Chapter 18
Eighteen
“There’s music, and laughter, and healing.”
Morning at the Kings
The smell of burnt toast was already floating through the kitchen when I walked in, hair brushed, hoodie half-zipped.
Adam was wearing a sweatshirt that had holes in it, actual holes, eating cereal directly out of the box.
Stanford will eat this boy alive, bless him.
Dad was at the table, reading yesterday’s paper like it was breaking news.
So, a typical start of the day at the Kings.
Our family name is kind of ironic, come to think of it.
“You look like someone got hit by a love bus,” Adam said through a mouthful of Cheerios. “You okay?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re eating dry cereal for breakfast and talking with your mouth full, in a shirt that looks like it’s been chewed on by a puppy. Are you okay?”
Dad looked up briefly. “He’s a bit incoherent because he has a real question to ask you.”
“Go on, Stanford boy, let’s hear it,” I said, pouring myself coffee, even though my stomach had no interest.
Adam didn’t say anything, looked at Dad, just crunched louder, but when I passed him, he elbowed me softly. “Do you think we could go to the airfield one day, before I leave this glorious place where it rains two hundred days a year?”
I almost spilled my coffee. “What? Where did that idea come from?”
“You know I can be serious sometimes, sis. We used to spend weeks there—well, me, looking up at you, ironically good days. I want to do that before I leave, call it bonding time, if you must.” He whispered the last two words like they were top secret.
“Since when do we do bonding time? Especially at the airfield. You are indeed the family pariah with your fear of heights, kid.”
It was hilarious how this ridiculously talented engineer wannabe was afraid of planes, heights, thrust, and everything above floor level.
“I surprise myself when I become this sentimental, appreciate it while it lasts, sis,” he said while he swallowed his breakfast.
“I don’t know, kid. Maybe. Soon-ish. I’ll think about it, okay? Just not today.”
“Seriously. You look weird: lover boy gone?”
“Which one of my numerous lover boys are you referring to?
“The one that wakes us all up in the middle of the night, that one.”
I smiled faintly. “He’s in Portland.”
He nodded once. “Cool city, or so I’ve heard, since I’ve never left our beautiful island. They have famous nuts or something, can he bring some?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Afternoon terrace confessions
It was one of those golden hour afternoons, and the terrace behind the Tommo reception area was mostly empty. Mia and I sat on the old bench, two takeout coffees and one bagel between us. We didn’t need to talk much to feel comfortable around each other.
“I already miss him,” I said eventually, folding and refolding the cardboard coffee sleeve. “But I’m okay.”
She tilted her head, searching my face. “You don’t have to be.”
“I’m not falling apart, I promise. I fell apart many months ago,” I said. “It’s just… quieter now, but somehow noisier in my head. With him, it’s the other way around: there’s music, and laughter, and healing.”
Mia nodded, silent for a while. Then she asked, “Is he checking in?”
“Kind of. A few short texts, no confessions or ‘I miss you’, half-words instead. He’s busy with his mom and the rest of the family.”
“You believe that?”
“I do. It would be a perverted thing to do to lie about their mom’s health.”
We sat quietly again, and I felt the wind moving through my hair, the golden sun rays touching my forehead.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been getting these photos. Not creepy. Old flying photos of me during glider training, competitions… me at eight, eleven, seventeen, adult, flying, and posing in front of the wreckage. Every few weeks, more often recently, no note or return address.”
Mia stared. “And you didn’t think to mention this why? Sounds like someone trying to get you back where you belong.”
“I thought they were from Dad. But he’s so… him. He wouldn’t go through the effort, and Adam denies it.”
Mia leaned in. “You think it’s Paul?”
“No. I’ve never shown him those pictures. He wouldn’t even know where to find them.”
She didn’t respond right away. Then said, “That’s true, love, you know. The way someone sees who you used to be, and still believes in who you can be again.”
My throat closed up. “Paul knows what happened, and obviously, he’s seen all my scars, but we didn’t really dig into each other’s pasts. I don’t know if Paul sees me that way, as a pilot with dreams of coming back.”
“Maybe not,” she said gently. “But someone clearly does.”
The updates
Tuesday, 10:12 a.m.
Paul?:
Made it home. Ferry was a nightmare. Flight crowded, awful food, like, horrible, why do they even bother?
Wednesday, 2:27 p.m.
Paul?:
Busy day. Tired. Will text later.
Thursday, 11:45 p.m.
Paul?:
Still here. Last errands. Will be back soon.
And nothing else: no playlists, cheeky messages or stories, or signs he missed me.
Just words like bullet points and status updates.
And I waited. Not like a girl waiting for a prince, I was never like that, but like someone hoping the last few weeks, he golden ones, had meant the same to him as they did to me.
Friday, 11:06 am.
It was a slow late Summer mid-morning at Tommo; most people were working at home, or so they called their Maffeo Park picnics, mimosa-infused brunches in Victoria (that was Tom), or Renfrew fishing trips.
Even Mia was away with Talia, day trip to a goat farm.
I, on the other hand, was like a robot on at least three shots of bad espresso too many, on a mission to do a week’s work in half a day.
Alicia King, assistant of the month at her dad’s best friend’s ferry company.
Taking the high road and definitely not thinking about a man, or gliding, or how things collapse all of a sudden, or all of the above.
I put my earbuds on, tuned into Lizzo’s “Exactly how I feel” (not very Paul, just me with too much coffee in my bloodstream), and started crushing those Excel worksheets with the force of a maniac. I’m feeling good, baby.
And then, in the midst of singing and working, I saw “You have one new mail” notification, from pch_sounds@.
Subject: Not sure what this is. A letter, maybe.
From: Paul Andersen pch_sounds@
To: Alicia King [email protected]
Alicia,
Took the ferry from Nanaimo to Vancouver a couple of hours ago.
The water was quiet, peaceful, that deep blue the Strait gets when it’s overcast. There was this kid standing near me, maybe ten, eating salt and vinegar chips, all greasy fingers and an innocent grin, and he looked at the waves like they made sense to him.
I thought of you. You, and the way your hands wrap around coffee cups to warm up. You, with your silence that speaks louder than most people’s shouting.
Downtown Vancouver smelled like hot dog stands, cannabis, and hot concrete, and I’m sure you’d hate the crowds. You’d love the cafes and the small-town vibe of English Bay, where you can just get a takeout pizza and eat it on the beach, with sand covering your toes.
I started writing this at the airport, during one of those endless in-between hours. You know the kind: people move like on an assembly line, you stay and observe. That’s when I realized I had things I wanted to say.
You surprised me. From the very first moment, from your silence, your timing, your eyes that saw through every deflection I ever learned to perfect. I wasn’t ready for someone like you. Not then and not now. But you happened anyway and happened for a reason..
You’re brave in a lot of ways, Alicia. You came to me scarred and shaking, and then stood taller than anyone I’ve ever known.
I saw you from the start. Every flicker of uncertainty and inch of power you were growing back into.
I saw the moments you almost turned away, and didn’t.
I saw your courage and hunger for more: more than pain, more than silence, more than just survival.
And damn it, Alicia… I admire you for that.
You looked at me like I wasn’t broken, or like you didn’t care that I was.
You held up your pain and didn’t flinch when mine looked back.
You teach me things I never put into words until now.
That healing isn’t always a big dramatic thing: sometimes it’s you in my David Bowie T-shirt, standing barefoot in my kitchen and smiling at the chaos I tried to hide.
Sometimes it’s just a hand reaching for mine in the middle of a sleepless night.
You remind me that intimacy doesn’t always have to be sharp-edged or blurred out by wine or regret.
You remind me that tenderness could still belong to me, even if I didn’t think I deserved it.
I think about the first night I kissed you after the jazz concert in Victoria.
And I wanted to kiss you more and more every day, all of you.
My only wish was to make you feel good, confident, and beautiful, as you already are.
To protect you from all your beautiful turmoil and to make you see yourself the way I see you.
Of course, I think about the gold lingerie and the way your body moved like it remembered what it felt like to be worshipped.
And you didn’t ask for permission, you just reached out for me and took me, us, to the meadow.
I think about music, and how you taught me that even silence can be its own melody.
That I don’t need constant noise to cover the one in my head.
And I want to say this: you are still that girl who flies.