29. Fly the Precocious Skies
29
FLY THE PRECOCIOUS SKIES
O’CONNOR
I spent the rest of my evening in a daze.
My moment with Archer in the greenroom’s bathroom was . . . startling. I felt like I’d poked at a blister on my heel and uncovered a hellmouth.
The rage that had come bubbling out of me was just too hot. Too vigorous. I’d managed to cork it, but there was no doubt that anger was still seething inside me. Unsuspected depths of anger.
So, I stayed numb. I watched Aftermath take the stage and critically assessed Archer in the long coat. He’d spin, sending the hem swinging out behind him like a superhero cape, and the audience would scream their excitement. Critically, coldly, I decided that he was an excellent front man.
Very handsome.
Damnably charming.
And then I didn’t want to see anymore. I left before they finished “Lizabella.” If I had to watch him on that stage with Charlotte, in front of thousands of screaming groupies, all of them vying for the chance to run their hands along his perfect torso, I might not be able to remain corked.
So, I headed to the airport earlier than expected. The hotel accommodated the change in plans without a hitch. I could recommend them with a clear conscience. Then I sat in the first-class lounge at the airport, paging sightlessly through someone’s discarded newspaper and projecting a “do not even approach me” vibe until my flight was finally called.
Red-eye flights were not usually chatty places. I’d expected four and a half hours of intense navel-gazing while I considered the confusion of my response to Archer.
Until I saw my seatmate.
She was adorable. Maybe seven years old. Being fussed over by a woman who was blocking my seat—or perhaps her seat. I checked my phone to makes sure I was attempting to sit in the right place. Surely this cherub’s mother would sit with her?
The woman looked up with a smile. “I’m just getting her settled. I’ll be out of your way in a second. Frannie, one book and then go to sleep. Promise?”
“Some books take longer than others, Perdy.”
“One book,” the woman said sternly. “They’re right here. Now, go to sleep this time.”
“Good night, Perdy.”
The woman stood and fired a blazing smile at me. “Sorry. Thanks.”
“Wait,” I said, confused. “You don’t want to sit with your daughter?”
She laughed. “I’m not her mom. I’m the nanny. And I have a seat in coach. Don’t worry, she’s really an angel. I’ll collect her when we land.”
She was gone, and I was left to confront a small child who, at mere moments to midnight, was not even slightly sleepy. “ Hello,” she said formally. “My name is Frances Alcott Shipley. It’s nice to meet you.”
Off balance, I stowed my tote under the seat in front and shook her offered hand. “How do you do?” I replied automatically.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Um.” How was a child more eloquent than I was? “I’m . . . Becca.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Becca. I am seven.”
“Oh. I’m—I’m twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-eight is . . . four times older than me.”
“That’s pretty good math,” I said.
“I’m precocious,” she said with a satisfied smile. She was wearing pajamas.
The flight attendant leaned in. “Good evening, ma’am. Hi, Frannie.”
“Heinrich!” Frannie slapped him a high five. “I need a hot cocoa, Heinrich. I’ve had a very hard day.”
Heinrich and I both laughed at her attitude of serious confidence. “I’m not sure Perdita would want you having cocoa this late, Frannie.”
“Heinrich, I’m serious. I need cocoa. It will soothe me and help me sleep. Please?”
He rolled his eyes. He and I were both charmed. He turned to me. “What can I get for you before takeoff, miss?”
Suddenly, I was deeply thirsty. “I could use a glass of champagne. I’ve had a hard day too.”
He grinned. “I’ll be just a moment.”
He left, and Frannie patted my hand. “Heinrich is my favorite.”
“You take this flight often?”
“Every two weeks. My mom lives in LA, and my dad is in Chicago. They share me. And I get out of a lot of school.”
“But no one minds because you’re precocious. ”
“That’s true. I am.”
“Frannie, do you know what precocious means?”
“It means people spell things a lot around me.” She flashed me a grin. “I’m a really good speller.”
“I’ll bet.”
Heinrich appeared with two dishes of warmed nuts, a flute for me, and a mug for Frannie. “We’ll be wheels-up in a few minutes. I’ll be back to collect the empties.”
“Thank you, Heinrich,” Frannie said. I echoed her.
Heinrich went on about his duties, and Frannie and I were enclosed in the strange bubble of intimacy that develops on airplanes. “So,” she said to me, blowing cautiously on her cocoa. “You had a bad day too?”
The champagne was dry and cold and delicious. The first sip was golden and promised that I could relax a few muscles soon. “I did.”
“My dad says all bad days come down to some single negative emotion.”
“Your dad says that?”
“He’s a therapist. What’s your emotion?”
I pursed my lips in thought. Forget all the complications of my situation with Archer. And the book. And the permanence of my legacy. And hair-care products. And groupies. What was my single negative emotion? The answer was easy.
“Anger,” I said. That tasted like truth in my mouth.
“Yep,” Frannie said. “That’s mine too.”
“Yeah?” I shifted in my seat so I could watch her more easily. “What happened?”
She shifted too. Now we were in a cooperative bubble. “Kaylie is taking Tana to the Princess Tea instead of me.”
“What’s a Princess Tea?”
She rolled her eyes but generously explained. “You dress up in your best princess outfit and go to high tea with Kaylie and her grandmother. They have cake and little tarts, and then there’s chocolate.”
“Sounds like perfection.”
“It’s perfection. But Kaylie was supposed to take me, and now she’s taking Tana. I mean, can you believe it?”
“That’s terrible. Drink your cocoa.”
“Yeah.” We sought the illusion of satisfaction in our drinks. “What about you?”
I put my drink on the tray table so I could scrub at both my itchy eyes with my fingers. From behind the protection of my hands, I simplified my situation grossly. “I like this guy. But he likes other people. I mean, someone else.” No need to introduce a seven-year-old to the concept of multiple sexual partners.
“Oh, that’s terrible. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.” We both had another sip.
“My dad still likes my mom, but she likes someone else. Ethan. He’s okay, I guess.”
“Ethan, huh? How’d your dad handle that?”
“He was angry for a while. But then he met Rachel, and now they’re really happy too.”
“Do you like Rachel?”
“Better than Ethan. She can sew. At my house in Chicago, I have a pointy hat with a veil like a princess. This summer, when we drive, we’re going to bring it to my house in Los Angeles. I was going to ask her to make one for Kylie, too, but now I don’t know. It just makes me, so . . . you know?”
“Angry. I know.”
“Angry. That’s right. The hat is so great. Mine is pink, and Kylie’s could have been purple. She loves purple.”
“Purple is a great color.”
The preflight time was wrapping up, and she moved her fuzzy blanket aside to show Heinrich that she was belted in. We had to put our tables up for takeoff, and Heinrich stowed our beverages, promising a refill once we were in the air.
“Frannie,” I said as the plane rumbled slowly across the tarmac, “what if you turned this situation to your advantage?”
She cocked a wise eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“Could you ask Rachel to make two princess hats? One for Kylie and one for Tana?”
Her gaze went distant. “That is interesting.” She thought about it very seriously, and I hid my amusement. “Well, what color?” Her question was suspicious. I was on trial.
“I don’t know. How about . . . yellow?”
My tiny jury gave it due consideration. “Tana has dark hair. Yellow would be very good on her.” She nodded, and I felt a flush of pride. “Yes. That’s a good way to handle this. I’ll tell them tomorrow. Then they’ll feel bad for going to the Princess Tea without me.”
She was entirely too satisfied with this passive-aggressive strategy. I liked this kid and had a moment to be grateful that it would be someone else’s job to raise her to be genuinely kind, rather than kind with an end goal.
Plus, I needed to research Princess Tea opportunities in LA and around the country. That would make a great focal point for a podcast. Every woman (and a good percentage of the men) had an inner princess that would love a chance to wear a pretty dress and eat cake, tarts, and chocolate too.
Her piping little voice interrupted my thoughts. “Okay, what about you, then? What are you going to do?”
I had a momentary flight of imagination in which every groupie who screwed Archer would be awarded a conical princess hat topped with a floaty veil. The image both amused and disgusted me. “I don’t think I have a good solution.” Where was that man with my champagne?
“My father says anger is depression turned outward. Or maybe he says depression is anger turned inward. I can’t remember.”
“Your dad has a lot of helpful sayings.”
“I know.”
“What about your mom? What does she say?”
“Um . . . she says I’m her revenge on an unjust world.”
I laughed. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m supposed to give people a hard time when they deserve it because I’m a cute little kid, and no one can get mad at me.”
“She’s a smart lady.”
“My hero.” She accepted a fresh mug from Heinrich. “Only half a cup? Heinrich!”
“It’s after midnight, little miss. Drink that and get some sleep, please. Ma’am, your champagne.”
I got a full flute, and Frannie glared at him. He was impervious. “Let me know if I can get you anything else,” he said as he left.
I clinked my flute gently against Frannie’s mug. “Here’s to us.”
“To us,” she agreed. “I know what else my mom says.”
“Hit me with it.”
“She says it’s easier to blame someone else than to blame myself. But sometimes you can’t fix a problem until you admit who’s really to blame.”
“God. Your mother’s tough.”
“Oh yeah. She’s amazing. I get one book before bedtime, and I can read it myself.” She gave me the side-eye. “Unless you’d like to read it to me?”
Which was how I found myself in the unexpectedly maternal position of reading a small, adorable, pajama-clad child to sleep.
After which I was all alone in the darkened cabin, some unknown woman’s truth echoing through me. It was easier to blame someone else than it was to blame myself.
I checked the time on my phone. After one in the morning, Chicago time. The Aftermath concert was over. The press huddle was wrapping up. The groupies were lingering, waiting to see who he’d pick.
And he’d pick someone. That was what Archer did.
The emotion bottled up inside me was still threatening to bubble over, but why? He’d never lied to me. Never promised fidelity or some mythical happily-ever-after. He’d done nothing wrong.
I was the one who’d gone too far.
Nothing but darkness out the window. Nothing but sleeping innocence to distract me. Nothing else but the realization of a bitter truth about who was to blame here.
My single negative emotion wasn’t anger.
It was jealousy.