Page 49 of Bobby

Marco parks the car, and Willow’s face scrunches as she looks out the window. “Where are we?”

“Downtown Manhattan Heliport,” I say as Marco opens the door. I get out, holding my hand out to help her out.

“Why?”

“I have business in Jersey, and this is faster.”

Her hand slides into mine, and I hold it tight as I walk to the helicopter. The door opens a second before I step in, pulling Willow with me before the door shuts. Marco speaks to the pilot before taking the other side of the cockpit. I busy myself with securing my seat belt and headset, then turn and do the same with Willow.

Her eyes are huge, and she’s still in stock. I expected this reaction. Most people, especially women, have a similar response when they learn about this family perk. Everyone knows I have money—most people in New York do. But there’s money, and then there’s “a quick trip to Jersey and back by helicopter” money. It doesn’t scream status, but I always find it sets me a bit higher than the rest.

“First time in a helicopter?” I ask over the headset with a smile.

“I don’t fly.” I barely hear her through the headphones.

“You need to speak up. We might have the door closed, but it’s going to get louder.”

As if on cue, the engine surges up, and a few seconds later, we’re taking off. I don’t pay my team to make me wait on the tarmac longer than I have to. I expect this quickness.

From the way Willow grips the seat, I know she didn’t.

“It’s just a small trip. Don’t worry. It’s just like flying in an airplane.”

I look out at the skyline and breathe in the comfort of flying high in the sky and not being stuck in traffic. There’s a peace in being above all that.

“I don’t fly.”

The second time I hear it, so does Marco. I see him turn just as I look at Willow. Really look. This isn’t shock at the expense. Not even fear of flying.

This is absolute terror.

“Willow.” My smile dies as I get in close, touching her cheek and hands. They’re as cold as ice, her breathing erratic.

“I don’t fly.” She keeps saying it over and over.

“Why, baby? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you fly?”

What caused this panic in her? Made her look as if she’s seeing a ghost?

“My parents died in a plane crash.”

Shit.

Shit.

I fucked up. I so fucked up. I did this.

“Fuck,” Marco says, and I nod.

I grab the water bottle that’s always available on my flights and uncap it, moving it to her lips and tipping it back a bit.

“Drink some water.”

It dribbles down her lips, and I doubt anything goes in.

Crap.

“Look at me, Willow.”