Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“Hey,” I answered. “How was psych?”
“Normal.” She shrugged as we moved forward in line and shook the snow out of her midnight-black hair. “We’re studying posttraumatic stress disorder.” A meaningful gaze cut my way. “Thought any more about maybe . . . discussing yours with a therapist?”
Nice and subtle.
“I don’t have PTSD. I’m scared of planes.” Which was why Serena and I had driven a rental car all the way from Colorado after break, despite my father telling me that I couldn’t afford to let the fear of flight hold me back.
“Resulting from a traumatic experience of a freaking plane crash,” she lectured, and the line moved again.
“I was scared of flying before the crash.”
“Slip?” the attendant asked, and I handed mine over. He disappeared into the mail room.
“I’m just saying that it really helped me after I lost my brother,” she said softly, and I couldn’t help but look over at her.
The thought of losing Serena was incomprehensible.
“So maybe it might help you to talk too,” she suggested. “I live with you. I know you’re not sleeping like you were before the crash. It couldn’t hurt, and from what I’m studying, the earlier you talk it out with a professional, the better.”
Maybe she was right. If anything, a therapist could tell me I was perfectly fine, and maybe suggest a few alternate forms of transportation. “I’ll look into it.”
“Good!” She hugged my side.
“Astor?” the attendant said, pushing a box across the counter. The brown box was a foot wide, about eighteen inches long, and maybe six inches tall if I had to guess.
“That’s me.” I reached for the clipboard he handed over and signed my name on the recipient line.
“Who’s it from?” Margo asked.
“Not sure.” It was surprisingly light as I picked it up off the counter and read the printed address label. “Transcontinental Airlines.” My chest tightened.
“Is it a giant check for your pain and suffering?”
“No clue.” What could the airline possibly have to send me? A pillow so I’d sleep better? A thousand travel vouchers I’d never bring myself to use?
We took the elevator to the third floor, and Margo used her key to open our door since my hands were full. Our furniture was simple—matching beds, desks, and mini dressers—but our decor was all Margo. Everything was hot pink and lime green, like the entire room had just stepped out of a Lilly Pulitzer ad.
I set the box down on my desk, then cut it open, taking out the letter on top of a dark-blue plastic bag.
Ms. Astor,
With the initial investigation into the unfortunate incident regarding flight 826 complete, we’re returning the personal belongings found in your seat’s floor storage. Though many paper items were water-logged and unsalvageable due to the plane’s submersion, we wanted to return what we could.
We apologize for the inconvenience of the time you’ve lost without your belongings,
Transcontinental Air
I snorted a laugh and read the last line out loud to Margo. “They’re sorry about the inconvenience about my lost luggage.”
“And the loss of your spleen?” She peeked over my shoulder.
“Hey, maybe it’s my purse!” I lifted the bag with zeal. It was probably ruined after spending weeks in the Missouri River, but I was kind of ruined, too, so we were a match. My thumbs pried apart the plastic closure, and the bag fell away, revealing an olive-green army backpack.
My heart stopped, and I had to take a deep breath to get it started again.
“That doesn’t look like your purse,” Margo said, a laugh in her voice.
“It’s not mine.” I set the backpack down on the empty portion of my desk. “It’s his.”
Her eyebrows launched upward as she moved to my side. “His as in . . . the dreamy guy who saved your life like some kind of river Baywatch Prince Charming?”
Obviously I’d spent a fair amount of time talking about Nate and too much time thinking about him: wondering how he was doing, wishing I had some way to contact him. He deserved so much more than my thanks, and besides, I’d said I’d ship books to him if he was allowed to have them in basic training.
If he was even still in basic training. I didn’t know enough about the army to even guess at how long stuff like that took.
“Yeah.” The backpack had obviously been washed, and it somehow looked exactly the same as when Nate had nearly pulled it out to switch seats with me. “He was sitting in my seat.”
“Open it.” She leaned in.
I unzipped the bag, and found a worn, soft, Saint Louis Blues hoodie and an iPod that had been protected by a ziplock bag. It turned on when I pushed the button through the plastic bag, “Panic! at the Disco” flashing across the screen. “I guess everything else must have been ruined.”
“I’m sorry it’s not your purse,” Margo said, turning back toward her side of our room.