Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Yeah, sweetheart. I do.”
Oh no. If the smoke is bad enough to bring terms of endearment out of those two, then things are grim.
My stomach twists as the plane continues to shed its altitude. “Tuck,” I fret.
He plasters his face to the window again, then reaches for my hand. “I see runway lights,” he says as reassurance that we aren’t about to crash in the middle of field or something.
“Folks, this is your captain speaking,” a monotone voice says over the intercom. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, we are indeed descending. Air traffic control has given us clearance to land at Jacksonville International Airport. We’ve rerouted and will be making an emergency landing shortly due to a mechanical malfunction. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”
The PA switches off.
I grip Tucker’s hand and try to tamp down my rising panic. “This is really happening.”
“We’re fine. No big deal. Pilots make emergency landings all the time.” I’m not sure if Tucker says that for my benefit or his.
The crew carry on about their business with the same artificial smiles, politely gathering up trash and shooing stragglers to put up their tray tables. These sociopaths are determined to keep up the charade even if we splatter into flames and twisted metal.
In front of us, Marcia and Harold embrace each other, their prior ails forgotten as they profess their love.
“I love you, Harold. I’m sorry I called you a pervert.”
“Oh, sweetheart, never apologize to me ever again about anything.”
“Is it too late to change the beneficiary of our will? What if we wrote something down on this napkin? I don’t want that Trixie-Bell inheriting our vacation condo in Galveston!”
I turn to Tuck in horror. “Oh my God. We don’t have a will.”
Our pilot’s voice crackles on the intercom again. “Passengers and crew, please get in brace position.”
Tucker puts his hand over mine as we both grip our armrests and brace for impact.
24
Tucker
Night 1
We don’t die.
The airplane touches down safely in Jacksonville to relieved sighs and a few awkward claps and whistles. The crew apologize profusely at the door as we are deplaned and escorted by gate staff to a holding area where we’re corralled and bribed with free snacks and coffee. A lady in a blazer doesn’t laugh when I ask for a beer instead.
“Who do we want for Jamie?” Sabrina says, after texting my mom to check in. Both Grandma and the kid are fine.
The wife, on the other hand…
“Huh?” I eye her in confusion.
“For our will. We need a custody plan for Jamie.” She starts rummaging around in her purse. “I think your mom would be the best guardian, yeah?”
“Here, darlin’. Have some cookies.” I grab three bags of mini Oreos from the basket on the chair across from us and toss them in her lap. “You’re still feeling the adrenaline. It’ll pass.”
Sabrina looks up from her bag and fixes me with a death stare. “You’re trying to shut me up with cookies? We almost died in a fiery plane crash, and we don’t have anything that lays out what happens to our daughter if we both die.”
“I assumed she’d become a circus nomad until she finds herself making turquoise jewelry in the desert.”
“Gee, John, I’m glad you think this is funny.”
Shit. She called me John. Now I know it’s serious.
“It’s not funny,” I assure her. “But this conversation is maybe a little morbid, don’t you think?”
“If I can please have everyone’s attention.” A tall, authoritative-looking representative from the airline in a pantsuit stands in the middle of our holding area. “The maintenance crew has determined there was a minor electrical failure on the aircraft which necessitated the early landing.”
“Early.” Sabrina scoffs at the euphemism.
“It appears the in-flight entertainment system shorted out.”
A loud gasp sounds from the end of our row, courtesy of Marcia. “You did this to us by pressing all those buttons! You froze the screen,” she accuses her husband, pointing one red-painted talon at him.
The rotund man glares at her.
“I can assure you,” the airline rep says smoothly, “that the failure occurred in the wiring itself and not as a result of any passenger touching the screen.”
She then proceeds to tell us our plane is grounded and they’re flying in a new one to get us to St. Maarten, where Sabrina and I are hopping a ferry to St. Barth’s.
“How long will that take?” someone asks.
The rep is noncommittal about a timeframe, which gets groans and arguments from the cranky passengers. Sighing, I start texting to give notice we’re not making our scheduled departure. First my mom, then Dean, whose house we’re staying at.
“Give me a pen,” Sabrina says, nudging me.
“Huh?”
“A pen. I need a pen.”
I fish one out of my carry-on, and she snatches it out of my hand. Sabrina, now obsessed with the idea of our untimely deaths, uses the delay to furiously scribble down a will on the back of the flight confirmation we printed off before leaving the house. I’d much rather throw an arm around her, pull her close, and sit there eavesdropping on our fellow passengers, but Sabrina’s wholly focused on the task at hand.