Flying

by Megan Hart

  “Do you want one?”

  “Will you go with me? Circle one,” he said. “Yes, no, maybe.”

  “Yes,” Stella said. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Wrapped in a blanket, her feet on Matthew’s lap, Stella dozed to the sound of the movie on the television. Matthew had plied her with a few glasses of wine while he drank his whiskey, and the heat from the fireplace, the earlier great sex and the general stress of the morning had wiped her out. When her phone pinged from her purse on the chair all the way across the room, she blinked but snuggled deeper into the warmth and ignored it. Except, of course, that her phone wouldn’t stop chiming until she answered it.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Matthew said when she sighed and grumbled. And he did too, gently setting her feet aside and bringing her the entire bag.

  Stella thumbed her phone to bring up the text from Tristan. It was a picture of him, grinning ear-to-ear, standing next to a car she didn’t recognize. Jeff stood next to him, hand on Tristan’s shoulder. He had the same grin. No text, just a picture.

  Furrowing her brow, she studied the picture, then replied, What?

  Dad bought me a car.

  Fuck.

  “Oh, he did not,” Stella said aloud. “What the hell?”

  Matthew gave her a curious look. She showed him the photo. He looked confused.

  “My ex-husband bought our sixteen-year-old son a Mustang. He just barely got his license, but Jeff bought him a thirty-thousand-dollar car. What the hell?” Stella repeated.

  “I wish my dad would’ve bought me a car when I turned sixteen.”

  Stella got off the couch. She needed to move. Shift, pace. Run. Her heartbeat had slowly started thumping faster and faster since the text came through, and she pressed a hand to her chest in a useless attempt at slowing it.

  * * *

  Brake lights. Red, flashing. The wipers cut the color, back and forth, and Stella wants to tell Jeff to slow down, but instead she laughs because it’s all so funny. The boys from the backseat start to argue and bicker, and she twists in her seat to tell them to stop, but somehow that’s funny too. She’s drunk. How long has it been since she’s been drunk, or even more than tipsy? Long years, many years, since before Gage was born, for sure. Long time.

  “Stop it,” she says, or tries to say, but giggles break the words and she can’t explain why everything is so light and bright and merry. “It’s Christmas.”

  Tristan lets out a wail and bats at his brother, demanding to hold the toy Gage picked from the pile Brad and Janet had placed under the tree. Each kid picked one. Tristan got a truck, but Gage got a cool action figure, and Tristan wants it. He kicks at the back of Stella’s seat and grabs with pudgy fists for the plastic guy, but Gage holds it out of his reach.

  “Stop,” Stella repeats, but Tristan doesn’t.

  She unbuckles her belt to turn around and reach into the backseat, both to pick up the truck Tristan threw to the floor and also to get her hands between them to separate them. She’s halfway into the backseat when Jeff lets out a hoarse shout.

  When the horn blares.

  When the red brake lights stop flashing and turn a solid, steady red in front of them.

  * * *

  “Hey, babe, you okay?” Matthew’s hand on her shoulder steadied her, but not enough.

  Stella shook her head. “Jeff and I never talked about getting him a car. And a Mustang. He’s sixteen. He’s reckless. He’s not in control, he barely has his license....”

  Matthew pulled her close, saying nothing. Just holding her. It wasn’t enough of a comfort, but she let him do it even though she wanted to keep pacing.

  His hand stroked her hair. “He’ll be fine.”

  Stella tried to relax against him, but it didn’t work. “I need to call Jeff.”

  “No,” Matthew said. “Not if you’re going to lay into him.”

  Angrily, she pulled away from him. “What?”

  “You want to call him up and bitch him out? Look, I don’t know your ex, but how well do you think that’s going to go over? What do you think he’s going to do, sell the car? And your kid... He’s over-the-moon about it. Are you going to take it away from him? What do you think he’ll think about that?”

  Blinking rapidly to force away the tears, Stella took a step back, jerking her arm free of his grip when he tried to hold her. “I hardly think I need to take relationship advice from you.”

  “You sure don’t mind handing it out, though, do you?”

  Stung, she crossed her arms over her chest but said nothing. Whatever words she had wouldn’t be kind. That he had a point only made her angrier.

  Matthew, also silent, sat back on the couch and picked up the remote to switch through the channels, and after a few seconds, Stella joined him. But not with her feet on his lap, not snuggling. She made a place for herself as far from him as she could get while still being on the couch. She sent a text to Jeff.

  We never talked about this.

  A moment later, I got a bonus.

  He’s too young for a car. And a Mustang?

  No answer, which only infuriated her more. She did not, however, text her son. It wasn’t his fault his father overcompensated by spending too much money, and though the thought of him racing his way through dark streets sent her heart pounding into her throat again, she couldn’t bring herself to take away what she knew had to be his exhilaration.

  Matthew got up from the couch and went to the bar to pour himself a fresh drink. “You want something?”

  “No, thanks.” Stella didn’t look up.

  Minutes passed, neither of them speaking. Matthew ran through all the channels. Then again. Stella ignored him and the TV, instead scrolling through her phone and catching up on all her social media. When she opened her Connex app and saw the video from Tristan halfway down the page, she let out a muttered curse.

  It was tame, as far as videos went. Clearly shot from his cell, it was of him behind the wheel of the Mustang, then a cut to the road stretching out in front of him and the music playing loud. Laughter. A blurred shot of Steven in the seat next to him.

  Oh, hell no.

  Stella typed in the website for Pegasus Airlines, searching for flights. There was a flight to Harrisburg leaving in a few hours. She could be home by 11:00 p.m. She typed in her customer number and booked the flight. Then she stood.

  “I have to get home.”

  Matthew looked up, ice clinking in his glass. He swallowed the rest of the liquid and set the glass on the coffee table, then sat back against the couch. “Now?”

  “Flight leaves in a couple hours, so pretty shortly. Yeah.” Stella lifted her chin to stare at him.

  He stared back. Then, very carefully, he looked back at the TV. “Okay.”

  “I’ll go get ready. Don’t worry,” Stella added in an overly sweet voice. “I’ll take a cab.”

  Fighting tears, she took her stuff from the bathroom and packed her suitcase. With shaking hands, she splashed her face with water, refusing to think about Tristan driving that Mustang too fast. Or worse yet, inattentively, shooting a video as he drove.

  Refusing to imagine the crunch of metal and glass, the blare of a horn. The smell of exhaust and gas and blood. The taste of tears.

  She had time to hang out here, but with things the way they were with Matthew, she didn’t want to. Pulling her bag behind her, thumbing the number of the cab company into her phone, she placed the call as she went into the living room. The cab would be there in fifteen minutes.

  “Shit,” Matthew said, sitting up straight. “You’re really going?”

  Stella frowned. “Um, yeah? I told you I was. Look, my son is out joyriding in his new car, no evidence of any parental supervision, and posting videos of it
on Connex. I’m freaked out. And really, I just need to get home. Judge me if you want, Matthew, but this is my son.”

  He stood. He’d made himself another drink, she saw, this one half-finished. He swayed a little when he got up, which made her take a step back.

  “Not judging you. Wish you didn’t have to go. I didn’t really think...”

  “I said I was,” she repeated stiffly. “Maybe it’s been your common experience that women like to play games and whatever, but I told you. That’s not me.”

  “No. I can see that. At least let me take you to the airport.”

  She laughed without humor. “Wow. No. How many drinks have you had?”

  “I’ll come in the cab with you.” He moved toward her, meaning to, what, kiss her? Embrace her?

  Stella shook her head, stepping back. “You don’t have to do that. I think it’s best if I go by myself.”

  “Stella.”

  She could not bring herself to look at him. If she did, she was going to burst into ugly sobs, and she would not give him that. As many orgasms as he wanted, but no more of her tears.

  “I want to go with you to the airport. I don’t want you to leave like this.” Matthew sighed and reached to tug at her sleeve, though he didn’t try to pull her closer. “Can’t I convince you to stay until tomorrow?”

  He thought she was being irrational, and the worst part of it was, Stella knew she was being irrational. There was nothing she could do to stop it. “Come with me.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll pay for your ticket, if that’s the issue, but you could come with me and...I could...” She shook her head. She could what? Use his support? Need him to be there for her?

  “I can’t come with you, Stella, not last-minute like this.”

  Of course he couldn’t, yet the way he cut his gaze from hers made it seem like an excuse. Stella blinked back the sting of tears and took a few deep breaths to try to get herself under control.

  “I’ll feel better if I can get home. See him. I just...”

  “You’re not going to stop him from driving,” Matthew told her. “Not for the rest of his life.”

  “He’s sixteen!” she cried. “Do you know the statistics about teenage drivers? Boys in particular? Boys in sports cars?”

  “Not specifically. No. But I know that no matter what you do, you’re never going to stop worrying about him. And...honestly, no matter how much you worry, it’s not going to change anything. You can’t stop an accident from happening by worrying about it ahead of time. All you’ll do is make yourself sick with it.”

  She swallowed bitterness. “Then I’ll be sick with it. I’m going home to my son. I have to. I’m not asking you for your advice. I’m sorry to cut the visit short, but I need to get home. I need to make sure he’s okay. I know it’s crazy. I know it—”

  “I never said it was crazy,” Matthew said quietly. “Will you please let me come with you to the airport?”

  Stiffly, she nodded. She let him carry her bag for her too. In the cab, they sat without speaking. He surprised her by getting out of the cab, paying the driver and sending him on his way.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I can get another one,” he told her.

  At the Pegasus desk, Stella confirmed her reservation and got her ticket. Matthew followed her to security, where she turned toward him. Without a ticket, he wouldn’t be able to get through.

  “Well,” she said, “goodbye.”

  He hesitated. It would’ve been the perfect moment for her to tip her face toward his for a kiss. At least a hug. But Stella didn’t move toward him, nor he toward her.

  “Call me when you get home,” Matthew said. “So I know you made it okay.”

  “Okay.”

  She waited, hating this hesitation. When he made no move toward her, Stella shifted her shoulder bag and gave him a stiff nod. Then she turned around and went through the security checkpoint. By the time she had the chance to see if he was still watching her, Matthew had gone.

  The flight was uneventful, made longer because she couldn’t sleep and had forgotten her book on Matthew’s nightstand. In Harrisburg, her eyes grainy, she had a panicked moment when she thought she’d forgotten her car keys. That’s when she broke into tears. Brief but harsh, they stung her throat and clogged her nose before she got herself under control.

  She drove to Jeff’s house, her anxiety mounting. There was no Mustang in the driveway, and her guts twisted. Her hands shook when she got out of her car and rang the front doorbell. If something had happened, she told herself, Jeff would’ve called her. He would have.

  Cynthia answered the door in her pajamas, cracking it open only far enough to peek out before seeing it was Stella and opening it the whole way. “Oh. Hi? What...?”

  “I came home early.”

  “Jeff took Tristan to the movies. Um, in the new car. Do you want to come in?” Cynthia stepped aside.

  Stella had been inside her ex-husband’s new house a handful of times. She preferred to avoid it. There was no non-awkward way to be a guest there. In the foyer, she took note of the enormous portrait of Jeff, Cynthia and Tristan that hung against the far wall.

  “That’s new,” she said.

  Cynthia looked surprised. “Oh. Yeah. I thought Jeff might’ve told you about it.”

  “He doesn’t seem to tell me very much about anything,” Stella said.

  Cynthia had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Can I get you a drink or something?”

  “When will they be home, do you know? I just...” Stella let out a long, shuddering breath. “I needed to make sure he was okay. I just needed to be sure he was all right.”

  Cynthia nodded. “Come into the kitchen. They’ll be home soon. Let me get you some water. Or something.”

  She was acting crazy, Stella realized. She shook her head, the heat of embarrassment making her cringe. “No, I should head home.”

  “Stella...” Cynthia said hesitantly. “You can wait for him, if you want.”

  It was already close to midnight. Stella shook her head again, wanting to hate Cynthia for seeming so understanding. Wanting to hate her for a lot of things, and as always, finding herself unable to.

  “Just have him call me when he gets in, okay? I want to congratulate him.”

  Cynthia nodded. “Of course. You sure you don’t want to stay?”

  “No. I can’t, really. I’m tired.”

  With that excuse, Stella escaped. At home, she forced herself not to give in to the swell of emotions threatening to bring her to her knees. She couldn’t afford it. Wouldn’t allow it.

  In the hallway, she peeked into Tristan’s room. No reason for it, just habit. The other room, the one with the never-opened door, beckoned, but she ignored that impulse. In her bed, Stella pressed her face against the pillows and checked the clock every few minutes as the time ticked by and no call came in from Tristan.

  Finally it buzzed in her hand. “Tristan. Hi.”

  “Mom! Did you see the picture of the sweet car Dad got me?” Tristan paused, then sounded puzzled. “How come you came home early?”

  “Oh...I wanted to. That’s all.” She closed her eyes against a fresh spate of tears, ones of relief this time, and of a love so fierce it threatened to consume her.

  They chatted for only a few more minutes, with Stella mostly listening while Tristan rhapsodized about the car. By the time he finished, the sick feeling in her gut hadn’t abated by much, but she’d managed to get it under control. After confirming what time he’d be home tomorrow, Tristan said goodbye.

  Then, “I’ll give you a ride, Mom. We can go out to dinner. My treat.”

  A sudden image of him in a pair of short overalls and saddle shoes, a binky in his mouth and a stuffed
bear in his hands, assaulted her. Those days were over. He was growing up.

  And she had to let him.

  Sleep, surprisingly, came easy after they disconnected, and with nothing to do the next day, Stella didn’t bother to set her alarm. The buzzing of the phone, which wouldn’t ring while settled in the dock, jerked her from sleep, and she grabbed at it with blind hands. Frantic. She couldn’t remember what she’d been dreaming, but her mind at once had turned to bad news.

  “What is it? What happened?”

  “You said you’d call me when you got home.” The slurred voice was barely recognizable as Matthew’s.

  Stella rubbed at her eyes, checking the clock. Shit. It felt as if she’d been sleeping forever.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “I was worried, Stella.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, more sincerely this time. She knew what it was like to worry.

  When he didn’t answer, she listened hard. There was noise in the background, not the TV or music playing, but the clink of glasses and murmur of voices. It was just past two in the morning. She lay back on her pillows.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m at the bar where we met.”

  Stella frowned. “At the airport?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing there?” The slur in his voice curled her lip a little.

  “Drinking.”

  And what else was he doing? What had he been doing the night they’d met? Drinking and picking up women, maybe. Or one woman. All it would take was one.

  “At the airport,” Stella said.

  “Yeah. Yes. This place, here. It’s like Cheers. Everybody knows my name.”

  She frowned. “Nice.”

  “It is nice,” he said. “I was waiting for you to call me.”

  “Why are you at the airport?” she asked again, confused. He could drink at home, or the neighborhood bar. But... “How’d you get through security without a ticket?”