He nods.
“But now I think it’s electricity. I must have shut down the engine control on the plane, just like I accidentally turned off the lights tonight.”
“Aja,” I say, grabbing both his shoulders and squaring him toward me.
“Don’t touch me!” he screams.
“Sorry!” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I wait for him to calm down, to look at me, and then I continue: “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but . . . you don’t have any superpowers. What happened on that plane—”
“You don’t believe me! You never believe me! My dad . . . he always believed me.” His fists clench again.
“No, I don’t believe you,” I say, and his head jerks up at me, anger flashing in his eyes.
“But,” I say, more gently, “I do believe in you. And I believe—no, I know—you didn’t cause that plane to crash. Nobody did. It’s just something that happened. A really shitty, terrible thing that happened, but it’s nobody’s fault.”
He looks at me skeptically. I know he’s not completely convinced, that he still probably hates me a little for being the reason they were on the plane in the first place. But I still hate me a little for that too, so we’re even.
Aja’s wet eyes glisten in the light of the iPhone. “You said ‘shitty,’?” he says, sniffling.
I nod. “I did.”
“We’re not supposed to say that word.”
“I know. But honestly? Sometimes it’s the only word that works.”
JUBILEE DIDN’T FIND a flashlight, but she did find two blankets in her boss’s office. We set up camp in the children’s section, using my phone’s flashlight setting as a campfire of sorts. I folded one of the blankets over itself as a mattress for Aja and draped the other on top of him, even though I thought Jubilee should keep it for herself. “I’ll be fine,” she said, waving me away. “I’m wearing thermal underwear.”
I smiled at her, even though she couldn’t really see me in the dark. “Are you trying to seduce me?” I asked, under my breath, so Aja couldn’t hear.
A round laugh erupted from her.
Now I tuck the blanket all around him, grateful Jubilee was so selfless, as his tiny body is already shivering a little. I hope it will be enough to keep him warm through the night.
Jubilee and I sit close to the iPhone, but not to each other. There are a few feet of space between us and I long to close the gap, my mind conjuring excuses, plausible reasons I need to be nearer to her. We talk softly about the blizzard, trying to predict how much snow will fall before it’s all said and done. We keep it light so as not to scare Aja, though I can tell Jubilee is worried.
When we sense his steady breathing and I’m sure he’s asleep, I turn to Jubilee. “Did you hear everything?” I ask.
She nods. “Most of it. So he’s thought for the past two years that he was responsible for his parents’ death?”
“Yeah,” I say, hanging my head. I feel guilty for not trying to talk to him about his parents sooner, for not asking the right questions. But it’s all out now, and for that I’m relieved.
She brings her hand up to her heart. “That sweet boy.”
“I know.”
We both stare at the light. “I wish that was a real campfire. It’s freezing in here.” She rubs her gloved hands together.
I nod. “We could do jumping jacks. Doesn’t getting your blood circulating help or something?”
“It’s better to get naked.”
My head jerks toward her, not sure I heard her right. “What?”
She shrugs. “If two people are stuck out in cold weather—say camping or something—you’re supposed to take all your clothes off and hold each other under a blanket or sleeping bag. The more skin-to-skin contact, the better, so you can transfer body heat to each other.”
My lips feel dry and I realize my mouth is hanging open. I try to push the picture of an unclothed Jubilee out of my mind but find it’s a difficult task. Then another thought hits me and I start laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s just ironic,” I say. “The one thing that could keep you from dying if you ever get hypothermia could kill you.”
She chuckles.
“Better never go camping,” I say. I mean it as a joke, but as the silence stretches out, I wish I hadn’t said it. I’m just reminding her of one more thing she can’t do, as if she doesn’t know. And then I wonder if she knows what I want to do but can’t. If she knows that just being near her steals my breath, that I dream of my hands in her hair, that touching her skin with my bare hand—even just the crease of her elbow—would be the definition of joy. And then I can’t keep it inside any longer.
“I want to touch you,” I breathe. She doesn’t respond. We both stare at the light, as if it is a campfire. Minutes tick past, and I wonder if I actually said it out loud, or if I should try saying it again.
And then she speaks. “There might be a . . . treatment.”
I suck in my breath. “Really?”
She nods but still won’t make eye contact. I wait for her to say more, everything suddenly slowing down. My motions feel sluggish, my heart the pace of a ninety-four-year-old’s footsteps.
“Dr. Zhang—my doctor—the allergy expert in New York. She wants to try immunotherapy.”
She briefly explains what it is and how it could take a year, if not more, just to isolate the protein she’s allergic to.
I take this in, my heart nearly coming to a full stop when I open my mouth to ask this question. I don’t know why it feels like the entire balance of life hangs on it, but it does. I swallow. “Are you going to do it?”
She doesn’t answer right away. The air is so still, I can hear the quiet inhale and exhale of her breathing. My phone chimes, making us both jump.
I pick it up. It’s Connie.
You OK? I’m still at your apartment. Staying here for the night.
When the trains were a mess, I’m so glad I had the forethought to ask her to go let Rufus out, in case I was late getting home. It didn’t occur to me I wouldn’t be getting home at all. I quickly tap out an explanation of where I am. As I hit “send,” I hear Jubilee exhale, but this time it contains two words.
“I’m scared.”
I turn to her. “We’ll be OK.” I move a little closer to try to offer comfort with proximity—that’s what I tell myself I’m doing, anyway. “I’m sure once the snow stops, they’ll get the streets plowed. Maybe even by the morning.”
“No,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits me what she’s saying. What she’s scared of.
“Why?”