Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Now I’m parched, with no water.”
“We’re past security. You can refill your bottle.”
“The water won’t taste right.” I drag my feet behind him.
“Get something besides water.”
“I don’t want anything but water. I want the water from my bottle.”
Several dozen feet from our gate, Fitz stops and pivots. I abruptly halt just short of bumping into him. “What’s going on, Goldilocks?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why are you so unruly today? So irritated and short tempered.”
My teeth trap my bottom lip while my gaze shifts to the side for a few seconds. “I’m nervous about flying. And everything that’s going on feels like a bad sign. And I overheard you talking with Maren and Will about this trip, and I know they think it’s a bad idea, and they’re probably right. So not only am I worried about dying, I’m worried that something’s going to happen, and I will live to have to deal with the consequences.”
His head pulls back like a winch in slow motion. It’s as if he’s following about 20 percent of what I’m saying. “You experienced minor hiccups going through security. It’s not an omen. And Will and Maren thrive on worrying about unnecessary shit. And I don’t know what you mean by something happening. It’s going to be okay.”
Is he serious? His idea of okay and mine are pretty different. Perhaps people who jump out of planes to put out wildfires are missing an essential connection in their brains. That connection allows normal people to have a healthy fear of dangerous situations.
“Fitz, I’m getting on an airplane for the first time. And I’m flying with a man who acts like I’m the bane of his existence one minute and the object of his affection the next. If we’re lucky enough to land safely, my best friend will assume you’re my boyfriend. And if we make it home in one piece, our roommates will not trust us, which is fair because they know you’re not my biggest fan. Therefore, it makes no sense to them that you agreed to come to Miami with me. Nothing about any of this is ‘okay.’”
His head slants to the side, eyes narrowed a fraction. “Death is the bane of my existence. Not you.”
What?
Fitz’s confession grips my heart and squeezes hard. Where the hell did that come from?
“You’re an illusion.” He messes with my backpack strap, giving his gaze a new place to focus. “A distraction. I can’t stop looking at you. And I can’t stop navigating closer to you, even though I know you’re unreachable.”
“Be—” I start to speak, but my thoughts trip over his words. I don’t understand. “Because we live together?”
His lips bend into a sad smile when he returns his gaze to mine, and his knuckles brush my cheek. “Because death is the bane of my existence.” He drops his hand and continues toward our gate.
My head spins a million thoughts into my existence—every possible explanation for his cryptic words. It’s dizzying. Each thought breeds a new question. He can’t touch me like that and walk away. He can’t say that and not elaborate. My heart demands answers. It deserves to know why he will squash it to smithereens like Will did to Dr. Reichart’s.
A woman’s heart is woven from equal parts strength and vulnerability. Its love knows no boundaries. But it demands accountability. I’ll never ask Fitz why he broke my heart. I’ll simply insist upon him acknowledging that he did it.
When we board the plane, he nods for me to sit by the window. “There’s no better view than forty thousand feet above the ground.”
My nerves collide with giddy anticipation. This smile wouldn’t be on my face if he weren’t here with me. I sit and peer out the window at the workers on the ground. The butterflies in my stomach multiply by infinity when Fitz touches my leg while fastening my seat belt.
“In case we crash?” I toss him a toothy grin.
He winks. “In case we have a rocky takeoff or landing. Maybe for turbulence. If we crash, the seat belt’s inconsequential.”
“So we grab our parachutes and jump out before it crashes.”
He laughs. “Not from more than seven miles up in the air.”
“How far up are you in the air when you jump?”
“Three thousand feet.”
“Do you get nervous? Or have you been doing it too long to get nervous?”
He eyes me for a few seconds.
Yes, I’m prying. I’m trying to peel back a few layers of Calvin Fitzgerald.
“I love it. The rush is always there. It’s not a shit-your-pants adrenaline anymore. It’s just an indescribable high. Not just the jumping. It’s all of it. When I land on the ground and head toward the fire, I still feel it in my veins.”
I love that. When Fitz talks about his job, he lights up. It’s tangible. I can’t help but feel a secondhand excitement, even if I can’t imagine voluntarily jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and running toward a fire raging out of control.