Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
“Only soft landings with me, I promise.”
After weeks filled with one too many heartbreaks, I was finally ready to go back to work.
The office smelled like the sea, stale printer ink, and microwaved salmon.
The seagull poster and Kevin the Cactus were still there, somehow surviving.
After everything, it felt laughably normal, resistant to the secret lives of its employees.
I sat at my desk, tapping through spreadsheets and databases while the new CRM update blinked back at me like it was trying to annoy me on purpose. My new hearing aids hummed faintly, a presence in the background I hadn’t gotten used to yet, but that made the office sound alive.
Paul was gone. He had finished his notice and quietly slipped into his new job in Victoria. It wasn’t a gaping absence, but the kind that nags quietly, like a bookshelf missing a familiar volume.
He still texted, at first. Updates about his apartment, some indie gig he stumbled into, and him hearing a Vienna orchestra recording that reminded him of me. However, the messages were now lighter and not always replied to.
Paul (Friday):
How are your hearing aids holding up? Finally hearing the sound of music?
Me (Sunday):
Going back to Tommo tomorrow, will the symphony of printers drive me crazy?
Me (Wednesday):
Are you alive over there? How’s VIMS? Are they still allowing you to lead the team?
Paul (Friday):
VIMS is a madhouse. I’m learning to give feedback without sarcasm. You’d be proud.
Me (Saturday):
I am proud. Hope you’re settling into the chaos well. Any new obsessions?
Paul (Monday):
Busy. Coding all day long. Isabella made me a whole Google Calendar and got me an “I am the boss” mug. Terrifying.
Me (Monday):
Sounds like a woman who finally knows what you need to succeed ;)
Paul (Wednesday):
Yeah.
That’s how it was now. But my hand wasn’t trembling, and neither was my heart. I haven’t resigned yet: I knew my flight school dream needed money. But even more than money, it required me to be ready. And for now, the dull comfort of Tom’s jokes and orca posters was a place to rest and recover.
“You’re different,” Mia said over lunch that day, nudging me as we sat at our spot on the terrace, even though the first raindrops were already falling from the sky, which had turned from bright blue to heavy grey within ten minutes. Fool’s Spring, yet again, in all its bleak glory.
“New ears,” I replied.
Mia blinked. “You did it?”
I pulled back my hair to show her the slim hearing aid behind my left ear. Her smile was proud and her eyes watery, like I’d just won a marathon I hadn’t trained for.
“Sounds weird. Everything’s so… detailed.”
“Welcome back to the noisy world, babe. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, stirring my cup of soup. “I went to Paul’s last weekend, after my hearing test. It was different, like good different.”
“Oh my God. You slept with him?”
“No, silly,” I said, laughing. “He used the word love a lot, long story. But no. It was honest. We talked, that’s all.”
Mia looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to be skeptical or moved. “You talked? That’s a positive change from the usual drama. Do you miss him?”
“A little. I miss his presence. I’ll miss the way we were last weekend. It’s hard to get him off my system, you know? But it’s different. He’s fading, Mia. Slowly.”
“Like a drug.”
“Like a drug.”
That afternoon, a message buzzed on my phone. James.
James?(Echo):
Everything okay, Phoenix?
Just checking in again if I should book a spot for you in the instructor prep group? Start: two weeks from now. If you’re ready, we’ll take her up gently. Full prep, no shortcuts. Let me know, James.
I stared at the screen, heartbeat oddly steady. Then I typed back.
Me:
I want it. I’ll have to work evenings to keep up with bills, but… I’m ready. Or at least, I want to be. Just don’t let me crash.
His reply came in seconds.
James?(Echo):
Only soft landings with me, I promise.
Bring your binder—and wear something warm, James.
I closed my phone and opened my calendar. Two weeks! Two weeks until I would see if my wings still fit.
That night, I reread Paul’s old poetic letter, the one from Portland. I had once cried over every line, and now it read like a memory: a beautiful, bruised one. I closed it, archived the email, at peace. Days passed, and Paul’s replies first turned into delays, then into nothing.
Me:
Should I call the Victoria Police Department, or are you just ghosting for sport?
A few hours later, the reply came:
Paul:
I have to be honest. Isabella swept me off my feet. I didn’t expect it either.
I’m finally happy. I hope you fly soon.
I stared at the screen for a long time. No tears or rush of sadness, only stillness and a low, bitter-sweet exhale. Paul had finally found what he’d been chasing: the knock-off-your-feet kind of love, the chaos, songs, and poetry that always needed a different stage.
Me:
I wish you love, honey.
A week later, Adam was packing for Stanford. We threw him a small farewell dinner: Dad, Mia, and a few of Adam’s friends from the Island. Paul texted, just once.
Paul:
Sending my best to the King crew. Tell Adam to stay away from philosophy majors and frat houses.
Me:
Will do, thanks. I’ll miss him.
Paul:
I know.
Dad’s health had stabilized. He was no longer in daily pain, though he was still slow and uncertain while walking, and still relied on his chair or crutches. He hugged me harder than usual that night.
“And when are you moving out?” he asked gently. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure I was ready to have that conversation, but it had to be done. I had been living rent-free for too long: one and a half years since the crash and all the turmoil that came later.
I nodded. “Mia found a place near her building. Small, but enough. I’m just worried about you, alone in this house.”
“Don’t you worry about me, I’m as strong as a bull,” he said, pointing to his biceps mockingly. “Hannah will be here every day. She’s finally teaching me how to fully use that ebook thing she’d given me a while back. And what do you know, it can store every book I want. You’ll visit. Right?”
“Every Sunday. And whenever you need me, I’ll be three miles away.”
He wiped his glasses with care and kissed my forehead. “I raised a pilot. And now I have to learn how to let her fly, for good this time.”
“Dad, I’m still here! Even though I disappointed everyone by not taking the pilot route and merely going to, you know, an Ivy League University.”
“Adam, seriously, I really hope they won’t kick you out after the first term.”
“And I’m around too, Mr. King. Talia and I will visit. And will bring healthy snacks. Alicia loves my quinoa salads.”
Listening to this familiar banter, I knew Dad would be in good hands. Also, I wondered why he wasn’t telling us about him and Hannah, but I didn’t ask. He’d tell us in good time.
The first morning of flight school came quickly, cold and bright, the wind just right for gliding. I stood by the hangar, binder in hand, hair pulled back. James walked toward me, clipboard in hand, smug as ever.
“You look scared. That’s good, it means you’re paying attention.”
“I haven’t done this in over a year.”
“And yet here you are, Phoenix. Welcome home.”
James gave me a nod, holding a pre-flight checklist without a word. After reviewing the theory, which I still seemed to recall as if it were second nature, we walked through each item methodically.
Variometer calibrated.
Air brakes tested.
Rudder tested.
Towline attached.
Canopy locked.
Hearing aids are on and working. Hands steady.
When I climbed into the cockpit, I thought briefly about everything that had happened in the past year—a lone tear fell down my cheek, but I was finally free.
And then I took three deep breaths. I was ready.
James climbed into the instructor seat behind me, and his steady voice cracked through the headset:
“Ready when you are, Phoenix.”
“Let’s fly.”
The tow plane roared forward, tugging us down the uneven runway. The ground trembled, wheels juddering beneath us, and then we felt the lift. The moment came as it always did: a clean break from gravity.
We climbed upward, toward the clear blue sky. The world shrank below, snow-capped mountains and rivers more visible and more transparent than from the ground.
James’s voice again: “Time for us to glide.”
This was the moment of truth: I was scared, but a good kind of scared. This glider had an engine, just in case, and James’s presence behind me was calming. I took another deep breath and released the towline with a hard snap. Finally, wind over the wings. Lift, weight, drag.
I eased the nose into a gentle bank, catching a thermal current rising near the ridgeline.
And there it was: the old feeling of sailing through the air, pure clarity, that stillness in the body when you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Below, the coastline shimmered. Inside, everything that had fractured inside me began stitching itself one breath at a time.
We caught one last thermal. I adjusted the trim, shifted my weight slightly, and let the glider ride the lift.
James stayed silent behind me, only muttering a quiet “Good read” as we circled at the right angle to catch the column of warm air.
But my heart beat harder now: not from the flight, but from what came next—the landing.
I could already feel the muscle memory tighten.
My last landing ended with medics and sirens and a cracked glider, and my soul within it.
That memory always lived just beneath the skin.
Inevitably, the ground began to rise to meet us.
“Talk me through it,” James said, calm as a held breath.
“Airfield in sight. Check wind direction.” I adjusted my course slightly to the left, toward the wide gravel runway, letting the glider slowly lose altitude. “Speed within range. Final approach initiated. Flaps deployed. Echo and Phoenix are about to land.”
“Good.”
I adjusted the glide path, shallow and clean, my eyes scanning carefully: terrain, angle, airspeed. The instruments matched the feel. I whispered each checklist step like a mantra, holding my nerve steady. The runway drew closer and closer still.
“Hold it…” James said behind me, calming me down.
The central wheel touched down first, a muted thump.
Then the tail. I pulled back on the stick, gently.
The glider slowed without protest, rolling out into the grass just beyond the gravel.
The silence afterward was almost sacred.
James clapped once, then again, both hands on my shoulders.
“Good job, Alicia, everything by the book. Congratulations, it must have been nerve-wracking!”
I laughed, an adrenaline-infused laughter that burst out of me like a release valve. “I landed, James.”
“You always land,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when. Want to grab a coffee? It’s still cold out.”
The conversation was smooth and effortless.
After we talked for what must have been two hours, discussing everything from his plans to become an airline pilot and move to Vancouver to my plans to finally live by myself, Tommo, airfield updates, and pasta recipes, I opened my phone and typed one message.
Me:
Flew today. Didn’t crash. Thought you’d want to know.
Message received and read, but no reply. And that was okay. I pocketed my phone, looking out at the hangar, the open sky, and the glider I’d flown with James. The wind tugged at my jacket, but I didn’t flinch. And for once, the ground beneath me felt just as right as the air above.
Not everything that falls is meant to shatter, in the end.