I turn to look at him, surprised by the admission. John isn’t exactly the type to talk about his feelings.
“You’ve got your buddies from work,” I say, referring to the various characters he hangs out with from whatever odd jobs he’s doing at the moment.
He shrugs. “Not the same.”
I understand what he’s saying even without him saying it.
John and I understand each other because we’re both damaged in our own ways. He, with his parents, who kicked him out at sixteen when they found him stealing their prescriptions. Me, with my mother who abandoned me, and the toxic household I escaped.
“I’m not dying, you know,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m just going to work on an island. I’ll be back to crash on your couch again before you know it.”
He snorts. “If this place is as great as you think it’ll be, you won’t need my shitty couch anymore.”
“I’ll always need your shitty couch,” I reply, meaning it more than I can express. “It’s the first place that ever felt safe.”
John clears his throat and turns up the radio, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional turn of the conversation. I smile to myself and turn back to the window.
When we pull up to the address I was given, I’m surprised to see a legitimate heliport. For some reason, I half-expected to find an empty lot or a sketchy warehouse. But there it is, a real heliport with a sleek helicopter sitting on the pad. Several uniformed staff members move around the area, and there’s a small but professional-looking reception building.
“Shit,” John mutters, pulling into a parking space. “This might actually be real.”
I give him a triumphant look. “Told you.”
But as I reach for the door handle, a sudden wave of anxiety washes over me.What am I doing?I’m about to geton a helicopter and fly to an island I’ve never heard of before yesterday.
Maybe John is right. Maybe this is crazy.
I bite my lower lip, my hand frozen on the handle. What if I get there and it’s terrible? What if the owners are abusive? What if I’m trapped there with no way to get back?
But I can’t let John see my doubts. Not after I’ve spent all morning convincing him this is a good idea. Especially when he’s looking at me with that mixture of worry and resignation.
“Well,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “This is it.”
I sling my ratty backpack over my shoulder and step out of the car. John follows, his eyes darting around suspiciously as if expecting to see armed guards or human traffickers lurking behind the professional facade.
We approach the reception building together. A young woman in a crisp uniform looks up from a computer as we enter.
“Welcome to Coastal Heliport. How may I assist you today?” she asks with a practiced smile.
“I’m Anya Rosewood,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m supposed to be on a flight to Wolf Isle at 2 PM?”
Her smile widens. “Of course, Ms. Rosewood. We’ve been expecting you.” She taps something on her computer. “May I see your identification, please?”
I fumble with my wallet and hand over my driver’s license. She examines it briefly, then returns it with another smile. “Everything seems to be in order. Captain Morris will be your pilot today. He’s just completing his pre-flight checks, and then we’ll get you on board. Would you like some water or coffee while you wait?”
“Water would be great, thank you,” I reply, slightly dazed by how smoothly everything is proceeding.
As she walks away to fetch my water, John leans in close. “Okay, so they’re not immediately harvesting your organs. That’s a good sign.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Stop it.”
The receptionist returns with a bottle of water that looks far fancier than anything I’ve had. “Captain Morris will be ready for departure in about fifteen minutes. Please make yourself comfortable in our waiting area.”
I thank her and turn to John. This is it. Time to say goodbye.
“So,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for the ride.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, no problem,” he says, pulling me into a tight hug. “Be careful, okay? And remember, text me when you get there.”
