Chapter 4 #2
Patrick turned back to his office, and I watched him go, the familiar sting of invisibility tightening around my chest. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, not when I had worked so hard, sacrificed so much to get here.
Alyssa wasn’t just playing her part in the company anymore.
She was playing a deeper game, one that made my skin crawl.
And I was starting to wonder whether Patrick noticed at all.
As I made my way to my desk, my phone buzzed, startling me from my spiraling thoughts.
The sudden vibration cut through the sterile quiet of my office like a tiny earthquake in my palm, making me jump slightly in my leather executive chair.
It was from one of the engineers working on the Eco-Turbine, Deepak Singh, whose late-night dedication almost matched my own.
I hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the notification, half-afraid it was another issue requiring my immediate attention.
But then I remembered Singh’s careful precision, his methodical approach to problems that often matched my own, and felt a flicker of professional comfort cutting through the personal turmoil Alyssa had stirred.
Efficiency data just came back from the latest run. You’re going to want to see this. The numbers are incredible!
A flicker of excitement rose within me, but even that couldn’t break the cloud Alyssa had cast over my day. I stared at the message for a moment, thinking.
Great news. I’ll take a look tomorrow.
But instead of heading to the production floor as I would usually, I hesitated.
Alyssa had already won too much today, and I didn’t feel like playing into her narrative any longer.
Maybe a visit to the museum was what I needed.
It was the one place I could go where my name still meant something, where I could bury myself in work that didn’t have to compete with her constant interference.
I grabbed my keys, slipped my phone into my pocket, and headed out.
The streets of Seattle were gray and damp as always, but I barely noticed.
My mind was a whirl of frustration, confusion, and something that was quickly turning into resentment.
Not just toward Alyssa, but toward Patrick too, for not seeing what I saw.
By the time I reached the museum, the rain was coming down harder.
It was known to rain in Seattle in June, but this was more rain than I was expecting.
The old hangar loomed ahead, its steel frame strong and steadfast against the weather.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil and rust welcoming me.
At least here, things made sense. At least here, my hands could work in ways that didn’t leave me feeling like an outsider.
I headed straight for the restoration bay, my footsteps echoing off the concrete with a rhythmic hollow sound that matched the beat of my heart against my ribs.
The Tin Goose sat under the soft glow of work lights, its corrugated metal surfaces catching the light at odd angles, creating a tapestry of shadows across its disassembled frame.
Still in pieces, still waiting for me to bring it back to life.
The sight of it, even in its disassembled state, calmed the storm inside me, just slightly, the familiar scent of oil and aged metal filling my lungs like a soothing balm to the day’s wounds.
My fingers tingled with the urge to touch its weathered skin, to trace the lines of its riveted panels that had once carried daring adventurers through clouds I could only imagine.
I slipped into my worn overalls and grabbed my toolbox, letting my fingers skim the cool metal handles of the tools I’d spent countless hours gripping.
I could forget Alyssa here, forget Patrick and his blind loyalty to her PR strategies, forget the board and their votes that meant nothing to me outside the walls of this place.
Here, the work was real, tangible, and it was all mine.
As I bent over the engine, wrench in hand, the soft patter of rain on the hangar roof filled the silence.
I was going to finish this restoration, piece by piece, on my own terms, no matter how long it took.
Alyssa might win in the conference rooms, but she wouldn’t win here, not in my world of rusted steel and engines that roared to life under my hands.
And maybe one day, she’d realize that I wasn’t just the quiet, overlooked sister she could push around.
But until then, I had a plane to fix.
I began disassembling the engine block with a determination that made my arms ache, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool air in the hangar.
Every turn of the wrench, every screw removed, felt like reclaiming a part of myself.
Hours passed, marked only by the fading light outside and the deepening ache in my muscles.
I welcomed it, the soreness proof that I was still in control of something, that I could still create, still make something beautiful out of broken parts.
I stopped for a break only once, sitting back on a metal stool, my overalls streaked with grease.
The rain continued to drum on the roof, and I let myself imagine a different version of my life, one where the Ford Trimotor wasn’t left waiting for funds that might never come, where I didn’t have to fight for my own place at the table.
I had thought I had reached that life, married to Patrick, working side by side building Holbrook Aviation into something incredible.
But more and more, it felt like that life was slipping away, and no amount of restored planes could fix that.
A soft vibration in my pocket pulled me out of my thoughts. I pulled out my phone to find another message, this time from Patrick.
Heading home soon. You okay?
I stared at the text, thumb hovering over the keys before replying.
I’m fine. Just working on the Trimotor.
For a moment, I wanted to tell him everything that had gone wrong today, but I stopped myself.
He wouldn’t understand. Or worse, he’d try to smooth it over with some logical explanation I couldn’t accept.
I put the phone away, wiped my hands on a rag, and picked up the wrench again.
There was still more to fix, both here and in the life I was struggling to hold on to.
I leaned over the engine, the smell of metal and fuel wrapping around me like an old, familiar friend.
The work would keep me grounded. At least for tonight, I would not think of Alyssa or her schemes.
I would focus on what mattered, what I knew I could control, one piece at a time.
And maybe tomorrow, things would be clearer. Maybe. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.