Chapter Three
Cassidy
Cast judgment all you want…
Luke’s deep, rumbly voice plays in my head, continuing to froth my irritation.
As if it’s such a ridiculous thing to assume he’d hear me hollering across a parking lot or that he has an important job based on how he dresses. Sue me. Heck, it’s probably his job to sue me.
I free my phone from my pocket and wriggle to get comfortable. Lofty aspirations in this seat with less padding than a Victoria’s Secret bra. I’m ready for a stiff drink, or heck, a flaccid one, but I’ll settle for a familiar face to smooth the rough edges of my mood.
My roommate Berkeley answers my FaceTime on the first ring.
“Miss me already, Blossom?” She’s curled up in her bed, my corgi Elvis nestled in the crook of her arm. Pillows of every shape and color surround her, a veritable rainbow of poofs in lieu of a headboard. Her dark curls starkly contrast the backdrop of her butter yellow wall.
“Where are your headphones?” She lowers her voice to a whisper and brings the phone right up to her face. Aggressively suspicious of men after her whirlwind divorce, Berkeley assumes my every phone call is a cry for help, in which I’m trapped in an uncomfortable situation with a dude. “Is something wrong? I can’t come rescue you off the plane, but I’m happy to put any travelers in their place if you pass the phone.”
My pretty little cherub of a best friend, with her porcelain complexion and innocent blue eyes, keeps her sharpest arrows on the tip of her tongue. She’s not bluffing when she says she’ll put someone in their place. I warm at the offer, even if it’s wholly unnecessary.
I peer at my seatmate, possibly an octogenarian, who is already snoozing with his chin to his chest. “Nah, I’m safe. I called because I forgot my headphones, along with several other things. I’m going to text you a list of things to grab before you fly out if you’ve got room in your suitcase.”
“Sure. No promises I’ll be able to find anything in your disaster heap of a bedroom, though. You need shelves. Rubbermaids. A shoe purge. Someone to throw away any beauty product older than one year. I can help you.”
A voice blares through the plane’s speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew, I ask that you please direct your attention to the flight attendants as we review our safety procedures—”
I lower my voice and slump down in my seat. “You love snooping through my disaster heap. Half your clothes were co-opted from that heap.”
“We’ve said heap too many times. The word has lost all meaning.”
“Also, don’t forget we’ve switched Elvis’s food. Make sure he’s getting the arthritis blend, and send that bag with him to the sitter. How’s he doing?”
She squeezes my black-and-white baby against her side. Fondness infiltrates her tone. “Lil’ King is living his best life, I assure you. Are you drinking yet? You’ll need enough alcohol to turn your body into a furnace in preparation for Mommy Dearest’s cold embrace. For a lightweight like you, two drinks.”
The flight attendants stride to the front of the cabin with their demonstration seat belts in hand and get on with their in-case-of-disaster speech.
I shoot Berkeley a thumbs-up. “Three drinks it is.”
“You animal. You’ll be dancing in the aisles.”
“I better go. We’re taxiing, and I don’t want my phone call to make the plane malfunction or something. Does that actually happen in real life?”
Berkeley waves off my malfunction concerns. “Planes fly themselves, Cass. Nothing you do would make a lick of difference.”
“Yeah, probably. All right, enjoy the empty apartment tonight. Why don’t you go on a date or something?”
I’m pretty sure I’m hearing her laugh both through the phone and in real life, all the way from Asheville. “You don’t get enough credit for your banging sense of humor.”
“It’s never too late to start complimenting me on new things,” I whisper. “Until tomorrow, Buttercup.”
“Can’t wait.”
A grin splits my face. Effectively soothed, I hang up and switch my phone to airplane mode.
Berkeley will be joining me in California tomorrow, my wedding plus-one and human Mom buffer. If Francesca Bliss wants to lay into me, she’ll have to do it around the world’s most ardently supportive friend.
I open my Notes app. Time to take inventory on what immediate errands await me in Westlake. AKA, the shared to-do list started by Isabelle months ago.
I wince as I scroll. Was it this long this morning?
Steam my satin honeymoon pajamas.
See if it’s too late to change my bouquet to a less bouquet-y bouquet.
Bridesmaids gifts for Natalia, Summer, and Reese.
Check the efficacy of an IUD in a hot tub.
I’d bet my least vital appendage that item wasn’t on the list last I checked. Nor was pick up lube from CVS. She must’ve updated it today. And perhaps could use some quality time with her fiancé.
I skim the twenty other items and land on one toward the top.
Wednesday Spa day—pedicures, manicures and facials for eight people.
Oh crap. I completely forgot to book that. I’ll have to call Lush and Lather tomorrow morning when they open and beg them to fit the whole group in. My odds aren’t good with it being so last minute, but the fate of everyone’s hooves and talons rests on my shoulders.
I can already hear Mom’s disappointed commentary. I would’ve booked it myself if you’d expressed an issue. I’ll have to pull strings and get us a reservation somewhere else, at least for your sister. Obviously.
If I don’t fix it, it’ll be another Cassidy fail for the books: Maid of Honor edition.
Being a sister is like being part of a lifelong contest you didn’t willfully enter. My mother wields the score card. Isabelle is a whip-smart surfer blonde who turns every head and intrigues every man with her air of confidence. Southern California’s answer to royalty. Mom’s beloved trophy child. Sporty enough to catch a wave, but prim enough to take to the kind of schmoozy lawyer events her fiancé Mikael attends regularly. She works with the Turtle Island Restoration Network to rescue sea turtles.
Meanwhile, I’m a dancer with no interest in desk jobs who cycles between oversharing my feelings and withholding them until I implode. Always in motion. Southern California’s answer to a question no one asked. Mom’s perpetual fixer-upper. I do volunteer, but it’s in the form of free dance classes at the community center for kids who can’t afford private studios. I’m no sea turtle savior.
Isabelle was Junior Miss California. I was Junior Mints stuck in my teeth at the movie theater. The comic relief. Frivolous. Long story short, she’s the winner. I don’t begrudge her that, but I am so tired of being compared to her. It was annoying at ages ten, fifteen, and twenty. The fact that it’s happening at twenty-six makes me stabby. If anything, it’s worse now, because we’re all reaping the rewards and consequences of our adult choices. Everything is an elaborate test. My mother examines everything I do or don’t do based on what Isabelle’s done or hasn’t done. Mom already had the perfect daughter, and sometimes I wonder why she bothered to have another at all.
Just one week. I’ll know peace again as soon as I’m back in Asheville, my safe haven.
The first hour and a half of the flight is bumpy. I watch the entirety of Big Hero 6 on a child’s crusty tablet through the seat cracks in front of me as I white-knuckle my Jack and Coke, a craving I only seem to have on planes. Normally I’m a vodka-soda girl, but it’s like as soon as a cabin pressurizes, my response is Pavlovian and I have to have this sweet, syrupy concoction.
As I sip what remains, the bulky beverage cart scoots to a stop next to my row, flanked by two flight attendants. Perfect timing.
I offer up my license and credit card again. “I’d love another Jack and Coke, please.”
She raises a slender finger. “No need for the ID this time. I remember you. In fact”—she rustles up a tiny bottle—“I set this aside for you, specifically. It’s our last one.”
My heart tap-dances at the gesture as I shove my ID back in my pocket, waiting for her to run my credit card. I should probably examine why being pinpointed as THE Jack Daniels drinker on board a packed 747 delights me, but I welcome this surge of appreciation for Atlas Airlines. The staff is friendly and the flight took off on time, despite the storm. Unlike some other airlines departing CLT. A few inches of snow aren’t going to ground my plane, no matter what the seasonal movie multiverse has to say. I may not be thrilled about where I’m going, but at least I can be comfortable—
“This is your captain speaking.” The firm voice cuts with clarity through the noise of the plane. “Our windshield has developed a crack, and out of an abundance of caution, we’ve made the decision to divert to Joplin Regional Airport. This is just precautionary. While the issue is minor, your safety is our highest concern. Please listen to your flight attendants as they prepare the cabin.”
I sit up straight, joining the throngs of people craning their heads toward the cockpit. It’s not as though we can see the windshield, but we all seem to have the same instinctual impulse to look anyway.
Diverting. What a massive, time-consuming bummer.
The attendant’s face cycles from surprise to determination in the span of a second. She hands me my card before hightailing it down the aisle with the squeaky cart in tow.
If not for the word precautionary, I’d be sweating this. My body, without my permission, releases a tiny burst of adrenaline. Just in case.
“The windshield cracked?” Luke’s voice hits my ear as an empty plastic cup lands on the ground next to me. “That’s not normal. Or minor.”
Swiveling at the sound, I catch the tail end of him scrambling to pluck the cup from the aisle. His face is drained of color when he sits back up. He crosses and uncrosses his arms. Twice.
I twist further, curiosity piqued. “You good, Waldo?”
“What?” His gaze darts between me and the front of the plane as he crushes the cup in his fist. “Waldo?”
“The stripes on that scarf you were wearing before. In the parking lot. Red and white? Darn it, if you have to explain a joke, it stops being funny.”
“Oh. I get it.” All of his earlier edge is gone. His voice is hollow, and I’m almost certain the jagged plastic must be cutting into his palm with the way he’s squeezing it.
The swooping sensation of a dropping rollercoaster grips my body as we descend.
Luke’s hand flies to his armrest. He screws his eyes shut. “I fly constantly. This doesn’t happen. They want you to think it’s a precaution, but if it was, we wouldn’t be falling.”
“This is how landing always feels, isn’t it? This may be faster than usual, sure, but we’ll be fine—”
“How would you know?” he snaps. “You were on the phone while the flight attendants taught us how not to die!”
“Excuse me. That was a very important phone call.” The other half of my comeback forms in my head, ready for deployment, but everything clicks into place as I laser in on his armrest death grip, bobbing leg, colorless face, and clenched jaw.
Luke is terrified.
“Hey…” I rack my brain for something to ease the tension in his face. “I’ve been on a lot of planes. It’s going to be okay.”
His lips pull into a stubborn line and his eyes stay firmly shut.
The man needs a distraction.
“Luke,” I say gently. “How long have we known each other?”
“About twelve seconds.”
“And in that time, have I ever lied to you?”
He cracks open an eye. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”
I stifle a laugh. “Look at me.”
He sighs but blinks me into focus.
“In less time than it probably takes you to style your hair, we’ll be on the ground.”
“I don’t style it. It’s always like this.”
The plane loses altitude in a lurch. I clutch my armrest as a few people grunt in displeasure.
“And when we’re on the ground you can”—I grapple for something as dread flares in Luke’s eyes—“do something fun. What’s your favorite hobby?”
After a beat of silence, his answer comes out strained. “Running.”
Eying his lean form, I am 0 percent shocked by this revelation. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” he confirms with a note of certainty.
“Okay then. Soon you’ll have access to all the concrete and grass you can imagine. The world is your treadmill. Think about that. Visualize finding your favorite pair of socks in a pile of clean laundry, lacing up your best sneakers, and hitting the ground in a steady rhythm.”
His fist unclenches and he blinks down at the broken plastic in his palm. His pouty lips part like he’s finally exhaling. “That’s…not a terrible idea.”
I smile. “I accept your praise.”
His laugh is more of a hacking burst of air, but it happens.
I face forward, satisfied that he’s calmed down.
As we approach the landing—many people’s least favorite part of flying, even under normal circumstances—I can only hope he stays that way.