by Whitney G.
I didn’t move.
“Gillian?”
I cried.
My chest heaved up and down and I attempted to say something, but nothing came out. My head was spinning with theories, regrets, and even though I didn’t want to believe it—I knew Jake was gone.
Memories of our recklessness played in front of my eyes like a film reel—the airport bathroom fucking, the carelessness on the international flights, the blatant dating, and I felt foolish.
I could have tried so much harder to make him listen to me. Could’ve tried so much harder to keep us...
I DIDN’T REALIZE THAT Meredith and Kennedy were actually in my apartment until six in the morning, when I forced myself to go to the restroom.
They had all three of the TVs set to different news stations. All the anchors were reporting the same thing, and while Meredith was pacing the floor, talking on the phone, Kennedy was feverishly typing on her cell phone.
“Hold on a second, Georgia.” Meredith held her phone against her chest and looked at me. “How are you feeling?”
I shook my head.
She walked over and patted me on the back. “They’ve sent out the Coast Guard, and a few other countries have mobilized their own search as well...” She gave me a soft smile. “They’re saying there’s a slight chance they could have landed.”
I’d done enough book research on aviation years ago to know they had no chance, but I returned her smile. “I’m sure.”
“It’s not impossible,” Kennedy said, still trying. “You, of all people, should know all about the successful water landings by planes.”
“There have only been two.” I stepped back, heading toward the bathroom. “One was in the Hudson. A river, not an ocean. The other was in the Pacific. The plane survived. Not the passengers.”
BY AFTERNOON, THE TOTAL missing time of Flight 491 was eight hours. Long range helicopters, military aircraft, and coast guard boats had all been sent to scour the area where the plane last had contact.
Jake and his copilot’s employment histories were being repeated over and again, with the news media questioning as to why Jake was listed as the Pilot-Non-Flying instead of the less experienced Clarkson.
Elite Airways had yet to issue a formal statement regarding the incident, but a cameraman caught CEO Nathaniel Pearson watching a TV in an empty gate at JFK. He’s been slumped in a chair, crying.
My phone was still off per Kennedy’s suggestion, but hers had been ringing nonstop.
Interviewers wanted me to call in to their programs and speak about what I thought regarding the event, but they also wanted to know if I ever knew either of the pilots aboard.
Kennedy handily rejected every request, and in between her and Meredith taking care of me like I was some sort of small child, she distracted me whenever I wanted to talk about Jake’s funeral arrangements.
In the middle of me begging her to listen to me about the type of flowers I would want there, she “Shh’d” me and turned on the TV.
There was breaking news on CBS.
The brunette anchor cleared her throat and hazy images of an ocean and fog played on the screen behind her.
“Good evening, loyal viewers,” she said. “We now have an update on Flight 491. According to several sources, the plane was successfully ditched in the Pacific Ocean. The area where the plane lost contact with the control towers was three hundred miles outside of the rescue team’s previous search efforts, but they are all redirecting their efforts.” She touched her ear piece. “Sources are reporting that several passengers were able to make it off the aircraft and onto the plane’s emergency flotation rafts, but at this time we do not have a number. We will keep you posted...”
My eyes remained glued to the TV for hours, devouring every little morsel the news offered: There were actually five crew onboard, not six. Jake Weston was the lead pilot, not Pilot-Non-Flying. The Coastguard had successfully helped seventy percent of the passengers onto its boats for treatment of hypothermia, shock, and severe injuries. No crew members were being reported alive.
I watched until the evening hours and not a single crew member was reported alive...
OFFICIAL ELITE AIRWAYS PRESS RELEASE
IT IS WITH SINCERE sadness that we offer our condolences to the family members of the eight passengers who succumbed to their injuries shortly after the water ditching of Flight 491.
We would also like to offer our prayers to the lead captain of Flight 491, Jake Weston, and first officer, Matthew Clarkson, who were seriously injured in their efforts to get every passenger off the plane.
GATE C52
JAKE
New York (JFK)
MY HEAD WAS THROBBING and my throat felt as if someone had set it afire.
I attempted to sit up, but I couldn’t move. My limbs felt too heavy, and as I strained to open my eyes, I saw Gillian sitting next to me.
Even though she was sleeping, her face was red and her cheeks were wet. Her hand was resting on my chest, and she was holding a collectible Coke can in her lap.
I glanced at the other side of the room and saw hundreds of flower arrangements, balloons, and
“Get Well Soon” posters. I attempted to sit up once more, but the more I tried, the wearier I became, so I shut my eyes and sighed.
I wasn’t sure how long I lay like that, but the next thing I heard was my father’s voice.
“Gillian?” he called. “Gillian?”
“Yes?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You’ve been here two weeks straight. Go home and get some rest.”
“No, thank you.”
“Maybe he’ll wake up for more than a few seconds tomorrow,” he said. “You need to take care of yourself while we wait.”
“I said, no thank you. I’m okay. Trust me.” She sounded sincere, but even in my state, I knew she was lying.
“With all due respect, Gillian,” he said, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
“Then who stays here? You? He hates you.”
“I don’t think you’re in his best graces either right now, Taylor G.”
Silence.
“Get some rest for two days and come back. If he wakes up between now and then, you’ll be my first call.” He actually sounded believable. “And you can stay at the hotel across the street. I already set up a room in your name.”
She sighed.
“And thank you very much, in advance, for continuing to stay mum on your visit here, Taylor G.”
She didn’t respond to that, and the next thing I felt were her lips pressed against my forehead. I heard her whisper, “I love you” and then I couldn’t force myself to stay awake another second.
Weeks later...
“SIR! SIR!” A NURSE walked into my room. “Sir, get back in the bed. Now.”
“I’d rather not.” I looked out the window. “Where’s the doctor? Tell him I’d like to be cleared today.”
She walked over to me and crossed her arms. “Mr. Weston, I’m going to ask you very nicely to get back into your bed.”
“Okay.” I remained by the window. “I’ll wait for you to actually ask.”
“Mark!” She yelled. “Mark!”
Within seconds, a bulky man dressed in all white entered the room.
“You, again?” he asked, shaking his head at me. “Please don’t make me pick you up and put you in your bed. I’ll be forced to use a hand strap on one of your arms this time, sir.”
Groaning, I rolled my eyes and walked over to the bed, slipping under the thin sheets.
“Thank you.” The nurse smiled at Mark, then scowled at me.
“According to your chart, you’ve suffered a laceration to the head, hypothermic shock, severe right ankle sprain, and two broken fingers on your left hand. Do you honestly think you’re clear to go today?”
“It clearly doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It doesn’t.” She smiled and checked my vitals. “You have a visitor. Are you up to seeing an
yone?”
“Depends on who it is.”
“It’s a Mr. Pearson,” she said, quickly lowering her voice. “The CEO of your airline, I believe.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Is that a yes or a no for him?” she asked.
“He can come in.”
“Alright, great.” She took my temperature and headed to the door. “Do not get out of that bed again, Mr. Weston.”
I stared at the doorway and within seconds my father appeared, looking nothing like himself. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and the usual look of confidence in his eyes was nowhere to be found.
“Why does it look like you were in a plane crash?” I asked.
“Funny.” He smiled, walking over to me. “I take it you haven’t looked at yourself in a mirror lately.”
“I will once they take the bandages off my head.”
He laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure your growing fan-club outside will continue to love you either way...I just need five minutes.”
“You said that last time and it turned into thirty.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled a packet of paper from his pocket, tossing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the piece that’s going to run in The New York Times next week. I wanted you to see it first.”
“I’m not taking over your airline, so if this is your sad attempt to get me to think about that again, it’s still a no.”
“Jake—”
“I’ll never forgive you for what you did with Riley, I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my mother,” I said, looking him straight in the eye—wondering if he was worth the rest of what I wanted to say. “But I can forgive you for being you. I don’t want your airline, though.”
“I’m not asking you to think about anything. I just want you to read the paper.” He leaned over me and hugged me against my will. “I’m sorry, and I always will be...Remember that.” He looked at me one last time and left the room.
For the second time in months, I found myself face to face with some shit I didn’t really want to read, but curiosity won me over, yet again. I flipped open the packet and couldn’t force myself to look away from the article’s headline if I tried:
The Truth About Flight 1872 & How I “Lost” My Wife, How I Really Built Elite Airways, and Why I Want My Oldest Son Back.
GATE C53
GILLIAN
New York (JFK)
“HOW DO YOU THINK THE literature lovers of America would feel if they knew that their latest beloved novelist was a slob?” Meredith asked as she drew the curtains in my bedroom, letting what was left of the sunset seep through my windows.
“I’m not a slob.” I groaned, tossing the latest copy of The New York Times across my bed. “I’m just depressed.”
It’d taken everything in me not to call Jake when I’d read all of the confessions from his father in the press, when I saw what was the first to come of media backlash for all those hidden lies. I wanted to ask him how he was feeling about everything, if he could see himself ever forgiving his family now.
Then again, since he was probably the one who so quickly banned me from his visitor’s list at the hospital, he probably wouldn’t have picked up my phone call anyway.
“You’re not depressed, Gillian. You’re pathetic.” Meredith was still talking, picking up my clothes from the floor and tossing them into a pile in the corner. “This whole Jekyll and Hyde thing—smiling for the cameras during the day and crying at night has got to stop, and it’s got to stop now.”
“Tomorrow.” I rolled across the bed. “I promise I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“You’ll be better tonight.” She yanked the covers off me. “You’ll also start writing your next book, you know the one that’s due in six months, the one your agent keeps “checking in” on you about. As your friend, I’ll give you a couple more hours to mope, but then we’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“A party.” She gave me an ‘Is that a serious question?’ look. “Where else? Remember how heartbroken you were when you and Ben came to an end all that time ago?”
“No.” And I honestly didn’t...
“Yeah, well, I do,” she said. “And the way you got over him is the same way you’re going to get over Jake. I can’t deal with your daily pity party anymore.”
“You can’t force me to do a one-night stand.” I dodged her pillow toss. “I’m not ready for that.”
“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson. You and one night stands don’t work. I’m only suggesting a party—something non-book related, something non-Jake related so you can start moving on.”
“Do you think he’s seeing someone else? Do you think she’s more of his type?” I knew I asked her these questions every day, knowing damn well she had no idea, but I couldn’t help it. I was not over Jake, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to ever completely get over him. A part of me that was still holding out hope.
“Gillian...” She sighed and walked over to my closet, opening the doors. “You and me are going to leave for a friend’s private party in exactly two hours. For those two hours, and the four to five hours we spend at the party, there will be no mentions of Jake, Elite Airways, the newspapers, nothing. The only thing I want to talk about is what you’re drinking, what you’re wearing, and who you’re interested in bringing home. That’s it.”
“The first night we met, Jake told me that he didn’t have a type,” I said. “I wonder if he was just saying that to get me to go home with him...What do you think?”
She pulled a blue dress out of my closet and threw it at me before walking toward the door. “Be ready in two hours, Gillian. Two hours.”
GATE C54
GILLIAN
New York (JFK)
I WAS CERTAIN THAT the fates above were huddled together and laughing hysterically at my expense. The “party” Meredith brought me to wasn’t on some secluded rooftop via an abandoned building like last time. It was on the rooftop of The Madison at Park Avenue, and although residents were supposedly not allowed to attend, being here only made me think of the one who currently lived right below us in Unit 80A.
Every twenty minutes, Meredith went out of her way to introduce me to someone new, someone “cool,” but the attraction was never there. At least, not in the intense way I knew it could be.
Almost every man at this party was a self-made suit or a rising visionary in the world of fashion art, but I couldn’t last in a single conversation for more than five minutes. My mind was always elsewhere, my heart too stubborn to give anyone new a chance.
Grabbing a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, I walked over the roof’s railing and looked up at the sky as a white plane hovered over The Hudson.
“Cool plane, right?” a voice to my left said. “Probably military. Probably a turbo glider or something, probably getting ready to head somewhere on the other side of the world right now.”
“No,” I said, “That’s an MD-88. It’s only for short range flights.” I turned to look at him, but he was blinking rapidly in intimidation and slowly stepping away from me.
I watched as the small plane flew higher, as it continued to make its ascent.
“So, you’re still spreading the wrong information...” The deep, low sound of that voice made my heart jump, made me turn around and come face to face with Jake.
He was still fucking perfect; still sexier than the last time we were together.
Wearing an impeccable black suit in a way that only he could, he was smiling at me, eventually taking the place right next to me at the railing.
“It was an MD-90, Miss.” He didn’t say my name. “You were close though, very close.” He glanced at my lips.
“I’m Jake.” He extended his hand, and the second I took it, every nerve in my body instantly came to life. “And you are?”
“Gillian.”
“Hmmm. What do you do for a living, Gillian?”
“I
’m a bestselling author...You?”
“I’m a pilot, senior captain actually.”
“You look a little too young to be a captain,” I said, easily mimicking our very first conversation the night we met.
“Well,” he said, planting a light kiss on my forehead. “My high number of flight hours say differently.”
Silence.
For several minutes, the two of us simply stood staring at each other, and I knew, right then and there, that my heart was still tethered to his, that there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would ever fall for anyone else the way I fell for him.
His eyes never left mine and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer as if he was going to reclaim my mouth with his, but he stopped before our lips could touch.
“I have something I would like you to sign.” His hands skimmed my hips and he looked into my eyes. “Will you do that for me?”
I nodded and he slowly let me go, reaching into his blazer and pulling out a paperback copy of Turbulence and a pen.
“You can sign it under the dedication,” he said. “Right under, For you, only you.”
I took the pen from his hands and wrote, “Even if you’ve moved on, you’re still *my* anomaly” on the title page. Then I signed under the dedication.
Smiling, he took the book from me. “You’re still my anomaly, Gillian,” he said softly. “You always will be.”
“Does that mean you’re not upset about the book anymore?”
“I’m fucking livid about the book.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And actually, since we’re on that topic, let’s get a few things straight: One, your use of aviation terminology is terribly executed throughout the book. You thanked your content editor in the credits so I had high hopes, but after three times of going through it with my highlighter, I’m still finding mistakes.”
