“I don’t like to fly when I’m not working.”
It’s a clear lie, but I’m not entitled to the truth. If she wanted me to have it, she would’ve handed it over. Still, I can’t help but wonder if her change in demeanor has something to do with why Bryan postponed the trip. They were supposed to come in January, but he told me one of the girls was going through something and asked if we could push it back. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask, but there’s a jagged red scar from the point of Este’s eyebrow, curving down her cheek.
I’m familiar with scars, and I can tell it’s recent. Around six months old, probably.
She has chin-length dark brown hair with strands of gold painted throughout. There’s a constellation of freckles splattered across her nose, and light smudges under her eyes that make it clear she’s tired.
“You’re a pilot, right? Like your dads?”
“Yeah. Well, they’re captains, and I’m a first officer—a more junior co-pilot.”
I haven’t flown since I moved to Wyoming. Were pilots always so young?
I remember Bryan telling me they were teaching their daughters to fly—how proud he was that Este had decided to follow in their footsteps. Seeing her in front of me, though, it’s hard to imagine her in charge of a whole plane. Granted, my first impression of her hasn’t exactly been the steadiest.
“How old are you?” The question just slips out.
Este sighs. “Twenty-six. And before you say anything, it’s rare but not unheard of for someone so young to fly for a commercial airline. And it’s really not that impressive. I’m a nepo baby—I had my first flying lesson at ten, and I didn’t have any trouble getting my job because my family owns the airline.”
It’s clearly a rehearsed answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were questioned about it constantly.
“It’s still impressive,” I offer. I don’t doubt it was easier for her than most pilots, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t still work for it.
Este lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. “How old are you?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Forty-seven.”
“Same age as my dad. Makes sense, I guess.”
I met Bryan in sixth grade, when he was new in school and sat beside me in homeroom. We were best friends by the end of the first week. It’s hard to believe we’re old enough that he has a twenty-six-year-old daughter who has a whole career. I have two grumpy German Shepherds who hate everyone but me.
“Do you want a drink?” My knees burn as I stand up from the tiny stool.
“Oh. Sure. I’ll have what you’re having,” Este says.
I pause beside the couch. “I don’t drink.”
Este squints up at me. “But you have alcohol?”
“I’m having guests. It seemed like the polite thing to do. What do you drink? I stocked up on pretty much everything—beer, wine, liquor, those hard seltzer things.” Last week was the first time I’d been in a liquor store in a long time, and there were a lot more options than there used to be. I had no idea what was trendy these days, and when I called my sister, she didn’t either. But there are some perks to Shay having a girlfriend sixteen years younger than her—she put Noelle on the phone, and Noelle immediately switched to a video call. She pointed out exactly what drinks I should get, sent me a list of snacks to buy, and a link to an ugly-ass T-shirt that said “Life is Wood” because it “made her think of me.”
I bought it.
Este draws her lip between her teeth. “Oh. Um. I don’t actually drink.”
“But you said you’d have what I was having when you thought it was alcohol.”
“Yes. Well, it seemed like the polite thing to do,” she echoes me.
Jesus. “Okay. What do you usually drink, alcoholic or otherwise, when you’ve had your nerves shot and almost passed out on a relative stranger?”
Pink shines on her cheeks. “I like herbal tea.”
“That I can do. Come on.” I reach to help her up, and she slides her hand into mine. It’s small, smooth, soft. But most importantly, it’s steady.
Still, I watch her like a hawk, ready to catch her if she falls again as we head into the kitchen.
“Where are your dogs?” Este asks as we pass their empty food bowls.
