Mason produces a bottle of water from somewhere—the man’s like Mary Poppins with that messenger bag—and presses it into Phoenix’s hands. “Drink this.”
“Is it vodka?”
“It’s water.”
“Then no.”
“Phoenix—”
“I almost died stone-cold sober, Mason. I deserve vodka. I deserve all the vodka. I deserve to bathe in every drop of liquor on this plane like some kind of pickled Cleopatra.”
Her flair for the dramatic is charming, but I’m more than a little worried her head is going to pop off if she doesn’t calm down.
The pilot chooses that moment to emerge from the cockpit, looking haggard but professional. He’s got that particular brand of silver fox appeal that must make all the flight attendants flutter, but right now he just looks exhausted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize again for the rough landing. We experienced a complete failure of our starboard engine about forty minutes into the flight. While the aircraft is perfectly capable of flying on one engine, protocol demanded we divert to the nearest suitable airfield.”
“Suitable?” Phoenix’s voice climbs an octave. “This place looks like where planes go to die.”
She’s not wrong. Through the window, I can see we’re on what appears to be the world’s most depressing airstrip. There’s a single hangar that might have been white sometime during the Clinton administration, a few rusted fuel trucks, and what looks like a graveyard of small aircraft in various states of decomposition.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask.
“Coastal Maine. About two hours north of Portland.” The captain straightens his tie, trying to project authority despite the fact that we all just experienced what I’m pretty sure qualifies as a near-death experience. “The good news is, the airline is already arranging alternative transportation. We should have another aircraft here by tomorrow morning to continue to Montreal.”
“No.”
Everyone turns to look at Phoenix.
“Absolutely not. Never. Not happening.” She stands, wobbling slightly, whether from the Xanax or adrenaline crash, I can’t tell. “I am never getting on another plane again. Ever. I’ll walk to Montreal. I’ll swim to London. I’ll dig a tunnel to Paris with my bare hands if I have to, but I am done with flying.”
“Phoenix, be reasonable—” Mason starts, but Phoenix whirls on him.
“Reasonable? We almost died! The engine exploded?—”
“Failed,” the captain corrects. “Not exploded.”
“—and you want me to just hop on another death trap tomorrow morning like nothing happened?” Phoenix laughs, high and slightly hysterical. “Fuck that. Fuck this. Fuck planes. Fuck the Wright Brothers for inventing them.”
“Miss Riviera, I understand you’re upset?—“
“Upset?” Phoenix’s voice could shatter glass. “I’m not upset. Upset is when they put 2% instead of the oat milk you ordered in your latte. Upset is when your favorite show gets canceled. This? This is trauma. This is PTSD. This is?—“
“This is completely understandable,” Mason interrupts smoothly, standing and placing himself between Phoenix and everyone else. “Captain Morrison, what are our immediate options for tonight? I assume we can’t stay on the plane.”
The captain shifts uncomfortably. “Well, there’s a small bed and breakfast about twenty minutes from here. The airline will cover accommodations, of course.”
“As long as it’s on solid ground, I don’t care if it’s a cardboard box,” Phoenix declares.
“I’ll need to stay here with the aircraft,” the captain continues. “There’s a small pilot’s suite in the hangar. But I can arrange for transportation for the rest of you. One of the mechanics offered to give you a ride into town.”
The flight attendant, whose name I never caught, pipes up, “Ms. Gerber is still bleeding and appears to have a concussion. She needs to be checked out at the hospital.”
Phoenix’s expression turns horrified. “Oh my God, Steph. Are you okay?”
Stephanie limply waves her hand in a shooing gesture.
“She’ll be fine,” the flight attendant assures with a tight smile. “We’ll arrange for an ambulance, but the rest of you should probably be on your way. The truck is already warmed up outside.”
