Page 112 of Aviatrix

I stare down at the concrete. My fists shake. “Can I be dismissed?”

“You’re dismissed until tomorrow morning,” he says. “Still Alien Warfare for now. But if you disobey orders again, you’ll lose more than your aircraft. Understood?”

He doesn’t even falter. He just issues my sentence like I’m nothing. Like the girl who stood beside him all those years never mattered.

I lift my chin, eyes blazing. “Understood.” You heartless bastard.

Let him ground me.

I already learned how to fly without him.

TWENTY-FIVE

NOT IN THE POETIC, HEARTBREAK WAY

The alarm blares through the shared room. Thea groans and slams her hand on the clock, silencing it.

“You awake?” she mumbles, flipping on the lamp between our beds.

I never went to sleep. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the wreckage. Eli’s wreckage. Curling smoke. Scorched earth. Twisted metal. Bent landing gear. The nose of an aircraft, half-buried in snow. It’s been playing on a loop in my head ever since.

“Yeah,” I manage.

“We’ll grab breakfast on the way,” she says with a yawn, snatching her clothes from the floor. “Atlas said we can’t be late.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I reply as she slips into her pants.

“If you’re late, you’ll never hear the end of it,” she teases gently, tugging a shirt over her head.

I nod, but stay seated as she grabs her boots and heads for the door.

Thea’s the kind of person who thinks being on time means being fifteen minutes early. She’d rather take a bullet than be thirty seconds late.

Can’t say I’m the same.

I run a hand down my face. I probably look awful. Not that it matters. I feel worse.

My chest aches. Not in the poetic, heartbreak way. In the real, physical way. Tight. Throbbing. Like I’ve been sucker punched in the sternum.

I didn’t realize I still felt this much for Eli. Didn’t think his death would tear through me like this. But maybe Lark was right. Maybe I never set a date because Eli never really left. At least, not in the back of my mind.

All those surprise visits.

He always claimed it was a mission, or protocol, or a classified reason to get a few hours with me. And then he’d vanish again. But he always came back.

Maybe I knew, deep down, that he would.

Which makes this hurt more. Because maybe I didn’t move on. Maybe I couldn’t.

He’s my Burning House Theory.

He’s always been it for me.

I force myself to stand. My chest still feels heavy. Like I’ve been stabbed, and I’m walking around with blood soaked into my shirt. Except, there’s nothing there.

Just air. And a hollow space where something used to be.

I dress slowly, every limb heavy with exhaustion. It’s going to take an entire pot of coffee to get me through the day. If I even make it that far.