Atticus snorts, but his expression switches to a sympathetic frown when Stephanie glares at him.
She reaches for her laptop, typing something. “The good news is that the studio was surprisingly understanding about the heat situation. Being outwardly sympathetic to omega medical emergencies is just a good PR move these days.”
“That’s… good?” I venture.
“It’s excellent. It means the European leg of the press tour has been postponed rather than cancelled outright.” She turns the laptop toward us, showing a revised calendar that makes my head spin. “New dates start early next week. Which means you need to be on a plane out of here in the next four days.”
Four days.
The thought of getting back on a plane makes my lungs constrict.
“Phoenix?” Atticus’s voice, gentle and concerned.
I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
“It’s fine,” I manage, though the words come out thin and reedy. “We have to leave eventually, right?”
I don’t have the right to freak out right now, I remind myself. For Christ’s sake, I’m standing in front of someone whoactuallyalmost died on a plane and I’m the one about to have a panic attack? Pathetic.
Stephanie’s expression softens ever so slightly. Her mouth opens, but before she can say anything there is a soft knock on the door.
“Ms. Gerber?” A woman in her thirties stands in the doorway, wearing a hospital badge and a kind, professionally warm expression. “I’m Melanie, one of the social workers onstaff. I just wanted to check in and make sure you don’t need any additional support.”
“I’m great,” Stephanie drawls. “Unless you can support me in getting out of here today.”
Melanie’s lip quirks in a smile. “I’d heard from the nurses that you’re eager for discharge. That’s not my call, but I’ll see what I can do to help things along.”
Stephanie returns to her laptop with a sniff, fingers moving a mile a minute. “I would very much appreciate that. The food here is terrible.”
With a chuckle, the social worker turns to leave.
Mason stops her.
“Wait.” His voice is rough from disuse, the first words he’s spoken since we left the house.”Phoenix, maybe you should talk to her.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
Mason pulls off his sunglasses and levels me with bloodshot eyes. “You’ve been dealing with this flight anxiety for years. Talking about it with someone might help.”
Melanie brightens. “I’d be happy to chat with you.”
“I don’t need that.”
Mason shifts closer to me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You induced a heat to avoid getting on a plane.”
“That’s not?—“
“Please do this,” he whispers. “For me.”
If a bottomless pit opened up right in front of me, I would probably jump into it headfirst.
When I glance at Melanie, she gives me a gentle smile.
“Fine,” I hear myself say, already regretting it.
The room Melanie leads me to is small and aggressively beige.
The walls are that particular shade of institutional off-white that’s supposed to be calming but mostly just feels like someone couldn’t be bothered to choose an actual color. Framed prints of abstract art hang at precise intervals, blobs of blue and green that are probably meant to evoke nature or tranquility or something equally therapeutic. A small table sits in the center of the room, flanked by two chairs that look like they were purchased from an office supply catalog circa 1997.
