Victor leans forward, reading over the outline with the same fervor he probably brings to acquisition contracts.
"This is good," he says after a moment. "The pacing is smart. Building from simple to complex."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He scrolls down. "But this section here—the ingredient breakdown—you're assuming too much knowledge. Not everyone knows what a roux is."
"Really?"
"Really. You need to explain the basics without being condescending."
“Wow. That’s, uh, actually really helpful."
"I'm occasionally helpful."
"Occasionally."
He smiles, and we spend the next twenty minutes going through the scripts together. He asks questions. Offers suggestions. Challenges my assumptions in a way that makes the work better without making me feel stupid.
It's collaborative and natural. And surprisingly fun.
"You're good at this," I say eventually.
"At what?"
"At making me feel like we're equals. Even though you're—" I gesture at the plane. "—you."
His expression softens. "We are equals, Harper. That's the point."
Before I can respond, the plane hits turbulence, rocking hard. Within several seconds, the rocking turns to “please return to your seats” levels.
Before long, it morphs into the kind that makes the overhead bins rattle and my stomach drop to my feet.
"Just some chop," Victor says calmly. "It'll pass."
The plane drops again, and my hands grip the armrests hard enough to hurt.
"Harper?"
"I'm fine."
Another drop starts, harder this time, and my heart stops, my breathing turning shallow.
"Harper." Victor's voice sharpens. "Look at me."
I can't. Because if I look at him, I'll have to admit that I'm spiraling. That the turbulence isn't the problem—the problem is everything else.
The FoodFirst emails I've been ignoring.
My father’s medical bills I can't pay.
The lie I'm living every day I don't tell him the truth.
"I can't—" My voice comes out strangled. "I can't breathe."
Victor is out of his seat immediately, kneeling in front of me, his hands covering mine on the armrests.
"Yes, you can. Look at me."
