Because, of course, there isn’t.
Bubble phones don’t run on Wi-Fi.
A choked breath stumbles out of me, not quite a sob but close enough to sting. I shove the bubble phone into the seat back pocket like it burns more than the firestorm brewing in my gut.
Breathe.
It’s fine,I tell myself, knowing it’s anything but. I’ll just listen to his voicemail as soon as I’m in the car with Dad. Then call, not text, when I get settled as planned. Tell him what I’ve been too afraid to say. Tell him what might still matter.
My fingers swipe across the smooth screen of my smartphone, and I send Dad a quick text.
Me: Boarded. Still landing at noon. See you soon.
Stupid smile emoji. Feels as plastic as those mean-ish girls who wore pink on Wednesdays.
As always, his reply comes quickly.
Dad: Can’t wait, sweetheart. I’ll be outside baggage claim. Have a safe flight.
The engine hum deepens, vibrating beneath my feet as the plane begins to taxi. I shove my smartphone inside my purse and kick it beneath the seat. Summer memories flicker through my head, like I’m watching the entire season shrink in a rearview mirror.
I press my forehead to the window, its cool surface quietly soothing as the world outside begins to blur. Crystal Cove stretches beneath the plane like a watercolor painting—rooftops blending into trees, the boardwalk fading into the horizon, the shoreline etched in gold.
Our beach becomes nothing more than a shimmer—a smear of sunlight and memory and magic I can’t take with me.
My heart burrows into my stomach.
I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, untethered from the only man who’s ever really seen me.
Somewhere between a deep sigh and another round of tears, I must’ve fallen asleep.
When I blink awake, the plane is already descending, light turbulence nudging me back to the surface. My neck aches from leaning toward the window, and my mouth tastes like cotton drenched in sorrow.
New York’s skyline cuts through the haze, rising like a reckoning, a future I’m not quite ready to believe in.
The Empire State Building gleams in the distance, caught between morning gold and shadow.
Is it possible to feel two things at once?
To be grateful and gutted. Hopeful and hollow.
Happy to be home and shattered because I left mine behind.
A soft chime echoes overhead.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York. The local time is 11:52 a.m.
I blink again, like I can slow the moment down if I try hard enough.
With a sigh, I haul my oversized purse over my shoulder. Slowly, I stand, bracing myself as the aisle floods with movement and overhead bins click open in a chaotic chorus.
I spot my carry-on—silver Rimowa with red handles, its brushed-aluminum edges dulled by too many miles—and tug it from the compartment with a small grunt. The wheels bump against my calves as I follow the crowd toward the front of the plane, oversized shades shielding the mess I’ve become, Knox’shoodie still wrapped around me like armor I didn’t earn and can’t,won’t, let go of.
The jet bridge is all metal and motion, noisy and narrow, as the scent of brewed coffee and recycled air welcomes me back to the world.
I don’t pause to read directional signs.
My feet know where to go even if my heart doesn’t.
