Page 40 of Falling for Grace

Sorry, that was flippant of me. I was trying to make conversation.

You’re shit at small talk. How are you doing?

I know how he’s doing, he’s shit.

Now who’s attempting to make small talk… Shit. You?

Ditto…..

“Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentleman, we are now ready to Board Flight 350 to London Heathrow. At this point in time, we are inviting all First Class Passengers to join us in the cabin.”

It’s time for me to board, but I’m desperate to read Brandon’s next text.

I’m so angry at him and confused, and all other types of shit that I don’t think I can even say because it will make me a bad person.

I nod, which is ridiculous because he can’t see me, but I was the same.

I understand, my emotions are all over the place. My flight's boarding. See you on the other side, Brandon.

I know it’s an awful thing to say, but I’m looking forward to seeing you, just wish the circumstances were better. Safe flight, Gracie xxx

And that’s the end of our conversation, the first conversation I have had with Brandon in more than three years via message, and when I am sober. Fewer than 10 messages, and my heart rate has spiked, my palms are sweating. I’m fairly sure my armpits are out of control, and I have lost all ability to think straight.

This is the effect he has on me over an electronic device—what the hell will my body and mind do when I see him in the flesh?

Chapter 15

First Class, yep… it has ruined me forever.

I’m never going to be able to travel in economy, like EVER again. I got a pre-takeoff drink, the meal’s a choice of three from a menu, and it was delivered on a plate, not some shitty lap tray, with actual metal cutlery—no plastic here. I got a big-ass seat with a nice little TV screen, with any movie I could have ever wanted. When I did choose to get some rest, I lay my chair back and reclined it into a bed.

Afull-on bed.

So for the first time ever, I slept on a flight horizontally. By the time I stepped off in London, I was feeling somewhat refreshed. This never happened. I usually stumble off the plane like a zombie, looking and feeling like I’ve been dragged through a bush backward.

I walk through the terminal in a strange daze, passing people on the other side of the glass who are walking to board their planes, just starting their journey. To where, who knows. To see family, go on holidays—hell, maybe they’re even flying to a destination to bury part of themselves.

I sail straight through border control (I am coming home after all) and wait, staring at the conveyer belt as the bags are unloaded from the plane.

I pass the nothing to declare zone and walk through the clinical white hallway out into the chaos of the terminal. I’m practically thrown to the floor as someone shoves past me and runs into the waiting arms of their loved ones. A pang of jealousy hits me. No one will be here waiting for me. I have nothing to look forward to on this visit, and for the first time I acknowledge that I am feeling a little lost.

“Grace. Grace!”

I look through the faces in the crowd, trying to locate the source of the voice, past the men holding clipboards with names on them, past the couple eating each other's faces. Past everyone until my eyes fall on Ted.

He looks tired, he looks older, but he looks just how I remember him. He’s still tall, even now at the age of 63.

“Ted!” I shout back and attempt to wave, but I’m holding a bazillion bags and a massive bar of Toblerone, because… Well, habits are hard to kick, and even though I won’t be handing it over to Danny, I felt like I needed to buy it. It’s a tradition.

Every time I came back from Texas as a child growing up, I’d buy him a Toblerone that was as long as my arm. I forgot one year, and the bastard didn’t talk to me for three days.

“There she is!”

I finally make it and all but drop everything to the floor before Ted grabs me and pulls me in for a bear hug. I know it’s coming—he always used to do it when I was growing up because I was so tiny compared to him and Brandon. The pair of them used to treat me like a rag doll, Brandon more than his father, who just loved to hug. His eyes are sparkling and his face has more wrinkles and lines, and even though three years have passed he looks just like he did on his 60thbirthday…well…less drunk. But just the same, with the added sadness behind his eyes.

He was still a silver fox.

The air is all but crushed from me as he pulls me into his chest and squeezes the life out of me.

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