“Oh?” His eyebrow quirks. “And what, exactly, was I saying? Since you seem to be an expert in the matter.”
My teeth grind together. “You were judging me for— for being afraid.”
His dark brows pull inward. When he does respond, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. Almost like he’s talking to himself. “Nothing wrong with fear. When you’re afraid, you know you’re alive.”
I’m unsure how to respond. Every thought in my head seems painfully childish, every opinion inadequate.
“Anyway.” He seems to snap back into himself. His eyes refocus on mine. “What I was actually wondering…” His lips twist in a smirk as he turns the flask over in his hands. “Was how many bumps you’d last before you change your mind.”
“I don’t—” My words turn to a wince as we hit more turbulence. I bite my lip and ride it out. “I don’t make a habit of drinking with strangers,” I say, when I’ve finally gotten ahold of myself. “Especially while I’m on the clock.”
His gaze moves to Samantha, who’s slackened face is half-concealed by a sleep mask. He doesn’t say a word, but I can read his thoughts like a billboard.
Your boss wouldn’t notice if you did a keg stand, let alone took a single sip from the flask.
I grimace as the whole jet jostles once more. This time, it takes five full Mississippis before we level out — and another five after that for my breathing to return to normal.
He notices.
“Nervous flyer, huh?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he says bluntly, eyes scanning my bloodless face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“If anything, my nausea is inspired by present company,” I say sweetly. “It has very little to do with the turbulence.”
He laughs, a flash of white teeth in the darkness of the cabin. My stomach clenches at the sight of his chiseled features smiling instead of smirking or scowling in my direction. Asshole or no, he remains the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, let alone had a conversation with.
Taking one final swig from the flask, he twists the cap back on and tucks it away in the side pocket of the duffle bag beneath his seat. When he straightens, he catches me watching.
“Can I help you, oh judgmental one?”
I scoff. “You do realize one of the perks of flying private is that you don’t have to BYOB?”
He shakes his head. “Afraid blue label Johnnie doesn’t come in airplane nips.”
“Johnnie?”
“Walker.” He assesses my blank look. “It’s a scotch whisky.”
“Oh. I’ve never had whisky.”
He’s studying me carefully across the half-dozen feet that divide us. “How old are you?” he asks softly, as though it’s just occurred to him that I might not be of legal drinking age.
My mouth opens to respond but the word seventeen never leaves my throat because, out of nowhere, the whole world flips on its axis. A brilliant flash of lightning envelops the plane as we pitch left, then start to plummet. I know instantly that this is far worse than the other times — infinitely worse. This is no mere bump, no small pocket of air pressure that makes the plane wings rattle.
This is a nosedive.
A plunge.
A crash.
There’s a blood-chilling creak from outside as the plane struggles to right itself — a groan of metal, as though the whipping winds of the storm raging outside are strong enough to tear us apart. The lightning flashes seem closer than ever, or maybe that’s just the cabin interior lights flickering, a terrifying strobe. My ears pop painfully, an explosion of pressure going off behind my eyes as we lose altitude too rapidly to compensate.
Between the light flashes, I watch things unfold in a series of disembodied still frames. The flight attendants scrambling for emergency rafts in the overhead bins. Half-empty drinks careening toward the ceiling and shattering on impact. Glass shards whipping through the cabin like razor-sharp raindrops. Air masks deploying from the ceiling like yellow plastic pi?atas.
The intercom crackles on, filling the cabin with terse orders from our captain that cut in and out every few seconds. Despite the static, I recognize the strain in his voice.
“Ladies and gen… unexpected turbul…”
The words of the captain are drowned out by the loudest bang I’ve ever heard. It sounds like a bomb has gone off. The entire vessel jolts violently sideways in the air as we’re thrown off course by the force of the engine exploding. My body slams to the left like a rag doll in a twister, the canvas belt across my lap cutting harshly against my waist but mercifully keeping me in my seat.
Some aren’t so lucky — with growing horror, I watch as the male flight attendant is hurled into the air and slammed against a storage compartment. He crumples to the floor with a sickening thud, blood gushing from his temple. He does not get up again. The emergency raft rolls from his limp hands, far out of reach.
I pray for the plane to level out again, as it has before, but this time…
We simply keep falling.
Half-convinced I’m dreaming, I operate on auto-pilot, yanking my mask over the lower half of my face then grabbing the one swinging in the air beside it.
Sophie.
She’s crying — cheeks red, snot streaming from her nostrils. I want to tell her it’ll be okay. I want to take her in my arms and promise we’re all going to be fine. But I can’t. Not only because she can’t hear me over the screaming storm splitting our fuselage in two… but because I know it would be a lie.
“Emergency… left engine…”
The captain’s panicked words cut out as the plane loses all electrical power. The lights flicker one final time, then never come back on. I hear someone screaming — I think it’s Samantha, but more voices join in as we continue to free-fall through the air. A chorus of terror, harmonizing with the shrieking wind.
I’m going to die, I think ludicrously, hyperventilating into my air mask. I wish I could force my eyes to close. I don’t want to see what comes next, but I can’t stop watching. It’s like a bad horror film, the kind you can’t tear your eyes from even when you know it’ll end horribly for the heroine.
Except this isn’t a movie.
I am the doomed heroine.
Or… maybe not the heroine at all. Certainly not a hero. No more than a cowardly side character, who dies before the audience can become too emotionally invested.
In the imaginary crises I sometimes allow myself to conjure up while lying in bed at night, I’m always brave. Smart. Strong. Leaping through fire, charging toward danger. I thought, in an emergency, I’d save the world — or at least my own life. But here I am, living a nightmare, and I’m paralyzed with fear. I watch my own demise unfolding around me and can do nothing to stop it except stare straight ahead, hope slipping through my shaking fingers.