Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“It’s an emergency ,” he replies, gritting his teeth. He’s wearing a baseball jersey and hat, mesh shorts, and rubber pool slaps. It’s only ten in the morning but I don’t discount the possibility that he’s inebriated.
The plane hits another steep drop. I’m braced for it, but the man is not, and he folds into the seat in front of him, then when the plane jerks back, he collides with me and grabs my ass.
“Hey!” a passenger from the other row says, stepping out of his seat.
When thing go bad, this is how it starts. Already, some people are filming with their phones.
While Jordan hurries from the back, I whip the man’s hands from my body and guide him back toward his seat. I’m not using force. Yet. But it’s time to get firm. “Sir. Sit. Down.”
The plane lurches again. The man’s temple collides with the overhead bin. “Ow!” he cries while Jordan quietly deals with the other passenger.
“Serves you right,” snickers the woman sitting in the window seat.
The click of a seatbelt buckle informs me that Jordan has successfully dealt with the second passenger. Then he moves to my side, his thigh at my hip, connecting us like we’re a human fence. It’s enough to lower my cortisol levels a few beats.
“How much longer?” the man whines, sliding back into his seat. He makes a pleading glance at Jordan, like he might give him a better answer. “I gotta pee .”
“The pilots will turn off the fasten seat belt sign when it’s safe to get up,” Jordan says in a confident, even tone. “Until then, for your safety and for the safety of others, stay in your seat with your seat belt securely fastened.”
The plane swoops so suddenly, several passengers gasp.
A few of them brace against their seat backs.
A baby starts crying from further up the rows.
Not surprising, but it’s going to add even more stress to this already tough day that started when I came aboard to find Russel and Eric in the cockpit.
“Can I pee in this bag?” 22C says, yanking out the airsickness bag, his eyes burning with anger.
Like his bare feet aren’t bad enough? “No,” I say.
He grabs his crotch. “If I leak all over this seat, it’s going to be your fault.”
“Fasten your seat belt,” I say just as a sudden crack followed by lengthy beat of turbulence rattles the overhead bins and draws another collective gasp of surprise from passengers.
Glaring up at me, 22C clicks his seat belt.
Jordan and I turn and move swiftly for the back of the plane, where we buckle into our harnesses. Thankfully, the other passengers lower their phones .
“You want me to call up front?” Jordan asks, low enough that the other flight attendants can’t hear.
“Please,” I say with a grateful nod.
From the middle of the plane, the baby wails.
Jordan reaches for the receiver and talks into the pilot’s line.
The turbulence and roar of the plane back here means I can’t hear what he’s saying, but before Jordan’s barely hung up, Russel’s charismatic voice fills the cabin with an announcement about the turbulence and a reminder to remain seated with seatbelts fastened low and tight across their laps.
Though we clear the turbulence and 22C safely utilizes the restroom, my body is tense and my smile feels forced as Selina and I begin the beverage service.
I try to plan it so that I don’t serve the row with the fussing baby, but it happens anyway.
The mom is in the middle, and one look at her makes my stomach clench.
I know it’s not the same mother, but there are enough similarities.
Long dark hair and full lips. The baby has a thin swirl of pale hair, dressed in a yellow sleeper printed with tiny ducks and a binky clipped to the sleeve.
The mom keeps trying to put the pacifier in her baby’s mouth while bouncing him, but he keeps spitting it out.
I make eye contact with the man in the window seat. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Coffee,” he says.
I force a slow breath through my nose. “Cream or sugar?” I reach for the cup stacked in the center of the cart, my fingers shaking. On the opposite side of the cart, Selina flashes me a worried look.
“Black,” the man replies.
I focus on pouring the coffee. The plane hits a bump, but rolling with them is one of a flight attendant’s many superpowers, so I manage the task without spilling a drop.
The mom in the middle seat is gently bouncing the baby on her knee .
The man reaches for the coffee, his open palms right over the woman’s lap. Over the baby.
I grip the cup with both hands, bracing my thigh against the wide edge of the seat for extra support.
The baby gives an earsplitting shriek.
The man winces, then rears back just as I lean into the row.
I paint a steady smile on my face while my chest tightens and tingles race over my skin.
I suck in another breath, still holding the cup with both hands. I’ve leaned as far as I can without toppling into the lap of the aisle seat passenger. I keep both hands on the cup, even though letting one go would extend my reach. Not with a squirming baby in the way.
The second the man takes the coffee, I hold my breath until the cup is safely set on his tray table. Then I grip the cart’s handle and force out a series of exhales.
“Meg, can you grab me another cranberry cocktail?” Selina asks with a pointed glance.
“Of course.” I spin on my heel and use the trip down the aisle to our storage in the back to force oxygen into my lungs. By the time I return, Selina has served the rest of that row.
“Thanks,” she says as I hand her the bottle of juice she didn’t need.
I manage a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Dillingham, Alaska, is like many small estuary towns north of the Aleutians.
Flat and pocketed by vast tracts of spongy tundra.
From the air, it looks like green swiss cheese for miles, until the abrupt relief of giant mountains to the north and east. Most people have a boat or float plane as a second vehicle because it’s mostly a roadless area thanks to the terrain.
Normally, we do a quick turnaround, but due to another weather system, our departure gets delayed. Though not fun, delays are routine. But it means my FaceTime with Greta in two hours is in jeopardy.
As if this day could test my capacity any more than it already has. We wait in the tiny crew lounge, most of us separating for some solo recharge time. But Russel, Eric, and Selina sit at a table by the big window, sending me the occasional odd look. Does Selina know about my mistake?
After that awful flight, because nobody knew what had happened in San Diego, my boss called Russel and spilled every last detail to him. Thinking it would allow him to support me through the forced leave of absence and investigation.
Jesus, Meg. Get your head on straight. We can’t be causing harm to our passengers. It’s the crew’s responsibility to keep passengers safe. You were trained better than that.
I check the time again, then decide to text Greta. The internet up here is fickle, but I have two bars.
MEG:
Looks like a delay will put me in the air when we are supposed to FaceTime. Any chance you’re free now?
My corner of this tiny lounge isn’t exactly private, but I could nip into the bathroom. Or go out into the terminal, find a semi-private corner somewhere.
Message failed flashes on my screen. The tension in my ribs draws tighter. I type a shorter message.
MEG:
Can you talk?
While the little completion bar crawls across the top of the message window, I imagine Linden and Greta hanging out together. Are they taking an evening swim? Is Greta practicing her dance one last time before bed? Are they sleeping outside again tonight?
This morning, Linden was sort of adorable, stopping in to say goodbye.
Even though he didn’t say much, I’ve been carrying the memory of his body’s warmth against mine since I walked out the door.
I miss him. I miss the way he holds me, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
The intense way he looks at me. Talks to me. I spin the bracelet on my wrist.
Is that your way of saying you need to be fucked, sweetheart?
I want to watch that pretty mouth of yours.
That’s my good girl.
Whatever this is between us, I want more of it.
Is this the beginning of something, or have we reached our peak of potential already?
I think back to the party and Annaleise’s warning.
He’s emotionally unavailable . I think she has it wrong.
Linden might seem closed off, even aloof, but given what he’s experienced, can anyone blame him?
Yet with me, he’s careful. A little guarded, maybe.
But not unavailable. More like a slow drip.
A part of me wants to call him. Even if only to hear his voice. But I’m keyed up after that inbound flight and the memories it stirred up. Would he notice?
I’m definitely overthinking this.
Maybe it’s better to text him. I could explain my delay so he can share with Greta, but that feels cringy. He’s not my messenger. And it’s not like a text to Linden will reach Finn River any easier than the ones in the queue for Greta. The problem is on my end and Dillingham’s unreliable signal.
I check my phone again. Message failed to send.
Shit. Rubbing my temples to center myself, I make a plan to try again later, when the signal is stronger. And I’ll text Linden too—something light. He asked about Alaska. Maybe I’ll snap a picture of the mountains when we fly over them.
For the next hour, the sun shining through the big window heats the small space to nuclear, making me feel like I’m in a pressure cooker.
I’ve eaten a prepackaged sandwich and guzzled water, read several chapters of a cozy mystery set on Prince Edward Island—a place on my bucket list—and brushed out and re-pinned my hair.
My texts to Greta finally send, but I don’t get a reply.
When I try calling, it goes straight to her voicemail. I turn away from the center table where Russel’s posse has gotten louder. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’d been drinking, but of course that’s against policy.
“Hey Greta, looks like I might have to miss our call.” I say to the phone.
“I’m so sorry. We had some bad weather heading here and—” I stop my ramble before it starts with a pinch of my lips.
“You’re going to do great at tryouts. I can’t wait to hear all about it!
” My gut tightens. I hate letting her down like this. “Okay, bye.”
When we finally get clearance to fly, the crew packs up and heads for the plane. Wheeling my bag across the warm, windswept tarmac, I don’t notice Russel has come up next to me until we’re queuing up to ascend the boarding ramp single file.
“I heard things got a little tense back there on that last flight,” he says in a low tone.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” I keep my eyes focused ahead.
“You doing okay?”
I shoot him a look. Up close to him like this, I get a hint of B.O. and the mints he’s always sucking on. “Yeah. Are you?”
He gives a chuckle, but it’s dry. “I’ve been better.”
There’s a vulnerable edge to his tone that I haven’t heard in a long time. “Can I help?”
He shakes his head. “Do you have a time machine? So I can go back and fix what I fucked up?”
“Sorry, I’m fresh out of those.” I give him a soft smile.
For an instant, the pain in his eyes melts away. “I wasn’t with Trina. She tried to sell me coke in a bar. That’s it. ”
He said the same thing to me the night of Dad’s party, and I still don’t care. “Okay.”
“But she knew your firefighter. Intimately.”
I sigh. He just couldn’t resist, is that it? “Russ, please let’s not do this.” Before he can reply, I slip past him and hurry into the plane.
Jordan comes up next to me as I’m stowing my things. “Is he hassling you?”
I huff a breath, puffing out my cheeks. “No. It’s fine.” But weird. A time machine? Making stuff up about Linden to upset me?
Forty minutes later, with the midnight sun low on the horizon, we lift off from Dillingham. Passengers are grumpy and surly, even with the free drink coupons dispensed by the airlines for the delay, so the overbooked flight keeps me on my toes.
After we land, when I toggle my phone back into WiFi, a text pops up.
DAD:
You want to get breakfast tomorrow?
Sudden tears prick my eyes. Maybe it’s because of the odd conversation with Russ. Or that I just fucking miss my dad so much that his invitation feels especially touching.
I haven’t yet rehearsed what to say to him about the party. Maybe he’s figured some of it out, and wants to clear the air?
It’s almost midnight in Finn River—too late to text Dad back—but I’ll do so first thing in the morning. While the plane taxis to the terminal, I check that I haven’t missed a text from Linden, but there’s nothing from him or Greta. However, there’s one from Russel.
It contains a picture of Linden and Trina. They’re facing each other, in conversation, and the look on their faces is…intense .
RUSSEL:
You should be with me
I set my phone facedown in my lap and look out the window. Where did that picture come from? How did Russ even get it?
“Isn’t Finn River where you live now?” Jordan asks, frowning at me over the top of his phone.
“Yeah.”
“Have you seen this?” He shows me his screen. He’s pulled up a Finn River Journal story with Annaleise’s byline and the headline: ARSON FIRE TIED TO MURDER.
My stomach curls into knots. Murder?
“Can I?” I ask him, reaching for his phone.
“Sure.”
Annaleise’s story is painfully brief, but it reveals the awful details of Trina’s last moments. She sustained some sort of head injury that likely knocked her unconscious, but she was very much alive when the house burned.
This paints a completely different picture than what I had imagined. Someone hurt Trina, then lit the house on fire to try to hide what they’d done.
Who would do such an awful thing?
Russel’s accusations rattle around in my head. She knew your firefighter. Intimately.
I hand Jordan’s phone back, but my fingers are shaking.
Maybe this is hitting so hard because all along, I’ve sensed it might be true.
Why would Linden lie to me about Trina?