Chapter 2 #3
Taking his hand, I’m briefly distracted by its warmth and softness.
It’s sturdy and firm, but not overwhelming.
“I'm sorry. I didn’t mean…” Struggling to find words through my embarrassment.
“I’m more into painting,” I try to explain.
“Impressionism, specifically. It’s what I studied at Berkeley and. .. Am I rambling?”
Drew smirks, our hands still joined. I look down and let go after a second.
“My name is Cameron. Cameron Hayes.”
“Well, it’s always nice to meet an honest critic,” he replies, taking another two flutes from a server and handing one to me.
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t know where to begin in critiquing a picture.”
“Well, it’s not a picture,” Drew remarks, taking a sip. “It’s a portrait.”
“Wouldn’t one of those be a portrait?” I ask, genuinely curious, gesturing with my chin to a black-and-white portrait of a Cambodian woman carrying her baby.
“Well, yeah, that is technically right. But may I?” he asks as he steps behind me, lifting my hand to different areas of the stalls.
I’m acutely aware of his sturdy frame, and I feel his heat like electricity.
He explains his thoughts on the lives of the vendors and patrons.
How the lighting was just perfect here, and somewhat imperfect here.
“I tried to capture the face of Bangkok.”
Drew lowers my hand slowly and steps back to my side. Our eyes meet, and for a long moment, the noise of the surrounding gallery fades. My mind is swamped with thoughts and reflection of what just happened on this rooftop, and I decide I don’t want it to end.
“You’re good at that, you know. Talking about your work.” I try to flirt. “Tell me about your other pictures. I mean,” I correct myself, “portraits.”
“Gladly.” Drew smiles, winking. “It’s easy with someone who actually listens.”
Two hours, and a few glasses of champagne later, we made it full circle. Drew stops only to exchange necessary pleasantries with his agent and potential buyers, introducing me to avoid any awkwardness. But honestly, I couldn’t care less about awkwardly standing by his side, watching him interact.
I glance back at the photographs and portraits with fresh eyes. “Thank you for showing me your work. It’s… different from what I expected. In a good way.”
He grins and leans closer. “Thank you for letting me. Not everyone sees it the way I hope they will.”
My heart is skipping, and a smile spreads across my lips.
“Excuse me, but I think I need to find my friend,” I murmur before I retreat into the crowd.
I find my way to the sales desk where I purchase ‘Vibrant Market’ without hesitation.
When the clerk hands me the receipt, I grab a pen and scribble my number on the back, my pulse pounding.
Riley sees me and loops her arm through mine, and we wander through the crowd, spotting Drew. We make our way over and I extend the receipt to him with a flirtatious smile. “For the print,” I say with a steady voice, winking as I do.
Drew takes it and glances at the back, lifting his eyebrows when he reads the number scrawled on the back in bold ink. When he looks back at me, his expression is soft, a little unreadable, but undeniably warm.
“I guess you’re a fan after all,” he teases, his lips curving into a mischievous smile, blue eyes twinkling.
I chuckle at my confidence that has been bolstered by Drew’s reaction. “I’ll let you know how it looks on my wall.”
Riley and I turn to leave, and I catch Drew's eyes one last time over my shoulder.
We stand and study ‘Vibrant Market’, our arms around each other.
“Thank you,” I began. Toast pops from the toaster on the counter behind us. “Thank you for dragging me out that night. You were right, I loved it.”
“I told you.” She pokes me in the ribs. “I’m rarely wrong.”
“Whoa, that’s debatable…” But my voice trails off, because from the living room, a news anchor's voice has drifted into the kitchen.
“…the NTSB has released its final report on the crash of Celestial Airlines flight twenty-five, which went down last June over the Pacific, tragically killing everyone onboard.”
“Cam,” Riley whispers. It’s a silent plea as she follows me to the couch as I raise the volume.
“…initial reports suggested everything from pilot error to terrorism.”
We both watch the TV screen as footage of the debris field flashes from air to sea.
Seat cushions, baggage, and a semi-inflated raft.
Only a few bodies had been pulled from the water, none of them in life vests, which indicated there was no time to prepare.
What had happened had come as a terrible surprise and shock.
A sea of mangled fuselage bobbed on the waves, contorted from impact and tangled in cables and wires.
The most poignant image though, was the tail fin of the A350-1000 being winched from the water by a salvage ship’s crane; the Celestial Airlines logo, a polished North Star at its center, encased with a circular outline resembling the horizon with latitude and longitude lines bursting from the star.
“…We now go live to our Travel Correspondent, Monique Wilks, who’s reporting live from the Celestial SkyPort at JFK Airport. Monique.”
“Good morning, Ethan. Here at the SkyPort it’s business as usual, with passengers arriving and departing in troves during this busy summer travel season.
We had a moment to review some of the findings from the NTSB, and it’s important to note that pilot error and terrorism have been officially ruled out… ”
“Thank god,” sighs Riley, putting a hand on my thigh and grabbing my hand with the other.
“…but not mechanical failure,” the reporter continued.
I sink back into the sofa and I want to disappear into it.
“The NTSB has determined that microscopic metal fatigue caused the explosive decompression which resulted in the destruction of flight twenty-five, stating quote ‘a freak accident that could not have been predicted.’”
“I feel sick,” I murmur, and I cover my face with my hands. “You know these planes fly constantly.” I stress the last word. “Of course no one could have prevented it.”
“The NTSB has issued guidance that all airlines inspect their fleets regularly for fuselage stress, across all aircraft models flown…”
“Check the fleet?” I ask frustratedly to no one in particular, speaking over the TV.
“…and of course Celestial Airlines has fully cooperated with the investigation.
As we know, this disaster was magnified by the airline's impeccable safety record. Celestial additionally released a statement just this morning: ‘We are relieved that the NTSB has found no foul play or human error involved in the disaster of flight twenty-five. And we can now confidently say that our crew onboard did everything in their power to avert disaster. All of us at our Celestial Family hope that the families and loved ones of those onboard can now find closure and peace.’”
“Closure and peace,” I cry, lifting my head from my hands to look at the screen. “That’s it?”
“I know,” Riley empathizes. “It's like saying thoughts and prayers.”
“…reporting live from JFK airport. Back to you—”
I turn off the TV and catch my reaction on the dark screen.
We sit silently for a few moments. The only noise came from the sound of the city outside. Riley speaks finally.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” she begins, her voice soft. “Because I know that you’re not.”
I’m motionless, my head hanging low.
“But I, for one, am glad that there’s not a mystery to it anymore.”
I go stiff, my body rigid with tension. Before I realize it, I’m standing and abruptly walking toward the wall. Photos of me and Drew, his projects, hang in mismatched frames, staring back at me like reminders of a life that I’d never return to. A life that had been stolen.
“What do you mean?” I hiss in defense and frustration.
“You have to admit.” Riley’s tone is steady, but laced with compassion. “There’s a level of closure now. I mean, there’s no more ‘what if’ hanging over our heads. Right?”
“There is, though!” I’m shouting now, the words cutting through the air and I sense my best friend jump. I turn to face her, my face twisting in pain. “There is a ‘what if’ though! I ask what if every day, and every night I dream I’m on that plane—”
“Cam, I didn’t—”
“Let me finish! Please!” My voice trembles with the weight of what I need to say. I take a slow, shaky breath. “I killed him.”
Riley sits there shocked at my statement, confusion on her face.
“It’s my fault,” I explain. “It’s my fault because I convinced him to take the later flight because I knew he’d get a Business Class seat. Drew wouldn’t be gone if it wasn’t for me. And if I had gone with him, he wouldn’t have been alone. And I wouldn’t be alone now.”
Tears are flooding my eyes, and I wipe them away angrily, as if the action could erase the ache in my chest.
“Every night since it happened, I dream I’m on that plane, but I’m not there.
” My voice raw with emotion. “I see it through his eyes! I see the explosion! I see the chaos and the carnage! I see the fear! I see him falling through the sky, I see the ocean approaching, and then…” I trail off, emotion washing over me as I slide down the wall to the floor.
“Last night… I heard him scream. And he screamed my name.”
Riley’s breath hitches, and she wipes a tear from her own cheek.
“He screamed my name,” I choke through sobs. “Just before he hit the water. Then I woke up, and I remembered I wasn’t there for him. I was sick on the couch, right there… right where you’re sitting.”
The silence between us is heavy, like all the air in the apartment had thickened and held on to all the emotions that had been buried.
When I finally look up at Riley, she's looking back at me, absorbing and processing what just happened.
I feel so raw and exposed, but somehow I feel lighter. Like part of me has been freed.
“Tomorrow is a year, Riley,” my voice barely whispers. “A year.”
“I know.” She gets up off the couch and kneels next to me on the floor, enveloping me in a tight embrace.
Riley pulls back and gently cups my face in her soft hands, her eyes searching mine.
“Cam, I see you. And I feel you. And I need you to know that you’re heard, and your feelings are valid.
” She takes a deep breath. “I had no idea you carried all this… this guilt with you. But babe, it’s not your fault.
You. Did. Not. Kill. Drew.” She strings out matter-of-factly.
“I—” my words begin coming out in a rush, but Riley gently silences me.
“Listen to me,” she says firmly. She locks eyes with me and places her forehead against mine, willing me to hear every word. “You did not cause this. Okay?”
I let my head drop, the weight of her words sinking deep into me. Slowly, knots of guilt begin to unravel within my soul. All I do is shake my head in silent acceptance, letting tears slide down my flushed cheek, and I finally allow myself to absorb what she said.
“I’m really grateful for you, Riley. I am.”
“Me too,” she says as she stands, her voice sincere. “Now go outside, and take your run. You need some fresh air.”
I nod, the weight of our conversation still lingers on my chest, but I meant what I said. I am grateful for her. I grab my phone, wallet, headphones, and keys and sit down to lace up my shoes. Riley walks past, holding a plate of cold toast.
“Be safe,” she says, taking a bite, her tone turning serious. “And I know you’re hurting, but don’t make me say this again.”
I look up at her, waiting.
“Don’t ever yell at me like that again. I’ll support you for eternity, but don’t treat me as a punching bag. Kay?”
I pause, then shake my head slowly, feeling the sting of my own outburst. “Yeah,” I agree. “I won’t.”
“Good.” Her smile softens. “We’re good. Now, go clear your head.”