Page 68 of Fly with Me

Appears that way.

And a response from the friend. She looks happy Glad she’s doing well.

And her mother posted, I’m sure she’s happy. She’s had a very profitable year.

“Fuck you too, Mom.”

Olive sat quietly for a long time after that. The phone squeezed in her fist. The worst part was that on some level she agreed with her mom. After all the shit that had happened in the last year, was it tacky to be on TV smiling like that?

Profitable.

The word reverberated in her head.

Who else had seen that?

Her mind spiraled, thinking through all the possible worst-case scenarios. When Stella found out what was going on with her family, would she hate Olive for it? Hopefully not.

The impact of the last weeks hit her like a wrecking ball in slow motion.

She’d gotten on an airplane. An actual airplane.

Her hands trembled as they had at the time, remembering the feeling of the pill slipping from her fingers. The terror as the lifting sensation made her stomach sink.

That long walk down the aisle after volunteering to help.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to guard against the image of the pale man on the floor. What if she’d done something wrong? What if she hadn’t figured it out in time? Frank Feldstein would have… and people were filming it…

“He didn’t die. He didn’t die,” Olive whispered.

A deep pain began to expand below her sternum. Her hands shook. Weight seemed to press in on her ribs. She hadn’t had time to process any of it. Not the stress of being on the plane. The horror of wondering whether she’d be able to save the man’s life.

The race. Remembering that Jake wasn’t beside her. She’d spent every step of those 13.1 miles with nothing but the medal in her pocket to keep her company.

She closed her eyes and returned to the moment at the finish line. Reporters closing in on her. A microphone in her face. Cameras. Asking questions. Delayed nausea at the memory hit her in the gut.

But then Stella was there.

Stella.

Without thinking, she swiped to Instagram. It was like she wanted to see Stella’s face for some stupid reason. Because seeing her face at the finish line had been like being pulled out of the water after almost drowning.

Olive didn’t follow many people, so the first photo to load was from Stella herself.

But it wasn’t the photo of them from the hike that popped up. That perfect, golden hour photo of the two of them wasn’t on her feed at all. Olive frowned and focused on the image.

This one also didn’t match the earlier photos on her profile. Instead of looking like a stock photo tagged with things like airline uniform hottie or sexy professional pilot or lesbian pilot fantasy sex dream—okay, that last one definitely said more about Olive than the photographs on the feed—it was a selfie of Stella. A selfie with impeccable cropping and a perfect use of the preset Olive had chosen. A selfie of Stella with another woman.

Chapter 24

The woman beside Stella in the photo was gorgeous. Sleek chestnut waves framed an elegant face with a perfectly straight nose and green-sea-glass eyes. Sure, her kind of pretty was rather generic for Olive’s tastes. She had that influencer look with her perfect contouring and lashes. Fuck, Olive was being an asshole. The woman was a knockout.

Could this be her ex Nadine? Or the other one? What was her name? Laura. Oh god, what if this was Laura?

They were both knockouts. Sitting together at a table with wineglasses and candlelight. Both perfectly polished, looking like they were in a gay dating website advertisement or an episode of The L Word. This is what Hollywood-acceptable queer women looked like. Hot like Aubrey Plaza in that problematic Christmas movie where Kristen Stewart definitely should have dumped her semi-closeted manipulative girlfriend.

Olive scrolled to the caption.

Embry-Riddle class reunion. #WomeninFlight

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