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This was nice, Riley thought, browsing through a collection of photographs and documents. She lived in Washington, D.C., but she didn’t take advantage of the culture. She didn’t visit the museums. She worked during the week, and on weekends she did laundry and food shopping.
She walked to the railing to look at the large prop bomber. The plane was suspended from the ceiling and hung just below the second-level balcony. She was looking down at the plane, imagining what it must have been like to be part of the war effort, when she was grabbed from behind, lifted off her feet, and pitched forward. Her knees hit the top of the railing, someone cursed behind her, and shoved her over the edge. She went into a free fall with arms flailing and eyes wide open, looking at the cement floor thirty feet below. There were no thoughts in her head. Just raw terror.
The plane was directly beneath her. She hit it square on the fuselage, couldn’t get a grip, and tumbled down onto a wing. Her momentum carried her off the edge of the wing, but she was able to grab on to one of the large propellers.
She dangled precariously, holding tight to the propeller. She felt the blade slowly rotate from horizontal to near vertical, and her grip started to slip. She looked down at the floor, felt panic sweep over her, and shouted for Emerson.
She looked from the floor to the balcony and saw Emerson launch himself over the guardrail and drop onto the wing. He stabilized for a moment and then grabbed her wrist from above and held tight.
“If you want to avoid situations like this in the future, we’re really going to have to work on your unagi,” Emerson said.
“S-s-sure,” Riley said. “Whatever. Just don’t drop m-m-me.”
Emerson pulled her onto the wing and held her tight against him.
“Don’t move,” he said. “We aren’t entirely secure.”
Riley had no intention of moving. Her heart was pounding, and she could barely breathe. She had her eyes squinched closed and her fingers curled into Emerson’s shirt. She thought she might have wet her pants a little. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“My unagi tells me you’d like to be kissed,” Emerson said.
Riley opened her eyes and looked at him while he kissed her softly on the lips.
“How was that?” he asked.
“It was nice. You’re a good kisser.”
“I enjoyed it,” he said. “We should do it more.”
“And it helped to take my mind off our problem.”
“What problem is that?”
“The plane,” Riley said. “We could slip off and die.”
“That would be unpleasant,” Emerson said.
People were scrambling below them. Museum guards, Park Police, curious tourists. Sirens from first responders could be heard in the distance. EMT trucks, fire trucks, police cars.
“This is a nightmare,” Riley said.
“Perhaps, but a brush with death is always interesting. And the kiss added a certain something.”
Riley didn’t want to be ungrateful, because, after all, Emerson had risked his life for hers, but criminy, explaining their kiss in terms of “a certain something” was just about the most unromantic thing she’d ever heard.
“A certain something?” she asked Emerson.
“Je ne sais quoi,” Emerson said.
Okay, Riley thought, it sounded better in French, but it wasn’t going to get him another kiss anytime soon.
There was a loud SPLAT, and someone shrieked in another part of the hall. A school group was rushed out of the area, running underneath Riley and Emerson.
“What’s going on?” Riley yelled down.
“Someone fell,” a guard said. “Not as lucky as you, I’m afraid.”
Riley locked eyes with Emerson. “Where’s Wayan Bagus?”
