He had healed her once.
And now, it felt like he was ripping those stitches apart.
FIFTEEN
JARED
I KNEW EXACTLY what terror looked like. And as I gazed at Billie, I was staring it right in the face.
But this was a situation I wasn’t able to fix; I couldn’t safely get us out of the plane until it was on the ground. I couldn’t help the pilots land. I couldn’t repair the engine.
There wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do besides keep her calm and as protected as I could, making sure we had the best chance of surviving this.
Whatever the hell this was.
And without knowing that, I couldn’t answer Billie’s question. I couldn’t tell her she was going to be all right. I didn’t think the pilot could tell us that either. He had chosen his words carefully during his announcement, using a tone that wouldn’t cause more alarm.
I couldn’t rely on getting updates from him or the flight attendants. They would be infrequent and filtered from this point forward. I had to go with my gut, my instincts, my forty-seven years’ worth of life experiences.
“Look at me,” I said to Billie.
Both of her arms were clutching me now. All she had to do was look up.
And she did.
“Do you have your seat belt on?”
I knew she did. I’d already checked. But she was paralyzed, and I needed her moving. I needed her attention to shift even if it was for only a couple of seconds. Her heart needed a break from the fear too.
She glanced down, the turbulence causing her head to bounce, and then back up at me. Tears streamed from her eyes. “Yes.”
“I need you to listen to me, Billie.” I tried to balance myself while the plane catapulted forward, ricocheting over pockets of air.
“I can’t.” Her lips were trembling, her chest heaving. “I’m freaking out, Jared. Completely freaking out.”
The plane jerked to the side, and Billie slammed into my shoulder. I immediately lifted the armrest that was between us, and my arm circled behind her back, the outside of our thighs pressing together. I pulled her as close as I could get her.
“Lie to me if you have to,” she wept as she stared up at me. “Just tell me we’re going to be okay.”
I squeezed her as tight as I could, and I said the one thing I could promise her, “I’m not going to let go of you.”
SIXTEEN
HONEY
SPRING 1984
“HONEY,” Andrew said while he knocked. “Please open the door, and I’ll explain everything.”
Honey hadn’t moved from the floor, so she felt the wood vibrate behind her every time Andrew’s knuckles hit it. And she didn’t respond because she didn’t know what there was to explain. He was wearing a wedding band, and he hadn’t even tried to hide it, which made the situation feel worse.
She closed her eyes, her mascara crunching. “Just leave, Andrew. There’s nothing to say.”
She heard a thud, and it sounded like his hand had flattened against the door.
“You’re wrong. There’s so much to say.” He paused. “Please don’t make me air it all on the street.”
Honey had extremely nosy neighbors. The last thing she wanted was one of them to overhear and gossip about this.
“If you don’t like what I have to say, you can throw me out,” he said.
Honey didn’t know if it was out of curiosity or the fear of someone hearing him, but she got off the floor and opened the door. “Two minutes. That’s it,” she told him, holding it wide enough for him to come in.
Andrew stepped into the entryway, setting the roses on a table by the staircase before he gazed down at his left hand. He was holding it out in front of him, fingers extended, the ring shining under the overhead light. “I know how this looks.” He finally glanced up at her. “You have every right to feel the way you do.”
“You’re married?”
She couldn’t wait for him to get to that part of the story. She needed to know immediately.
Seconds ticked by before he responded, “Technically, yes, since the divorce won’t be finalized until the end of this week.”
That news should have made Honey feel better. He was obviously separated from his wife, and that was a much different scenario than what had been in her head. But it didn’t explain why he was still wearing a ring, and that made her draw another conclusion.