I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth and follow him up the short set of metal stairs into what seems like a toy plane.
We take our seats, single ones across the aisle from each other. My hands shake, and for the first time in a long time, that doesn’t freak me out. I’d be more shocked if they were steady right now. Desperate for some kind of distraction, I yank the laminated information card out of the back pocket in front of me.
Cessna 208 Caravan? Planes by Disney would be more appropriate.
After I shove the card back into the pocket, I belt myself into the seat, clipping the unsophisticated strap across the shoulder to the waist belt. My brain rebels against the concept of the simple safety system.
What good is this really going to do if the plane goes down? We’re all dead.
Followed by a thought I have all too often.
I’m not ready to die.
The back door we entered through is shut and locked by a man on the ground, and the prop starts spinning as the engine roars to life.
My heart thunders louder than the deafening noise, and I clench my sweaty hands into fists on my lap.
Dane reaches out a hand and covers one of mine. I flip my fist over, flex my fingers, and knit them together with his before closing them into a tight grip.
My rock. The one I pushed away when I should have held on for dear life.
He squeezes again. “It’s only a fifteen-minute flight. You got this.”
With a jerk, the plane starts forward, and any words I planned to use to respond evaporate into the humid interior of the plane as paralyzing fear grabs hold.
I’m going to die, and not even how I thought I would. Dane is going to hate me for eternity because I’m a shit wife who shut down on him.
The tin can hurtles down the runway, and the nose lifts off the ground.
I turn my head the slightest bit and look at Dane. “I love you,” I whisper.
His sunglasses cover his dark eyes. I wish I could see them and read the response like I used to be able to do.
Instead of responding in kind, he says, “I know.”
My stomach drops as we rise into the sky, and the pilot cranks hard to the right, heading over the sparkling blue ocean.
*
When the tires connect with a pitted runway, the wings of this baby plane dip slightly first to the right and then to the left.
My eyes, which I had somehow managed to keep open during the longest short flight of my life, slam shut again.
No. No. No. We didn’t make it this far only to flip off the runway and burst into a ball of flames.
Shockingly, we don’t die. The wings level out as the plane slows and turns on the ridiculously undersized runway to taxi to the terminal.
“That’s it? That’s the airport?”
It’s a small tan concrete building situated next to a strip of pavement that ends at the edge of the ocean. A horse grazes in a patch of grass just beyond it, and a stray dog trots toward the plane as it stops.
Hello, Belize.
“See.” Dane squeezes my leg. “You made it.”
He’s only saying that because he didn’t hear all the begging I did during the time we were in the air. I’m pretty sure I’ve bargained away my soul at this point.
The back door of the tin can flies open and an airport employee aligns a rickety set of metal stairs with the door. Dane releases his grip on me before rising to a hunched position to deplane. Some people would be annoyed, thinking it should be ladies first, but with Dane, I know this isn’t a slight. According to him, it’s safer if he’s ahead of me.
There was one time in Grenada I fell down four steps and Dane stopped me before I could go any further. My sprained wrist could have been a broken leg if he hadn’t been there and quick to act.
It might be a tiny thing, but right now, I’m taking it as a positive sign that he’s still concerned for my safety.
Except I’ve spent too long in my head, and Dane’s waiting for me at the bottom, his dark eyebrows diving together in the middle.
Crap. My hesitation is surely a mark against me.
Instead of trying to explain, I hurry down the stairs, and my sandal catches on a gap in the uneven metal and sticks while my foot slides free.
Oh no. My body pitches forward and the tarmac flies toward my face.
“Shit.” Dane’s voice is gruff as he shifts and my body impacts with him and not the ground. His arms wrap around me. “Jesus Christ, Kat. Be careful.”
Before I can reply, another voice, musically accented with the sound of the Caribbean, comes from behind us.
“Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Shaking off my clumsiness, I step out of Dane’s arms and turn. “I’m fine. Totally my fault.”
The employee works my sandal out of the gap and hands it back to me. “Don’t want to forget this.”
I slip it on, embarrassment burning my cheeks and a rueful smile in place.
Another man waves us away from the plane. “Come this way, please. You can wait inside for your bags.”
Dane’s arm slides around my lower back as we walk toward the building. Above the entry, there’s a word in green letters. Dangriga.
“Watch your step,” Dane says as we approach the door, and I make it inside without another mishap. A rush of cool air and the hum of an air-conditioning unit greet us, and the sweat trickling down the nape of my neck chills on my skin.
Several men in polo shirts with different logos embroidered on the breast are waiting in a group, along with a couple holding handfuls of necklaces and crafts.
“You wanna buy something pretty for the lady?” a man with a shredded black shirt and dreads asks first.
“No, thanks,” Dane says. He heads directly for another man in khaki pants and a sage-green polo with purple writing holding a notebook with DEAN CROSS handwritten on a piece of lined paper.
“It’s Dane Cross, not Dean.”
The man glances down at the paper and looks back at Dane. “You sure it’s not Dean?”
“Positive.”
“But you’re going to Sweet Water Caye? Two passengers?”
“Yes, that’s us.”