Page 4 of Dearly Departed

“Yes,” he admits.

“It wasn’t,” I manage, and then I can’t help it. I’m laughing, too. Because of all the situations we could have been in, we’re in this one.

It takes a while to stop panic-laughing. When I finally do, my abs feel like I’ve overdone it on Pilates crunches and the skin around my eyes burns from the tears. Jacob and I have ended up leaning on each other, shoulder to shoulder, supported by the soft leather clouds of the private plane’s sofa, which can extend into a double bed at the push of a button.

This time, the silence between us is heavier, though the sound of the air whooshing stays perfectly steady.

“I know how to ride a horse,” Jacob says into that non-silence, his hand over mine.

“You got us thrown off a horse.”

“I don’t know how to parachute out of a plane. In case you were going to ask me about our options.”

I swallow something that might be laughter or might be tears. “Why would I ask you about our options when you didn’t love me enough to tell me you wanted to break up?”

Jacob’s hand tightens on mine. “Maybe I love you enough that I thought this was the only way to save you.”

“From what? Having a bunch of great sex?”

“Being with me.”

“I don’t want to be saved from that, but thanks for thinking of me.”

Jacob huffs a laugh. “I’ll try to figure something else out before…”

He trails off, but we both know how the sentence ends: before we’re out of time.

I squeeze his hand back. I’m still tired and angry and bewildered, but there will be time to work through those things when all this is over.

In the meantime, I don’t know if Jacob can pull off a miracle. I’ll have to be ready to save us both.

2

JACOB

Sweet Jesus, this is bad.

I have no earthly idea where Raymond Harris is planning to fly this plane. I have no idea if he’s planning to land. He might have decided that turning the entire plane into a fireball on the side of the nearest mountain would be best.

Out Catherine’s window, there’s nothing but ocean, so a mountain crash doesn’t seem imminent.

Catherine holds my hand and scrolls through her phone.

“Do you have service, kitten?”

“No,” she answers, glancing at me from under her lashes. “All it showed me is, like, one weather alert for heavy rain, and I don’t know if that’s for New York or…wherever this plane is going. I’m just looking for inspiration.”

Inspiration, like she’s in the first stages of planning her deplaning outfit. The image almost sends me into another fit of laughter, but I suppress it. Nothing about this is funny. Except for the extreme to which my plans have gone astray.

Catherine was never supposed to be on this plane. Her life was supposed to be in less danger after we said I do, not more. I suppose there’s not much point in dwelling on how massively I’ve fucked up, but with Catherine sitting next to me looking utterly, completely beautiful, with her engagement ring and wedding band on her finger, the fault feels like a rope around my neck. I hate myself so completely that it’s embedded in my skin. Tattooed on, as it were. I’d claw off all the places that feel filthy with shame if Catherine wasn’t here to see it.

For now, I keep my free hand on the armrest and concentrate on Catherine’s hand in mine.

Some time in the windblown silence of the airplane passes. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend this really is the honeymoon Catherine was so sure I’d planned. I thought this was a surprise! I wish I could see myself the way she does. I wish I’d had as much faith in her as she has in me.

Had in me. I can’t imagine Catherine will want me after this catastrophe.

If we survive.