Chapter 9 #2
He waited until the hum of the engines rose before exhaling a beleaguered sounding breath and breaking our standoff silence.
“Look. I took you there for two reasons. First, I remembered that you and Mrs. Boone had a special relationship, that she was especially kind to you, of comfort, that year your father left your mom. Every time I see her, she asks about you. I swear, I honestly didn’t know about her husband retiring and kids working for Weston.
Nor did I know that the pension fund at Weston isn’t protected. ”
I mostly believed him, but I refused to show it yet. “You had no idea her entire family works for Weston?”
He didn’t blink. “Admittedly, I knew her husband did. But it had nothing to do with my decision to make the preschool and her classroom our first stop today. I didn’t bring it up, and I had no idea she would either.”
I thought back to the hallway, to the yellow room, to the way Mrs. Boone’s face had lit up when she saw me. My heart panged in my chest all over again.
Stupid heart. It had become a real nuisance recently.
Sitting with this information for a beat, I ultimately admitted it was the truth. “Fine. Then what is the second reason?”
Inhaling deeply, eyes on mine, he said, “The mistletoe.”
I felt a crack in my frown. “The mistletoe? The one by the entrance?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t understand. “You’re saying you took me to our old preschool because you—what?— knew a bough of mistletoe hung in front of the entrance? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes.” Alaric leaned an elbow on his seat’s armrest. Lifting his palm, he rested his chin on his thumb, his first and middle fingers along his cheek, and his ring and pinky curling forward, relaxed and unused.
This new posture and position gave him the air of someone who was settling in, expecting to spend a good deal of time watching a particularly fascinating show. “That is what I am telling you.”
The plane accelerated, heavy pressure pinning me to the seat—between my ears and behind my eyes, low in my stomach and in my chest—as the jet leapt off the ground and sped upwards.
Yep. It was the pressure of acceleration that caused these feelings in my body. Nothing else.
Alaric seemed to be waiting for me ask something in particular. I had no doubt based on the look in his eyes, how focused and calm he appeared, that he had an answer for me all queued up.
Actually, not only was he waiting, he wanted me to ask. He’d clearly prepared a response.
But with my efficiency gyroscope currently useless, I decided asking or saying anything at the present moment would definitely leave me at a disadvantage.
In any business negotiation, when you are the less prepared party, it is always best to speak as little as possible.
Thus, I said, “Okay, fine.” And that was all I had to say about that.
He smiled. It was small and subtle and his twinkly eyes hadn’t moved from my face. “Don’t you have any follow up questions?”
“No.” I redirected my attention out the window, watching as the aircraft leveled. Completely clearing my mind, I counted my inhales and exhales. My thoughts were too disorderly. I needed a reboot. That’s right, I meditated.
Meditation is awesome. It’s free, you do it by yourself, and it’s more effective than a day at the spa for lowering blood pressure and mitigating the negative impact of stress on the body.
Plus, it’s like taking a vacation from your own brain when it starts working against you. Everyone should learn how to meditate.
Peripherally, I was aware of a chiming in the plane somewhere.
Maybe the seatbelt sign switching off. After an unknown period of time, I allowed my eyes to focus outward.
We’d climbed above the clouds, blue white light filling the cabin.
No longer counting my breaths, I let myself notice more of my environment, watching the world outside the window, shrink and flatten beneath us, everything reduced to blocks of color and the occasional glint of water.
The sky looked the same as always, but there was something about being above everything that made problems feel smaller, solutions more straightforward and possible. Perspective.
I leaned my forehead against the glass, not wanting to look at him or anything else inside his plane, and wished I could just go home to my little apartment. It wasn’t luxurious like, but it felt a good deal safer.
A gentle throat-clear impinged on my quiet time. I turned to find a flight attendant—dark suit, bleach blond hair in a haphazard bun, shirt unfastened to the third button—standing by my seat, holding a tray.
“We have fruit and cheese to start. What would you like to drink?” His accent was pure California, like he’d been born on Long Beach and instead of a baby rattle as a first toy, his parents had given him a surfboard.
I pressed my back against the seat, unnecessarily giving him more room to set the tray on the table even though there was plenty of space already.
The arranged fruit was so garishly bright with color, it hurt my eyes.
Fresh fruit was expensive, especially during the winter in Chicago.
Most people waste so much money on fresh fruit when they could buy it frozen for half the pric—
Wait a minute!
Is my efficiency gyroscope back?
Had I truly just rebooted it by meditating?
I glanced at the tray of cheese. The slices had been arranged in a beautiful and complicated geometric pattern.
A complete waste of time since it will eventually end up in our stomachs and no one will remember someone took the time to make cheese pretty.
A sigh of relief left me and I sagged back in my seat, allowing myself a small smile.
“Ms. Weston?”
I glanced up. Both the dude from California and Alaric were watching me with expectant eyes.
“I’m sorry. What was that? Could you repeat the question?”
“What do you want to drink?” The attendant repeated, adding, “We have, like, almost everything. Like, basically anything you could want.”
Feeling more like myself, I said, “Just water, please. No ice, no lemon,” with zero hesitation, because humans shouldn’t be drinking anything except water. Granted, coffee was also acceptable on occasion, but it should be black and absent any flavoring or unnecessary oils.
The flight attendant nodded, “Sure thing.” He then looked at Alaric. “What can I get you, Mr. Jordan?”
“I’ll have water, but also I’ll take the hot chocolate we picked up from Switzerland,” he said. “And three marshmallows.”
I stared, nonplussed. “Hot chocolate?”
“What?” He seemed a little defensive. “I wanted some earlier when the kids were having it, but there wasn’t any left. So . . . I’ll have it now.”
He was right. The preschoolers had crowded around the cocoa station.
In the moment— making the ornaments, being back in that classroom with Mrs. Boone, surrounded by the handmade crafts and listening to the soft, relaxing piano renditions of Christmas classics—I’d also wanted some hot chocolate.
It had been so reminiscent of a truly happy time for me, I hadn’t been thinking about efficiency or cost or the impact of refined sugar on my insulin levels, I’d simply been enjoying myself.
However, I’d deliberately passed on the treat, wanting to ensure there was enough for all the kids and teachers.
Looking at Alaric now, I considered the possibility that he’d done the same.
He must’ve detected some flicker of emotion on my face, because his tone sounded both careful and gentle as he asked, “Do you want hot chocolate now?”
I frowned, suddenly unsure how to answer. Or what I wanted.
Alaric watched my struggle for a beat, then turned to the attendant and said, “Please also bring hot chocolate for Ms. Weston. Marshmallows on the side.”
I did not contradict him. And when it arrived, I drank it. But I didn’t add any marshmallows. No one actually needs the marshmallows.