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CHAPTERTWO
Gavin Gold
The bitter coffee smell fills my plane’s cabin as I soar through the clouds. The mountain tops are so close I can almost reach out and touch them. This is the perfect escape. Up here, my world is simple. I know this plane inside and out, down to the left propeller, and she practically flies herself these days. Ol’ Billy Jean flies like a dream because my Grandad and I built her. The old man would be proud to see her fly again. It's taken me a year, but she’s made for the clouds. This is where she belongs. I imagine he’s up here somewhere, or someplace close, looking down on us with that crooked gap-toothed smile.
Ivan was a great man and father when I didn’t have one and by far a greater man than me. He’s sorely missed by his friends and family. Life just isn’t the same without him. His great words of wisdom seem to be needed more now that he’s gone.
Still, I wake up every day with my chin up, just like I promised.
Billy Jean rattles a bit as I press up the rocky landscape of the Carolina mountains. Adrenaline like this can’t be found in any stimulant. My mood lifts, and I pull up the tiller soaring a little too high, pushing this beat-up cargo plane to her limit. It’s a game of chicken to see who’ll break first. The thrill comes with peace and a sense of freedom. This is exactly what I needed after months of utter depression.
But just when I think I’m breathing above water again, I catch sight of my tattoo.
No more letters, ok? We’re not kids anymore.
Maybe stop doing what everyone else wants you to do. Your dad doesn’t need you as much as you need him to need you.
I might sound like a dick, I guess. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but I’ve always thought that. If you really wanted to change your life, you would.
You’ve always been honest with me. I’m just returning the favor.
Have a great life.
Gavin
The last letter I sent my best friend was laced with Jack Daniels, tears from losing my grandfather, and blood dripping off my knuckles after punching a wall. I’ve never been any good at expressing my emotions, but I could always write to Joey. I’d written her hundreds, if not thousands, of letters in the past, yet I cut her off. I didn’t answer her question, “Who do you think would win in a fight, a yeti or a sasquatch?” even though it made me smile when I read it.
No, instead of telling her everything, every embarrassing emotion I’m feeling, I cut her off. And I’m sick about it. I hate the feeling it gives me. Vulnerable, weak, pathetic. A fucking pussy is what my grandad would call me. He was a brass knuckle man of the navy. He would not be confiding his feelings in a childhood pen pal.
But Joey isn’t just a pen pal after all we’ve been through together. We shared milestones in each other’s lives for the past seventeen years. Even though we never met, I always felt a bond with her. How could eight-year-old me not be intrigued by a girl who, at eight years old, knew her way around an engine? A plane or car made no difference to me. If the girl was still writing me letters when she knew I was a boy, then I counted my lucky stars.
My best friend at the time had just gotten his first girlfriend, and I was jealous as fuck even though I had no clue what being girlfriend and boyfriend meant.
I laugh, remembering I never asked Joey to be my girlfriend even though I wanted to. After third grade was over, we just kept writing. It didn’t even occur to us to stop, so we didn’t.
After a flight above the town, I land on my runway an hour later and put Billie Jean to bed in the same place she’s been parked for the last year.
“Good ride,” I say, patting the tiller and turning her off. This is her first flight since Grandad died. It should make me feel better that the old bird still has it in her, but it doesn’t. He should have been the pilot, not me.
Jumping out, I secure everything in the garage, lock it up tight, and head over to the house. It's not that I’m too worried about thieves all the way out here, but I’d rather be safe than sorry—another thing my old man used to say. My chest burns with all the memories this place brings back.
Stepping into my office, I sit at the desk and pull a bottle of bourbon from the file cabinet. It’s mostly full after my buddy Jasper’s last visit.
The desk is cluttered and chaotic, making it difficult to locate a clean page and a pen. When I finally do, I’ve also reached the bottom of my first glass. The warm liquor burns on the way down, but it all feels numb soon. I spot the last photo Joey sent me to the left of my glass. It’s a picture of her on the hood of a dark Green old Chevy pickup truck holding up two fingers to signify peace. She’s fucking adorable. Black grease is on her chin, and her jeans are ripped. But she’s goddamn beautiful.
But as I write, all the dark and lonely thoughts I feel cause my words to become aggressive. The drink is strong, and my head isn’t straight as I pour my anger onto the page. I spew out mean and hurtful things to her. I lie and tell her writing to her feels stupid when it feels like the only right thing in my life. But right now, I’m angry. I’m alone. It's sad but true. A sick part of me feels good being mad. Suppressed in my gut, now finally free, I lash out, using her secrets against her. Even knowing anything involving her mother would hurt her, I still don’t stop. Five pages in, my vision blurs, and I slap my name, Gavin Gold, at the bottom.
My body sways, off-balance as I reach for the envelope, tuck in my letter of self-sabotage, and package it with her name and address. A false sense of closure sweeps over me. She’ll never write me another letter. If I know my girl, she won't even reply to my rambling. Nope, Joey Bennett will ghost me. The worst thing I could ever do to myself is push the last person I have in my life away, but that’s exactly what I do.
