"Maybe pack some nice clothes. Just in case it's not a Dateline episode."
We spend the next hour going through my closet, which is depressing because I own approximately three outfits that aren't coffee-stained or workout clothes. Chloe makes a list of things I need to buy, then revises it when I remind her I just spent all my money paying off debt.
"The check might have covered your bills," she says, "but you're still broke."
"Story of my life."
She leaves around noon with another hug and a reminder to text her the moment I land. After she's gone, I sit at my laptop and stare at the blog post I started earlier.
I delete it and write something else instead.
Sometimes the only way forward is through the unknown. Sometimes you have to jump and hope someone catches you.
I'm jumping.
God help me, I'm jumping.
I post it before I can change my mind.
Three days later, I'm standing in Logan Airport with my terrible suitcase and a first-class ticket to Los Angeles. Mymother called this morning to beg me not to take on more debt. I told her I was visiting Chloe's family in Connecticut.
The lies are piling up.
The gate agent looks at my ticket and her eyebrows rise. She doesn’t say it out loud but I can feel her thinking,First class? Lucky you.
I board the plane and sink into a leather seat that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Another flight attendant offers me champagne. I take it because I need something to calm my nerves.
As the plane takes off, I watch Boston disappear below me and wonder if I'm flying toward answers or just toward a different kind of drowning. Either way, there's no turning back now. The decision is made, the wheels are in motion, and whatever waits for me in Malibu will either save me or destroy me. I just have to hope I'm strong enough to handle whichever one it turns out to be.
7
JADE
The plane descends through a layer of clouds, and Los Angeles spreads out below me like a circuit board of lights and highways. I've never been to California before. Never been anywhere, really, except Boston.
My phone buzzes with another text from Chloe.
Please tell me you're not actually doing this.
I type back:Plane is landing. Too late to turn back now.
That's not funny. Text me the second you're on the ground. And I mean the SECOND.
I will. Promise.
The flight attendant who's been checking on me every twenty minutes appears again, all perfect makeup and concerned smile. "Can I get you anything else before we land, Ms. Catalano?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
I'm not fine. My hands are shaking and my stomach feels like I swallowed broken glass. But the champagne helped, and the meal they served on actual china plates helped, and the leather seat that reclines into a bed helped. For six hours, I got to pretend I'm the kind of person who flies first class, who belongs in spaces this expensive.
Now I have to face whoever paid for it.
The wheels touch down with a bump that makes my heart race. Los Angeles International Airport is massive, all soaring ceilings and crowds of people moving with purpose. I follow the signs to baggage claim, my terrible suitcase feeling even more inadequate in a place this polished.
A man in a black suit holds a sign with my full name on it. It’s not handwritten, but printed in crisp letters.
"Ms. Catalano?" He's middle-aged, professional, with the kind of neutral expression that comes from years of not asking questions. "I'm Robert. I'll be driving you to Malibu."
