He nods. “You can get in the plane.” Then he strides off toward his SUV.
And I’d bet good money he’s going to throw away my offering the second we part ways.
No shrimp in them?Hell, now he probably thinks I’m trying to poison him. And that I’m super bad at it. I huff out a defeated sigh and turn toward the Cessna.
This is a different aircraft from the one we flew in last time. Same model, but this plane is white with orange markings, while the other was painted yellow with green accents that had me thinking of a margarita. Hopefully, knowing I’m in a different airplane will soothe my nerves.
I try not to acknowledge how my hands shake as I climb into the cockpit. Meanwhile, George seems entirely unaffected as he returns and goes through all the steps required to get the plane ready forflight. Me and my shaky hands might as well not be here. He’s focused fully on going down a clipboard of pre-checks.
At any other time, I might be offended by being treated like a piece of furniture. But not today.
Because I need a moment to suppress the panic.
The panic that George was right about.
Damn him for being right.
He unties a set of ropes that anchor the plane to its parking spot just off the runway. The last time I came here, George guided me to a hangar—basically a giant garage for planes—and he used a tow bar to manually roll the margarita aircraft out of the facility. I wonder if it’s in the hangar now, or if they transported it to a mechanic shop.
“Is this your plane?” I ask George when he leans in the doorway to check certain numbers on the dashboard and record them on his clipboard.
“Yes.” He leans closer. “Read me those numbers.” He points to a tiny meter that looks like it’s tracking mileage.
“One thousand eight hundred sixty-two. Is that the Hobbs meter?”
He nods. “We’ll use that to track our flight hours. Which you’d need to know for paying an instructor. And paying for a rental.”
“Do you co-own this plane?” Something about hearing his no-nonsense voice makes it easier to breathe.
“No. But I lease it to the local flight club.”
Ah yes, the flight club. This is not the first I’m hearing about the organization of aircraft enthusiasts associated with the airport. In fact, I found out about the club years ago and called the number I found on their simple website. I’d gotten the voicemail and, being nineteen at the time, may have babbled a bit about why I was calling. But I was excited, hoping to talk to someone who could guide me in my pursuit of a license. I was only looking for some information. Afew days later I got off my shift at Cornfield’s to see I had a voicemail waiting for me.
“I’m calling for a Bethany Lundbird.”Not my name.“The initial cost to join the Northeast Eagles Flight Club is four thousand dollars. Then there are monthly payments close to one fifty. You sound like a nice young girl, but flying planes is serious business. Unless you have the money to spend and the maturity to handle a dangerous vehicle, I suggest you try a different hobby, sweetheart.”
That was the end of the message. And I only had a handful of days to try to process it before we got Mom’s diagnosis.
After that, I didn’t have room in my mind to think about much other than her health and happiness.
I shoved that message to the back of my mind, and I try to do the same now as I focus on George.
“How many planes do you own?” I’m sure he said the one we went down in was also his.
“Three. Two Cessna 172s and a Cirrus SR22.” He makes another note. “I recently bought a Robinson R44 helicopter if you ever want to go up in that.”
As I come to terms with the fact that this man owns four aircraft, he reaches into a bag he placed on the tiny back seat and pulls out a glass cylinder, which he then sticks into a hole on the underside of the wing. Liquid fills it.
The last time I was here, I sat quietly, trying to be unobtrusive, worried that if I bothered George too much—if I reminded him exactly who he was flying with—the guy would make up some excuse about why we couldn’t go.
Now, though, something has shifted. Not that George suddenly likes me. But he pushed for me to come here. To go up in the air with him. Whatever general dislike he has for me, he’s set it aside to give this another try. For loyalty to Shawn, but still.
This is a second chance, and I might as well take advantage of it to learn something.
Also, I really need the distraction, even if it comes in the form of my body purring at the deep notes of his voice.
“What are you doing?”
George pauses in the act of studying the liquid he just removed from the wing. His gray eyes sweep over to meet mine, and I realize he slipped off his sunglasses at some point. Then he holds the container up so I can see the clear—with a slight blue tint—liquid.
