I suck in another breath, still holding the cup with both hands. I’ve leaned as far as I can without toppling into the lap of the aisle seat passenger. I keep both hands on the cup, even though letting one go would extend my reach. Not with a squirming baby in the way.
The second the man takes the coffee, I hold my breath until the cup is safely set on his tray table. Then I grip the cart’s handle and force out a series of exhales.
“Meg, can you grab me another cranberry cocktail?” Selina asks with a pointed glance.
“Of course.” I spin on my heel and use the trip down the aisle to our storage in the back to force oxygen into my lungs. By the time I return, Selina has served the rest of that row.
“Thanks,” she says as I hand her the bottle of juice she didn’t need.
I manage a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Dillingham, Alaska, is like many small estuary towns north of the Aleutians. Flat and pocketed by vast tracts of spongy tundra. From the air, it looks like green swiss cheese for miles, until the abrupt relief of giant mountains to the north and east. Most people have a boat or float plane as a second vehicle because it’s mostly a roadless area thanks to the terrain.
Normally, we do a quick turnaround, but due to anotherweather system, our departure gets delayed. Though not fun, delays are routine. But it means my FaceTime with Greta in two hours is in jeopardy.
As if this day could test my capacity any more than it already has. We wait in the tiny crew lounge, most of us separating for some solo recharge time. But Russel, Eric, and Selina sit at a table by the big window, sending me the occasional odd look. Does Selina know about my mistake?
After that awful flight, because nobody knew what had happened in San Diego, my boss called Russel and spilled every last detail to him. Thinking it would allow him to support me through the forced leave of absence and investigation.
Jesus, Meg. Get your head on straight. We can’t be causing harm to our passengers. It’s the crew’s responsibility to keep passengers safe. You were trained better than that.
I check the time again, then decide to text Greta. The internet up here is fickle, but I have two bars.
MEG:
Looks like a delay will put me in the air when we are supposed to FaceTime. Any chance you’re free now?
My corner of this tiny lounge isn’t exactly private, but I could nip into the bathroom. Or go out into the terminal, find a semi-private corner somewhere.
Message failedflashes on my screen. The tension in my ribs draws tighter. I type a shorter message.
MEG:
Can you talk?
While the little completion bar crawls across the top of the message window, I imagine Linden and Greta hanging outtogether. Are they taking an evening swim? Is Greta practicing her dance one last time before bed? Are they sleeping outside again tonight?
This morning, Linden was sort of adorable, stopping in to say goodbye. Even though he didn’t say much, I’ve been carrying the memory of his body’s warmth against mine since I walked out the door. I miss him. I miss the way he holds me, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. The intense way he looks at me. Talks to me. I spin the bracelet on my wrist.
Is that your way of saying you need to be fucked, sweetheart?
I want to watch that pretty mouth of yours.
That’s my good girl.
Whatever this is between us, I want more of it.
Is this the beginning of something, or have we reached our peak of potential already? I think back to the party and Annaleise’s warning.He’s emotionally unavailable. I think she has it wrong. Linden might seem closed off, even aloof, but given what he’s experienced, can anyone blame him? Yet with me, he’s careful. A little guarded, maybe. But not unavailable. More like a slow drip.
A part of me wants to call him. Even if only to hear his voice. But I’m keyed up after that inbound flight and the memories it stirred up. Would he notice?
I’m definitely overthinking this.
Maybe it’s better to text him. I could explain my delay so he can share with Greta, but that feels cringy. He’s not my messenger. And it’s not like a text to Linden will reach Finn River any easier than the ones in the queue for Greta. The problem is on my end and Dillingham’s unreliable signal.
I check my phone again.Message failed to send.
Shit. Rubbing my temples to center myself, I make a plan to try again later, when the signal is stronger. And I’ll text Linden too—something light. He asked about Alaska. Maybe I’ll snap a picture of the mountains when we flyover them.
