Page 42 of Your Secret to Keep

“Ready to go?” She’s bright and smiling as she shuts her laptop.

I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.

I am unwell. I thought when I made it to the plane and got in a seat, I’d start to relax. Instead, I have enough anxiety that my limbs feel as though they’re filled with feathers and if I don’t focus on breathing, it won’t happen on its own.

I’ve never thought much about flying—airfare has never been in my budget. Now that I’m about to do it, I feel I’ve vastly underestimated the experience. Who was like, “Let’s throw a bunch of fragile humans in thismetal tube and try to catapult them through the sky to get somewhere else? Seems like a fucking racket.”

Sitting in a window seat, in an empty row on the team plane, I catch Megan’s eyes and wish she hadn’t seen me like this: skin pale, dewy with nausea, and clasping my hands hard enough that you could use my knuckles as inspiration for your next paint color—I’d call it bone white.

“Lia, you look awful.” Her face is etched with concern and surprise as she sits in the seat next to me. “I know it’s scary, doing something new, but I promise this plane is safe.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and then starts rubbing my back.

I whip my head around, too fast, and some of my hair gets stuck on the lip balm I aggressively put on while looking for anything to keep my brain off the impending doom setting up shop in my mind. I pull the hair from the slip and slide that is my lips and let my head fall forward. I try taking a few long breaths, but my lungs act like they’re made of tight springs and I’m not strong enough to gain any leverage.

“I’d sit with you, but I have some things to get approved by the GM.” She looks to the front of the plane but doesn’t stop rubbing my back.

A voice cuts through, one that feels like aloe on a sunburn. “I’ll sit with her.”

Brooks.

“That’s perfect.” Megan squeezes my shoulder a final time before standing, moving to an empty seat behind me so Brooks can take her place.

I don’t have it in me to look at him just yet. I feel him get settled, buckling his seatbelt while I try my best to catch my breath. When the air is barely there, the sounds of the overhead bins closing and people sinking into seats are muffled, almost like I’m underwater. I open my eyes, focusing on my cold and clammy hands while they open and close. Trying to match my breaths to something I can see is hard when you’retrying to fade into the background. Luckily, I was one of the last people to get on the plane.

I lift my head as the safety demonstration starts, leaning hard against the headrest. I do my best to pay attention and find the closest safety exit. The lights dim and the plane starts to move. Rolling my shoulders back, I feel the start of boob sweat, which at this point simply tracks for this entire experience.

“You never told me you were afraid to fly.” Brooks voice is low as I watch out the window.

Trying to keep my voice level, I reply, “I’ve never done it before. I didn’t know.” I catch a glance at him and he’s wearing a turtleneck. It’s mauve. The man is killing a fucking mauve sweater as I try to not pass out sitting up or think about my tendency to sweat when I’m nervous. How is that even fair?!

Brooks nods in understanding, his eyes light brown and almost glowing, reminding me of looking through the trees in the fall.

This fucking guy. It’s actually inconsiderate for him to look this gorgeous when I feel this way. I roll my eyes even though he can’t see—that’s just for me.

“Want to see a secret?” he asks, reaching for his phone. My face must give me away, the rule follower that I am, because he adds, “Don’t worry, it’s on airplane mode.” He unlocks his phone and shows me a picture.

It’s Rocky, the bulldog from the shelter. He’s sitting on a fluffy blanket with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, almost like he’s smiling.

Wait.

I know that couch.

I reach for his phone and pull it closer to my eyes, pinching to zoom in and confirm my suspicion.

“Why is this dog at your house?” I demand to know.

Brooks smirks, catching my eyes with his and answering, “Because I adopted him.”

“I don’t follow. Not sure if there’s not enough oxygen going to my brain, but what do you mean?”

He laughs and swipes, showing me another picture—this one is of Rocky sitting with a stuffed elephant. It looks like a chew toy, but the bulldog is snuggling it, using it as a spot to rest his head.

“I saw the Jags post on my feed and called the shelter to see if he was still available. Obviously he was, so I went and picked him up. I hired one of the volunteers to watch him while I’m gone.” Brooks looks at the photo and continues, “My house is too quiet. Too much space. I think he’s the perfect addition.”

I think he’s onto something when I catch his expression as he flips through some more pictures of Rocky. Tears pool in my eyes. I made an actual difference with my event. It makes me feel optimistic and light, but it’s short-lived. The plane picks up speed and I fear we’re going to take off soon.

“Well, twenty-six is a long life for some, right?” The joke falls out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it.

Brooks reaches for my hand under the armrest between us. When his fingers intertwine with mine, it’s like I can almost take a breath. I close my eyes and sit razor straight, my muscles feeling like they’ve all flexed at once.

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