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“Jet crashing will do that to you.”
“Among other things,” she murmurs with a flush.
Instead of bothering Arie, I stand, going to the built-in compartment above our heads. I pull out a pillow, handing it to her.
“Here,” I say, taking my seat beside her.
She takes it, grateful. “Thanks.”
I watch as she settles the pillow between her and the window. She nestles her head down in the softness of it, her breaths coming deeper and steady.
I stand, careful not to disturb her. I sift through the small cupboard where Arie keeps the linens. I find a soft, gray blanket and gently cover her with it. She smiles, sinking further into the seat.
What am I doing?
It’s too much.
The draw I feel toward her.
It’s pulling me in. Making me lose control.
I don’t want to get pulled under.
I leave the room, sliding the door closed behind me. “Look after her if she wakes up,” I tell Arie. I return to my freshly cleaned cubicle and try to sleep. I’m woken by sunlight pouring into my space, Lindy in the seat across from me, staring out the window.
When did she come in here?
She whispers with excitement. “Are those cats down there?”
“Why are you whispering? You’ve already woken me up.” I blink hard, rubbing the blurriness from my eyes.
“Didn’t realize I was,” she whispers, still staring out the window. “But we’ve landed so probably time for you to wake up. Arie said we’re gonna be on the tarmac for a minute waiting for another plane to leave. More time to view the wildlife. Gosh that’s a cute one.”
I settle back deeper into my seat with a groan. “Don’t tell me the cats are back.” I’d forgotten Sasha had mentioned it earlier on the phone.
“What do you mean the cats are back? Where did they go? Wow, that’s quite a few. One, two, three. Oh, look at that pretty calico!” she says.
“They aren’t pretty when they’re shitting all over the grass.”
“You are a grump, aren’t you? What’s a little cat poo when you get to have those sweeties around all day.” She stares below. “Aww. Look at that black one all stretched out. He looks like he’s enjoying the sunshine today.”
I glance out the window. Yep. The little shits are back, alright. I change the subject, unable to spend the next however long listening to her talk about them.
I pick up the conversation where we left off last night, before she fell asleep. “What’s your story angle? If you’re looking for drugs, you won’t find them. We don’t touch the stuff.”
“That’s good,” she says.
“Drugs can get you high,” I say. “But not like sex can.”
God, I love to make that sweet, innocent face of hers blush.
“You are a journalist, aren’t you.” It’s not a question.
“What makes you say that?” She won’t look at me, just stares out the window. “Would you look at the spots on that little one. He’s like a tiny cow cat.” She taps a manicured fingernail against the glass.
“Was it money or sex. Those are the two things that sell the most stories.” Intrigue, violence, loyalty, drama, wealth, murder, crime. Any salacious story a journalist wants to track down, we Bachmans can provide the goods.
“Tell me,” I say.
