James
Never.
A smile creeps over my face as I keep packing my bags.
29
JAMES
Maura flops down on her leather-upholstered seat, a glass of sparkling apple juice in hand.
“I used to judge celebrities for it, but they were right.” She sighs. “Private jet is the only way to travel.”
I chuckle. “And you haven’t even seen the beds yet. Trust me, you’ll never get a better night’s sleep on an international flight.”
“Is this the menu?” She picks up the small ivory booklet on the table in front of her. “There are so many options! It’s like we’re at a restaurant.”
“Just because you sometimes live on granola bars alone doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t have higher standards,” I inform her, opening my phone to check some last minute emails. “I’ve got some work to attend to. You can pick my dinner, as well.”
“Hmm, the granola prepared three ways sounds just up your alley…”
We fall into a companionable silence as I deal with meeting requests for our Athens trip—theAnnie in Athensstar, Caroline Daniels, apparently wants to pitch me a biopic based on herlife, despite being all of 22—and Maura sketches idly in her sketchbook.
I barely look up when the flight attendant approaches and asks us to put on our seatbelts to prepare for take-off. Maura, however, stiffens as she sets down her sketchbook. Once the plane starts taxiing, she grips the armrests so hard, her knuckles turn white.
“Something wrong?” I murmur.
“I'm not a fan of takeoff,” she says. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead, rather than on the window next to her. “Don’t worry about it. I know it’ll be over soon. Just go back to your emails.”
I glance back down at my phone, but the words are a blur I can’t bring myself to focus on. I keep glancing at Maura in my peripheral vision, checking on her strained expression and her tense posture. When the plane picks up speed, the runway rumbling underneath us, her breaths turn short and shallow.
Instinctively, I set my hand over hers. She’s too tense to even take it. She just keeps gripping the armrest like a lifeline while the plane leaves the ground, refusing to release it until we’re well into the air.
“Better?” I ask.
“Sort of.” She pulls her hand out from under mine and reaches for her sketchbook—hopefully a good sign. “I’m sure my nerves will settle once we’re cruising. It’s just the rough parts, you know?”
The flight attendant emerges with a cart of water, whiskey, and sparkling apple juice. She automatically fills our glasses. “If you're ready, I can take your dinner orders now,” she says brightly. “Our captain is anticipating some turbulence in about an hour, so I'd like to get your dinners ready before then, just in case it interrupts service.”
“I’m not that hungry,” Maura says. I frown. Just before takeoff, she was so excited, looking through all the options our airline chef had prepared. Shit, turbulence really bothers her.
“We'll just take some sliced fruit, cheese, and crackers, please,” I say. Hopefully, that'll help Maura settle her stomach.
After the flight attendant leaves, Maura leaves her sketchbook open in front of her. Her pencil lies still in her hand, her gaze fixed in front of her. For now, I won't press her. By now, I know how much she hates being interrogated when she’s feeling vulnerable. Silence is the best thing I can give her.
Once our food arrives, Maura barely picks at it. Despite my weakness for a good French cheese, I don’t find the display too appetizing, either.
The jet’s movements slowly move from smooth to ragged. One particularly rough bump forces me to grab for my glass of whiskey before it tumbles off the table. Maura lets out a muffled sound that I think might be a whimper.
The next time the flight attendant approaches us, the smile on her face is tight. “The pilot has asked me to remain seated until we're through the turbulence,” she says. “So unfortunately, I'll be suspending service for a while.”
I nod. “Of course. Thank you.”
She keeps her hand on the bulkhead for balance as she walks toward the front compartment, but the plane shakes and she almost loses her balance just as she closes the door.
I glance over at my wife. Maura’s eyes are squeezed shut, and I can see a muscle jump in her clenched jaw as she grinds her teeth together. I grab her hand with mine.
“Are you alright?” I murmur.
