Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’ve been living on highways, living in lost days
Living on fast lanes, on my way home.
I’ve been living with heartache, broken bottles, and mistakes
Trying to make it all go away, trying not to call.
Sometimes, it’s a hard time, being new.
—“Being New,” from One Night Only, by Rhett Auburn
Chapter Twenty-Seven
If anyone expected a Wolf of Wall Street–style plane party on our nine-hour flight from New York to Rome, they’d be sorely disappointed.
After a four AM wake-up, a turbulence-ridden flight to JFK, and a thirty-minute layover in which Norbert nearly had a heart attack when he thought we lost Addison, everyone else fell fast asleep.
Except me. In fact, I’ve never been more awake. Next to me, Monica lets out a rumbling snore from behind her sleep mask. Every nerve in my body is prickling, reminding me how close to death I am. At any moment the plane could combust or crash or the pilot could lose control or—
A hand comes down on the seatback in front of me, and I look up at the person attached to it. “You okay?” Rhett asks.
My mouth gapes open and it takes me a few seconds to close it.
What was I thinking about? Oh right. Death.
“Not … amazing?” I’m hesitant to lay it all out to him, but the words just keep spewing.
“I wish I could sleep, or listen to music or … I don’t know, do anything except wonder what altitude we’ll be at when the engine stops working—oh no.
” I grab the armrests as the plane shudders.
“Everyone, please, take your seats,” the pilot says over the intercom. “We’re experiencing a bit of turbulence, but we should be through it in a few minutes.”
My stomach burns and acid licks the back of my throat. I lurch out of my seat and push past Rhett down the aisle before careening into the tiny bathroom. I don’t stop moving until I lock the door and start heaving up my guts into the toilet.
Someone bangs on the door, but I ignore them.
Shaking from head to toe, I grip the sink as I grimace at myself in the mirror.
I flush the toilet, cover my ears so I don’t have to hear the unnaturally loud pressurized noise, and wipe the sweat from my pale forehead.
Whoever was outside seems to have given up, so after rinsing my mouth out, careful not to swallow any of the plane water, I open the door.
Rhett is standing outside and nearly falls into the bathroom as the door opens. He slams it shut behind him.
“Are you okay?”
“I—yeah, I just threw up a little,” I mumble.
He sweeps his eyes over my face, presses the backs of his fingers to my cheek. The plane lurches again and he grabs my hip to keep me upright. In this tiny bathroom, there isn’t more than an inch between us. I’m sure my breath smells disgusting, but he leans in and brushes his lips over my ear.
“We’ll be there soon,” he whispers.
My knees go weak at his touch, his voice, even though this is a blatant lie—according to my seatback monitor, there were still five hours and thirteen minutes left when I got up. I wish I was as good at lying to myself as I am at lying to other people.
“What if we crash?” I half-whisper. “What if we have an emergency landing or have to do that position where you brace for impact, or—” I break off as an even more horrible thought occurs to me. “What if we fall in the water and I’m eaten by a shark?”
Rhett’s mouth twitches as he tries valiantly not to laugh. “We’re not going to—”
My vision tunnels and now all I can see is an image of myself plunging into the depths of the Atlantic. All for what? So I could maybe get a job?
“I can’t die like this,” I gasp, clutching at my throat. My chest squeezes tight with panic. “Why did I ever agree to this?”
“To being on reality TV?” he asks. “I ask myself that every day.”
“No…” I hesitate. My mind is racing. If I tell him, I’m risking everything.
But he’s here, with me, in an airplane bathroom that probably smells like death.
He’s helped me and saved me and covered for me time and time again—don’t I owe him a little honesty?
“I only agreed to come here for a job. My friend hired me to write an exposé on Love Shack—as Gracie Hart. And I agreed to do it because … I don’t even know now.
” I put a hand to my forehead, as if trying to keep the panicked thoughts from escaping.
I glance at Rhett, but his face is impassive. “You don’t seem surprised.”
His lips twitch again like he’s trying not to smirk. “I had my suspicions,” he says finally. “You’re not exactly the reality TV type.”
“Hey!” I swat his arm, but then the plane lurches again, and I end up holding on for dear life.
I try to remember the me of last year, even the me of six months ago, throwing herself headfirst into every work opportunity that came up just to get that goddamn country singer out of her mind.
The me that dodged calls from my mom and woke up every half hour to give my cat-of-the-month his medication.
The me that was foolish enough to think I could survive this show.
“It’s my dream job,” I whisper. I don’t even know if he can hear me over the rumbling of the engine. “She promised she’d hire me as a full-time music journalist if I did this. Most magazines don’t really hire for that anymore, it’s all freelance or contract or—”
“Georgia,” he cuts me off, placing a hand on my waist. Shut up, I tell myself.
He doesn’t want to hear me rant about layoffs or the gig economy.
I shouldn’t have said anything to begin with.
But isn’t there a saying about airplane bathrooms?
What happens in an airplane bathroom stays there?
Or maybe I’m thinking of the mile high club …
“Georgia,” he says again. “Look at me.” His fingers flex over the slice of skin between my T-shirt and leggings.
I pull my eyes to his face. Airplane bathroom lighting must be the worst in the world, but somehow, he still looks good, the bluish tint making him more mysterious and less alien like me.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says.
“Please don’t tell,” I whisper. My panic is clearing, but now alarm bells are ringing in my head over what I’ve just told him.
“I won’t,” he promises. “You know I wouldn’t do that.” And I do. At long last, I think I trust him. If only I could say the same for myself. “But you don’t want to be in Lainey’s way. Trust me, I’d know.”
“So she did leak the information about your arrest?”
His forehead creases. “She denied it, but I wasn’t expecting her to be honest. I don’t think she knows you were with me in Nashville, but if you’re going to stay on the show, you have to be careful.” He looks at me, his eyes serious. “Are you going to stay?”
My lips part as I nod, bracing myself for the impact of my admission. “Is that okay?” I whisper.
He sets his jaw, then smiles. “You don’t need my permission.”
I let out a breath, suddenly hyperaware of his fingers on my waist. He steps back, releasing me, pulls something out of his front pocket and places it in my hand.
“I should get back to my seat.” With a swift half-smile, he turns and exits the tiny bathroom.
I open my palm and find a small white earbud.
After glancing around to make sure that nobody saw us together, I sneak back to my seat and sink down.
A few rows ahead, past the filmy curtain separating us and them, Rhett sits back down, his boot propped on the seat in front of him.
He pulls something out of his pocket and reaches up to his ear, then leans back in his seat.
I put the Bluetooth earbud in my ear and let my hair down to hide it.
At first, I think it’s not working, but then I see Rhett pull a device out of his pocket, and music starts up in my right ear.
It feels lopsided, the way listening to music in one ear always does, but I close my eyes and let it tunnel into my head.
It’s like hot tea after a cold day, holding hands after isolation.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed music until it was coursing through me like a drug.
The instrumental acoustic intro ends, and the first verse starts up.
My eyes fly open. Is this—is Rhett seriously listening to his own music right now? His ego wouldn’t fit in the plane’s cargo hold.
But there’s something wrong with it—he keeps singing the same line over again, then starting at the beginning.
When he finally gets to the chorus, I understand.
I’m listening to a demo tape. I peek past the curtain again and see him run a hand over his jeans-clad knee, fingers flexing on the fabric.
I shudder as his voice reaches an all-time sad-boy pitch before spiraling down into his lowest register, gravelly and deep.
The first demo ends, and the next track is a complete song, no pauses or do-overs.
Again, it’s acoustic, just Rhett and his guitar.
My eyelids get heavier, fluttering closed.
I want to stay awake and listen to everything, but before I can fight it, I feel a heavy pull behind my eyes and exhaustion drags me into darkness.
Sailboats flit in and out of view from my windowsill perch. I stretch my arms and climb down to explore the goody bag I was too tired to look at when we arrived yesterday.
The final flight from Rome to Palermo was a harrowing sixty-seven minutes in which turbolenza! was shouted over the loudspeakers almost as many times.
The logo of the luxury hotel we’re staying at is printed on the side of the large paper bag on my bed.
Mint-green tissue paper crinkles as I pull out an expensive-looking set of Italian lingerie.
I wrinkle my nose at the thought of the producers picking it out for me.
Next up is a bottle of fancy Italian wine that I set on top of the dresser.