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Once I sit down, I shove my messenger bag—the only bag I brought with me—under the seat in front of mine. Two flight attendants assist passengers with their carry-ons, alternating between shoving the luggage in the overhead bins and shutting the doors once they’re full.
“You heading home or leaving home?” the man beside me asks, and I look up to meet his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“Heading home or leaving home?”
“Uh…” I pause, unsure of what to answer, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness overcomes me. Before I know it, my vision is blurred with tears, and I’m sitting there, moments away from falling apart and unable to speak words.
Am I coming or going? Truthfully, respectfully, sir, I don’t fucking know.
Home feels like an intangible—like it simply doesn’t exist. There is no place of comfort, no support to turn to. I am, once again, on my own and bumbling.
My vision blurs even more. Tears fall past my lids, stream down my cheeks, and show my truth.
“I’m sorry,” the man apologizes, completely caught off guard by my manic emotions. “I didn’t mean to—”
Didn’t mean to open the biggest can of worms to hit American Airlines this century? Yeah, me neither.
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head and holding up a hand to hide my face. “It’s not you. Things are just…not the greatest.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that—I can only imagine the helplessness a man feels when faced with a woman he doesn’t even know dissolving into tears—and I certainly don’t know what to say either, so we just kind of sit there, him now avoiding looking in my direction and me trying like hell to stop crying.
But it’s no use. The dam has been broken. The floodwaters charge.
I don’t like how I feel, and I really don’t like that I’m this much to blame for feeling it.
My father inserts himself into my life, and what? I don’t know how to do anything but run?
I am such a coward.
Admitting it is the first step. The second is finding a way to stop, my mind coaxes me gently. Come on, Rachel, take control of your life—for real this time.
“Good evening, everyone. This is your pilot speaking. I apologize for the short delay, but we had a minor issue with ticketing at the gate. If you’ll just bear with us, once we get that situated, we’ll be ready to get you on your way to LAX.”
Why am I going to LA? Why do I think that’s the answer?
Easy, my mind taunts. Because it’s just about as far away as you can get from here—as far away as you can get from dealing with things head on.
God. This has to be the most impulsive, stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The stupidest fucking lie I’ve ever told myself.
New York is my home.
It’s the place of my birth and the memories of my mother and laughter and love with Lydia and Lou. It’s late nights at the bakery and early mornings at stupid dance classes. It’s poor choices and life-changing excitement.
The road isn’t smooth, but fuck, what did I expect? New York traffic is always a nightmare.
And I can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world when I write my first poetry book.
Because that’s what I want to do. It’s my passion, my purpose, my solace.
And the man who helped me figure all of this out is here too.
I…I think I love Ty. Think I could build a life with him—if he’ll give me the time I need to sort the rest of my shit out first.
He did say he loves me.
Which is why you better get your ass off this fucking plane, sister.
In an instant, I’m on my feet and scrambling to climb over my seatmate in a rush. “I’m sorry,” I mutter and jockey myself over his legs before I can even give him a chance to move. “I have to go.”
Once I’m in the aisle, I realize my messenger bag is still under the seat, and I just lean right over him to grab it. “Shit. Sorry. I have to get off this plane.”
“Miss?” a flight attendant asks, walking down the aisle toward me. “You need to be seated.”
“No.” I shake my head and lift the strap of my bag over my shoulders. “I need to go.”
“No, actually, you need to sit down.”
Geez-us, lady, I’m trying to have an epiphany here!
I feel manic. Crazy. Like if I don’t get off this plane right now, I’m going to pass out.
“Miss, you need to sit back down,” she repeats and points toward my vacated seat.
“No, you don’t understand. I have to go. I can’t be on this flight. I don’t belong in LA.”
“We are about to take off,” she states firmly, and her brown eyes grow stern. “You need to sit down.”
“I’m sorry.” I look around to the now-confused passengers on the plane. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I can’t go to LA. I don’t belong in LA. I belong here.”
