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24
For the firsttime in a decade I stay awake for a plane ride. It’s uncomfortable. But not because of overwhelming fear or flying phobia.
No. It’s uncomfortable because I’m facing the fact that I’ve made a mess of things.
I was so prejudiced against Declan, from the very start, that I couldn’t see past my own pride.
I stare out the airplane window at the blue, blue sky and the clouds far below. A month ago, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted in life. To write articles for the paper, to renovate my cottage, and to maybe someday slowly and quietly fall into love with a nice, easy sort of man.
Someone like Michael.
Or Theo.
I cringe at the thought.
Declan said that I wasn’t at all like the women he usually dated, that he would never have chosen me for himself. It made me angry at the time. But now, I realize he isn’t like the men I chose either. The men I chose had the appearance of goodness but were never actually good in truth.
I suppose my heart knew better than my mind.
The flight attendant wheels the cart by and asks Arya and me if we’d like any tea or coffee.
“Tea please,” I say.
Arya shakes her head and closes her eyes. She doesn’t seem worried or anxious like she did on the plane ride to England. In fact, she seems resigned. Happy to be heading home, but also resigned.
The flight attendant hands me a full teacup and a packet of shortbread. I take a sip of the steaming hot bitter tea.
Arya opens her eyes and turns to me. “Do you think Kate will be happy?” she asks.
I think about it for a moment. For the last five years, the one thing Kate wanted most was to go home. To be welcomed back by her family. With Michael she finally achieved her wish.
I give Arya a small smile. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
She nods. “Me too.”
Arya closes her eyes again, and soon she’s asleep. I have to admit the low hum of the jet engines and the soft vibration of the airplane is rather soothing.
All these years I’ve been terrified of flying, and the only thing I needed to cure my fear was first, a loathing of Declan Fox, and second, a love for him.
The plane gives a hard bump and my seat shakes. It gives another jerk and the tea on my tray back sloshes out of the cup. What’s happening? I look around the plane but no one seems concerned. My mouth goes dry and my heart pounds. I grasp my armrests and my knuckles turn white. Never mind, love can’t cure a fear of flying.
I think about telling Declan about this moment. “Were you afraid?” he’d ask. “Not at all,” I’d say. And then he’d grin at me because he’d know I was lying.
I stare out the window, the clouds have cleared and the ocean is far, far below. My mind starts the “Declan tape” again, replaying all our interactions from the moment we met. This time, I let it.
When we land, it’s eight at night and dark out. It feels like two in the morning. I can barely keep my eyes open. I hug Arya goodnight, make it home and then fall into bed.
I don’t dream.
When the shrill ringing of my cellphone wakes me up, I’m surprised to see bright afternoon light shining through my bedroom window.
“’Lo?” I croak into the receiver.
“Isla. Weren’t you awake yet?” It’s my mom. She’s chiding me, like all moms do when they think you’ve slept too long and wasted away the day.
“Mom. I’m jetlagged,” I say. I sit up in bed and rub at my eyes. “What time is it?”
“In Greece it’s seven at night. It’s already lunchtime on Mariposa.”
“You’re in Greece? When did you get there?” I thought she was in Mongolia. I yawn and nearly crack my jaw with how wide my mouth goes.
“No, no. Your father and I met in Greece for a vacation. He finished his assignment in Afghanistan. Do you remember that little inn on the coast in Santorini? We met there.”
“Ah,” I say.
I’m starting to wake up and I’m back on familiar ground. My parents jumping from country to country and meeting in random locations is the story of my life. And happily, I was usually in this same cottage for all of it. I’m so grateful my mom was wise enough to give me a home full of so much love.
“How long are you in Santorini for?” I ask.
“Never mind that,” she says, and I hear the impatience in her voice. “Your father wants to talk to you.”
I climb off my bed and stand. “He does?”
He doesn’t ever ask to talk to me. Usually my mom forces the phone on him. We’ve never had much to talk about after I told him point blank I wouldn’t be following in his footsteps.
“Here he is,” my mom says.
I hear the rustling of the phone and then the silence as my dad takes the phone.
“Isla?” he says. His voice is sharp and deep.
“Hi Dad.” I walk across my creaky floor out of my bedroom.
He clears his throat. I wait for him to say whatever it is he needs to. The silence lasts for fifteen seconds. I make it to my living room. The cottage is empty and quiet.
Suddenly, the happiness and love I’ve always felt here seems less bright. I frown. It almost feels…lonely.
I look toward the kitchen, as if I expect, well, as if I expect Declan to be leaning against the wall, smirking at me. Tossing an apricot in his hand.
I shake my head. The image of Declan disappears.
No, it’s just me here. Me and no one else.
Maybe I should ask my parents to come for a visit.
