The altimeter, reading out our altitude.
As he speaks, the memories come back to me. The routine before bed where I say the same words to myself. Only, the normally stoic man goes into more detail. He’s in his element, and when I ask clarifying questions, he answers them without hesitation. Speaking more than he ever has in my presence.
Treating me like a person. I could almost believe he’s not a BnB minion.
“Do you want to fly the plane?” George asks.
“Me?” Wow. Wasn’t aware my voice could go that high-pitched.
“Yeah.” He dips his chin toward the controls. “Try it out.” When I hesitate, his voice comes again. “I’m right here.”
“I guess we know that if everything goes wrong you can still save us.” I try for a teasing smile, but the stretch of my lips feels more like a grimace.
“It won’t go wrong,” he says. “But yeah.”
My snort doesn’t make it to the microphone, which I’m glad about. Reaching out hands with fingers that still shake, I take a firm grip of the yoke.
What’s so surprising is how responsive the plane is. Just a gentle press to the left or the right has a wing dipping in a turn. Pull back a touch, and the windshield goes solid blue. Push forward a smidge, and I gasp at the overwhelming view I have of the world beneath us.
“Sometimes the things you love are scary.”
I’m absolutely terrified.
But I’m also in love.
“Let me know if you want me to take control.” George’s voice pulls my attention his way, and I’m surprised to find the sight of him is a touch blurry.
Quickly I reach up to rub the moisture away from my eyes.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “Just a little longer.”
Time passes too fast, George taking over only when he says we need to return. I don’t know how to navigate us back to the airport, but I still ache when I give over control, my fingers flexing in my lap.
I distract myself by watching the landscape beneath us. My favorite are the lakes. I enjoy how I can see the shadows of clouds pass over the blue green water.
George points out the airport, and I study the stretch of landing space.
No cars to dodge this time, thank goodness.
We circle once, then George guides us in.
My heart rate picks up as the ground grows closer, as the nose appears to point at too-dramatic an angle for us to land safely.
But he’s a pro, and our wheels touch down so gently it takes me a moment to realize that yes, we are on the ground, rolling slowly to a stop.
And like before, George uses the foot pedals to guide us down the yellow-lined lanes, maneuvering the Cessna back to its spot among a crowd of other aircraft.
Finally, he turns off the engine, and the world grows quiet around us.
Unlike the last time, when he was in a rush to get me out of the plane, George sits quietly beside me, and I’m the one who takes off my own headset. He follows suit but doesn’t make another move, although I’m sure there’s plenty that needs to be done to put the plane away.
“How was that?” he asks, his stern voice revealing no emotion.
“That was…”
Are there even words?
It was everything I thought it would be. Terrifying. Amazing.
Heartbreaking.
Whatever fear lingers, it won’t keep me out of the air in the future. I know that now.
But there’s plenty of other things that will.
Lack of time.
Lack of money.
Guilt.
I don’t manage to finish my sentence. Still, I offer George a smile, and I force myself to forget how he feels about me for the length of time it takes to say a heartfelt “Thank you.”
His reaction to my words stays hidden behind his sunglasses, and maybe that’s for the best.
I busy myself undoing my buckle and unplugging my headset.
“Do you want to help me tie down the plane?” George asks. “If not, you can—”
“Yes,” I interrupt what was likely an offer for me to go ahead and leave. But I’m not ready to say goodbye to this yet.
George jerks his head in a nod, and for the next few minutes we work through the necessary tasks.
Recording the Hobbs meter time in the aircraft logbook, tying down the plane, cleaning bugs off the windshield before working together to put on the aircraft cover, and popping the cowl plug into the slots I’ve always thought looked like the plane’s nostrils.
We’re quiet as we work other than the quick instructions George doles out, and I find the process a weird combination of meditative and inspiring.
“I’m going to stow these in the hangar.” George holds up the plane’s keys. “Don’t leave yet.”
“Okay.” The plane looks good and tucked in, but maybe he has something else to show me or that an extra set of hands would make easier.
As the man stalks off, I turn to face the runway, smiling when I spot a jet taxiing onto it.
The fancy airliner is probably similar to what Shawn and George are always flying out on for BnB business.
The company has jets at all the local airports, like Culpeper Regional and Leesburg Executive Airport.
This one is actually the farthest drive from the city, and yet it’s the one my brother uses most often.
Maybe the more conveniently located planes are only for customers.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad Shawn’s flights leave from Middleburg Regional Airport because it means he stops by Cornfield’s more often.
Watching the jet take off is a glorious thing, and I wonder what it would be like to sit in the cockpit of one of those.
“I flew,” I say, and sigh with a happy grin, deciding to revel in the joy of the moment rather than agonize over the future. Spreading my arms wide, like I’m an airplane myself, I tilt my head back and let the spring sunshine warm my skin.
Giddiness fills me to the point that I can’t help a little spin.
Only for my hand to slam into something hard.
“Ow!” I yelp, jumping back and cradling my hand, certain I was standing too close to the plane and whacked it against the tail.
But no. There stands George, a frown on his face and his palm rubbing the center of his chest.
My god, was that rock-hard obstruction him?
“I didn’t know you were standing there.” I sound defensive to my own ears.
He shrugs, then stares at me. “I’m a flight instructor.”
“You’re…wait, what?” My brain struggles to shift from combat mode to this new avenue of conversation. “I thought you worked for BBN.”
“I do.” He drops his hand, apparently recovered from my inadvertent attack. “Being an instructor is a side gig.”
“Okay.” I shift from foot to foot. “Good for you.”
He sighs, his jaw tensing as he stares over my shoulder. “I could be your instructor.”
Well don’t sound too excited, I want to snark at him.
Then his words register.
“What?”
He frowns. “Do you know the steps required to get a pilot’s license?”
“Yes.” I’ve looked them up multiple times over the years just to make sure I had them right.
Ground school, which I’d have to do in my quickly dwindling free time. I could maybe get it done in six months.
When I was younger, I remember instances of Mom taking me to the public library on her days off.
I was confused when she said she had schoolwork, only understanding when I got older that she was working on a business degree through an online college.
That was back when she still thought she might return to the corporate world. But plans changed.
A few times I’ve started studying for ground school, but I knew that all the information would seep out of my brain if I couldn’t apply it in a practical setting.
And that’s where I run into my main problem.
Flight time with an instructor. Most won’t take on a student until they finish ground school. Like they need proof you’re serious. And when they do take you on, it costs money.
An amount that a guy who owns three airplanes and a helicopter probably thinks is chump change but for me could mean the difference between having a house or having it foreclosed on.
“Shawn said you wanted to get your pilot’s license.”
Damn me for leaving that study book in my bag at our last book club. My brother is such a snoop.
“I do.”
“Good.” George gives one nod. “I’ll be your instructor.”
I gape at him. Then I snap my jaw shut and try not to seethe. The last time this guy saw me, I was halfway through my ten-hour diner shift. Can’t he make the minuscule mental leap that maybe I don’t have the funds to make flying an airplane my expensive hobby?
“I can’t pay for it,” I grit out. “For lessons. And all that.” Because it’s not just the instructor. It’s renting the plane and the fuel. There’s a reason the pilot demographic skews middle- to upper-class. Those are the ones who can afford it.
George, in all his rich, white maleness, tilts his head as if confused.
But before I tear into him, I remember that his assumptions may not be purely based off ignorance.
He thinks I’ll soon have a trust fund payout.
Which, yes, would make me continuing to claim I’m low on funds confusing.
I could tell him the truth.
I dismiss that thought immediately. I have no idea how George would react. He might be a decent guy, say Damn that sucks, and agree that despite living in a multimillion-dollar mansion, my dad is a total deadbeat.
But I think it’s much more likely that he’ll tell Shawn the truth, and my brother not only will learn that I lied to him, but he’ll also learn that I lied to him from someone else, before I get the guts to come clean on my own.
And these last few months I have with my brother and me being normal will be gone.
No, George doesn’t need the truth.
Still, I decide to give him a little something because for some reason I don’t like the idea of him thinking I’m giving up on my dream for a half-assed excuse.
“I know you think—because through a technicality—I’m a Newton and, therefore, flush with cash,” I say. “But I’m not. And I’m not going to be anytime soon. Because that Newton money…is getting used elsewhere.”
Let George think whatever he wants about that. That the cash is coming my way but I’m donating it or I’ve got some massive debts to pay or an investment I’ve agreed to make.
No need for the truth. That the money that was never promised to me is probably getting used to pay for some perk like Karl Newton’s Hamptons house. The one I saw in Instagram pics Tiffany shot last summer when she was still engaged to my brother.
She follows me on socials, which is weird because she didn’t when she and Shawn were together.
I’ve been meaning to block her, but I don’t really go on socials other than Instagram, and that’s usually just to post a picture of Grumps passed out in a ridiculous position in his dog bed or perched on the back of the couch like he thinks he’s a cat.
“Okay.” George stands in front of me, his hands tucked in his jean pockets, the sun backlighting him, so his edges seem to glow. “No charge.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll be your instructor. And I won’t charge.” He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. “Not for lessons. Not for the use of my planes. Nothing.”