"Thank God," Preston breathes. "Luke is already packing the protein bars, you’re lucky he has today off. He says if he has to listen to Mother discuss 'floral architectural integrity' one more time, he’s going to sedateher."
"We are at the VIP wing," I say, checking my watch. "Jax is booking the tickets now. Meet us at the Ambulance Bay in five minutes. We're not taking the Volvo. We need speed."
"I’m taking the Porsche," Preston confirms. "Luke is bringing the glitter. We’re inbound."
I hang up. Jax holds up his phone, the screen flashingCONFIRMED.
"Four seats. Business Class," Jax says, shoving the phone into his pocket. "Because if I’m going to be a runaway groom, I’m doing it with legroom."
He grabs my hand. His grip is firm, grounding, a physical tether in the chaos.
"Let’s go," Jax says. "Before she realizes we’ve breached the perimeter."
We don't wait for a dismissal. We run.
Chapter 2
The Transcontinental U-Turn
Max
There are exactly 412 seats on a Boeing 747-8. I know this because I have counted them on the safety card three times in the last twenty minutes. I have also calculated the cubic volume of the overhead bins (insufficient for the amount of carry-on luggage currently being stowed by the bachelorette party in row 5) and analyzed the vibrational frequency of the engine, which is humming at a pitch that suggests a 0.4% variance in the number two turbine.
We are at thirty thousand feet, cruising somewhere over the Midwest. The cabin pressure is set to six thousand feet, which makes my ears pop rhythmically every four minutes. To my left, Jax is asleep. Or at least, he is pretending to be. His eyes are closed, but his hand is gripping the armrest with enough force to crack the molded plastic. He hates flying. He says it violates his control issues because he cannot personally inspect the pilot’s credentials or the hydraulic lines.
"Macadamia nut?" Luke asks from across the aisle.
Lucas 'Luke' Silva—my brother's beau, St. Jude’s newest ER Attending, and the son of the most terrifying woman at St. Jude'shospital, Mama Ortiz—is holding out a packet of warmed nuts. He is wearing a hoodie that saysNurses Do It With Patience, which is technically inaccurate since he is a doctor, but Luke enjoys the irony and his mother appreciates the moral support.
"No," I say, checking my watch. "We are forty-five minutes into a five-hour flight. We need to conserve resources. We do not know what the food situation will be in Nevada."
"Max," Preston says from the window seat next to Luke. "We are in Business Class. They bring us warm cookies. We are not refugees. We are fugitives with SkyMiles."
Preston, my brother and a forensic psychiatric resident, looks entirely too calm. He is wearing a charcoal turtleneck that probably cost more than the landing gear of this aircraft. He is reading a medical journal titledNarcissism in the Matriarchy: A Case Study. I suspect he is profiling our mother. Again.
"She knows," I whisper. I can feel it. The vibration of the plane feels wrong. The air recycling system sounds too aggressive. "Catherine knows we’re gone."
"She’s in a strategy meeting with the florist," Jax mumbles, not opening his eyes. "She’s arguing about the structural integrity of a peony arch. We’re safe, Max. We’re going to Vegas. We’re going to find an Elvis who isn't dead, we’re going to get married, and I am going to eat a burger that hasn't been deconstructed into a foam."
I want to believe him. I want to believe in the linear trajectory of this flight. Point A to Point B. New York to Las Vegas. Freedom.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. The "Fasten Seatbelt" sign is off, and the need to verify the data is itching under my skin. I stand up and step into the aisle, crossing the invisible demilitarized zone to where Preston and Luke are sitting.
"Preston," I say.
My brother looks up, marking his page with a silk ribbon. "Maxwell. Are you experiencing a panic attack, or have you come to reorganize the beverage cart?"
"I need to confirm the parameters of the operation," I say, lowering my voice so the flight attendant—who is currently pouring champagne for the bachelorette party—doesn't hear. "You are the Best Man. Historically, this role involves organizing a bachelor party and ensuring the groom arrives at the venue. However, given the current tactical situation, the role has expanded."
Preston raises his eyebrow. "Expanded how?"
"You are now the Chief of Logistics for a clandestine operation," I clarify. "Do you have the rings?"
Preston pats his breast pocket. "Titanium. Hypoallergenic. Indestructible. Just as you requested."
"Do you have the psychiatric override codes in case I enter a fugue state?"
"I have a syringe of lorazepam in my carry-on and a power of attorney drafted on a napkin," Preston assures me. "You are covered."
