Page 13 of Boiling Point
He studied me, and I wished I could shrink into the chair. But then he leaned closer and in a hushed voice replied, “I’d be delighted.”
Chapter 7
Callum
Isang along to the chorus of “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis—a favorite band from my adolescence—as I sat in my car outside the Grayson County Municipal Airport. The dashboard clock read 1:47 p.m.—a full thirteen minutes before Gabrielle had asked me to meet her here. A handful of pickup trucks sat in the car park, their bumpers crowded with aviation decals. A gust of wind rattled the bare branches of a nearby tree, and I adjusted the heat and turned up the music.
In our youth, my sister Isabel and I had frequently argued over which band was superior, Oasis or Blur. She was two years my senior, so I lost by default. Or rather, conceding was strategic—better for my peace. And there were more important things in life.
I was early, and there was time to reconsider, though I knew I wouldn’t. The music crooned on—one of Oasis’s smoother tracks—but it failed to settle my nerves. I tapped restless fingers against the steering wheel as I glanced around the car park, half expecting someone to spot me and wonder why I was here, waiting alone like an indecisive teenager. Guilt gnawed at the edges, and I told myself again and again that this was harmless.A friendly gesture. A simple kindness repaid. As if repetition would make it true.
My pulse kicked up as reality struck. Here I was, a tenure-track professor with a hard-fought career, edging closer to lines I’d sworn never to cross, trying to justify it all with clever semantics.
A sharp rap at my window yanked me from my thoughts. I turned to see Gabrielle smiling through the glass, her breath misting against the cold air.
“You’re early,” she said as I opened the door and stepped out into the chill, fumbling to recover my composure.
“Punctuality is a virtue.” I closed my car door. “Or so I was taught.”
She was, in a word, stunning. Gabrielle wore a brown leather bomber jacket with a fur collar, complemented by a cozy cream jumper underneath. Her fitted tactical trousers struck a perfect balance between flattering and functional. Sturdy ankle boots gripped the pavement, and vintage-inspired aviator sunglasses perched on her head. She embodied the striking spirit of an adventurous aviatrix.
Words eluded me. Here was a woman who could remake the world in her image, sweeping away the gray with every self-assured stride. I stood in awe, the chill of the afternoon forgotten as my heart drummed a desperate improvisation.
“Are you ready to go?” Her eyes sparkled like spring’s first green, her voice as crisp and clear as the air.
“Yes.” My voice had bolted ahead without consulting me. “Where should I watch from?”
She dipped her head back and laughed—a sound so light it rose above us, carried by the wind. “Watch? No, silly. You’re coming up with me.”
I must have gone pale because she offered a quick smile—the kind meant to reassure, though it only compounded my panic.
“I thought…” My words faltered as I imagined the dizzying height, the earth shrinking beneath us, and my stomach turned traitor, somersaulting wildly.
“You’re not afraid of flying, are you?” she asked, a hint of disbelief mingling with concern.
“No,” I lied. A fierce wind whipped across the lot, rifling through my hair and sending a shiver up my spine. My mind reeled—of course she meant for me to join her. How had I not realized? The prospect of being airborne filled my mouth with the tang of metal and nerves.
Gabrielle watched me, expectant and eager.
I took a cleansing breath. “Lead the way.”
She turned toward the tarmac, her stride confident and sure. I followed, legs stiff with dread and exhilaration—a peculiar cocktail that blurred sense and certainty.
The smell of aviation fuel hit me first, sharp and strangely sweet. A compact plane sat waiting for us, its propeller still and wings gleaming in the pale sunlight. White with sleek blue stripes along its fuselage and a red-and-blue checkered tail, it looked almost playful—deceptively harmless.
I swallowed hard, feeling absurdly large for something so compact.
“Is this it?” My voice cracked as I took in the plane’s intimate dimensions.
“This is it.” She ran her hand affectionately along the fuselage. “A Cessna 150 Aerobat.” She pulled open the door, revealing a cabin just wide enough for two snug seats. She gestured to the right-hand side. “Hop in.”
I hesitated at the word “hop”—as if ease and agility were required qualifications—and considered my long legs and lack of coordination. My brain scrambled for plausible excuses—any reason to remain earthbound—but none came except cowardice.I forced a smile, even as my stomach executed another nauseating tumble.
She gestured toward the right-hand seat again. The tangle of brown canvas restraint straps made my heart lurch.
“Are you sure I’m meant to sit up front?”
Gabrielle chuckled softly, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy.
