Charlie turned away. She called after him.
“Check in with me when you land, though. We have these protocols for a reason.”
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Sure. Sorry for the—I don’t know why Gaston didn’t call.”
He stumbled back to the plane, casting around for Emma. He climbed the steps and was surprised to find her in the galley, breaking up ice.
“Hey,” he said. “Where did you—I was looking for you.”
She turned on him. “Why are you even—I don’t want you here. I don’t—”
He reached out to hug her, hold her, to show her how love would fix everything. But she reared back, hate in her eyes, and slapped him hard across the face.
Cheek stinging, he stared at her. It was as if the sun had—in the course of an otherwise normal day—suddenly exploded in the sky. She held his eye defiantly, then looked away, afraid suddenly.
Charlie watched her walk off, then turned dully—his mind a perfect blank—and entered the cabin, where he almost ran into Melody, the captain on the flight. James. Older guy, not much fun, but competent. Extremely. British ponce, thought he was the boss of everything. But Charlie knew how to kowtow. It was part of passing.
“Afternoon, Captain,” he said.
Melody recognized him, frowned.
“What happened to Gaston?” he asked.
“You got me,” said Charlie. “Stomach thing, I think. All I know is I got a call.”
The captain shrugged. It was the front office’s problem.
They chatted some more, but Charlie wasn’t really paying attention. He was thinking about Emma, what she’d said. What he could have done differently.
Passion, that’s what they had, he told himself suddenly. Fire. The thought cheered him, the buzz in his cheek fading.
Powering up the system and running diagnostics, Charlie told himself that he’d handled things well, maybe not perfectly, but…She was just playing hard to get. The next six hours would go like fucking clockwork. Textbook takeoff. Textbook landing. There and back in five hours and then he’d be the one changing his phone number, and when she came to her senses and realized what she’d lost, well, she’d be the one begging him for forgiveness.
Cycling the engines, he heard the cockpit door open. Emma stormed into the main cabin.
“Keep him away from me,” she told Melody, pointing at Charlie, then stalked back to the galley.
The captain looked over at his copilot.
“You got me,” said Charlie. “Must be her time of the month.”
They finished their pre-flight run-through and closed the hatch. At six fifty-nine p.m. they taxied to the runway and lifted off without incident, moving away from the setting sun. A few minutes later, Captain Melody banked to starboard and pointed them toward the coast.
For the rest of the flight to Martha’s Vineyard, Charlie stared out at the ocean, slumping visibly in his seat. As the rage left him, the serious lightning nerves that had been fueling him, he felt exhausted, deflated. The truth was, he hadn’t slept, really, in maybe thirty-six hours. A few minutes on the flight from London, but mostly he’d been too amped up. A lingering effect of the coke, possibly, or the vodka/Red Bulls he’d been drinking. Whatever it was, now that his mission had failed, had epically imploded, he felt destroyed.
Fifteen minutes from the Vineyard, the captain stood, put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie jumped in his seat, startled.
“She’s all yours,” said Melody. “I’m gonna grab a coffee.”
Charlie nodded, straightening. The plane was on autopilot, gliding effortlessly over the open blue. As the captain exited the cockpit, he closed the door (which had been open) behind him. It took Charlie a few moments to register that. That the captain had closed the door. And why? Why would he do that? It had been open for takeoff. Why close it now?
Except for privacy.
Charlie felt a hot flush go through him. That was it. Melody wanted privacy so he could talk to Emma.
About me.
A new burst of adrenaline hit Charlie’s bloodstream. He needed to focus. He slapped himself in the face a couple of times.
What should I do?
He ran through his options. His first instinct was to storm out and confront them, to tell the pilot that this shit was none of his business. Go back to your seat, old man. But that was non-rational. He could be fired for that probably.
No. He should do nothing. He was a professional. She was the drama queen, the one who brought their private business in to work. He would fly the plane (okay, watch the autopilot fly the plane) and be the grounded adult.
And yet he had to admit that it was killing him. The closed door. Not knowing what was going on out there. What she was saying. Against his better judgment he stood, then sat, then stood again. Just as he was reaching for the door it opened, and the captain came back with his coffee.
“Everything okay?” he asked, closing the door behind him.