Page 63 of Second Chance Vacation

She doesn't answer me.

“Gen.”

Still silence.

As if she realizes I’m not going to leave the room without an answer, Gen opens her eyes and turns her head toward me.

“I’m fine, Jackson. Hungover.”

I wish I could believe her, but I know she’s lying. She has her tells, some of which are glaringly obvious.

A few moments pass in silence, and I can't help but notice how frazzled she is put together. Gen's chocolate locks are piled in a bun on top of her head. She's wearing no makeup and looks exhausted. That's not to say the lack of makeup is why—she looks perfect without it—but the bags under her eyes tell a different story.

“I’m good,” she says, not opening her eyes to even look at me.

So it’s just going to be like that, then. Now that the trip is coming to an end, it'll be another nine years before we talk again. I wish I could figure out what to say, what the magic words are to get to where her mind is. Unfortunately, I've been here before.

I close the bedroom door behind me to find Savannah in the hallway, waiting.

She’s gnawing at her thumbnail, desperate for an update.

“I don't know, Savannah,” I say, walking past her, leaving her to ruminate in her thoughts. The sound of the door closing as Savannah joins Gen leaves me with more questions than answers.

We get to the airport at quarter past three. It's not the same airport that we flew into, so it's a little busier. Large panes of glass shimmer through the building, separate entrances lining the walls. I grab a cup of coffee from a vendor, thankful for a travel cup for the first time in weeks.

Once we're on the plane, Gen plops down next to Savannah, forcing Wes to sit next to me like she's bound and determined to keep me at arm's length.

My stomach's in knots, and my inner lip is raw from the tension.

I have no words.

We finally take flight, and as we leave French soil, I know with certainty that there’s no going back to the way it was.

TWENTY-SIX

GEN

My cuticles are bleeding; no, they’re not just bleeding, they’re mutilated.

While my original plan was to either sleep on the plane or drink myself into oblivion, I find myself staring at a passed-out Jackson as I sit completely sober.

If I thought this flight was long the first time, it's excruciating going home. It’s not because I don't look forward to going home, and not because the looming school year a couple weeks out is unwelcome, but just with everything going on between Jackson and me, I'm not completely sure how I feel about anything right now.

I used to love to fly. When I was a kid, I loved going on trips with Hannah and Jackson's family. I'm not sure if they let me tag along because they really wanted me there or because they felt bad leaving me at home as I spent most days at the Thatcher-Miles household. Sometimes I miss how simple it was back then. My childhood sucked without my mom, but it's nothing compared to adulthood.

I see my friends and colleagues being able to lean on their moms when things get hard. They can ask her for advice or just cry on her shoulder. It's not that I try to keep people at a distance. It's just how I've always been. I don't know another way.

The flight attendant comes by for the third time, asking if I would like a beverage, and just like the first two times she asked, I say no. As much as I would love to be drunk right now, my stomach is in shambles from last night, and I don't just mean Jackson's revelation. I'm not typically a big drinker, so this trip has really done a number on my stomach and my liver.

The sky outside my window is crystal blue as we fly over a stark blanket of cotton. Life seems so simple from above, detached from the world below. If only what I wanted to escape wasn't here with me.

The lights in the plane dim as the sun does the same, leaving us in a dark, stagnant state. I have never been on an overnight flight before, so this is new. Savannah, Wesley, and Jackson are all asleep, and I'm sitting here spiraling and wide awake, staring out the window at a black sky. I wish more than anything I could shut my brain off.

I get up to use the restroom, a little because I have to pee, but mostly because if I sit there any longer staring at Jackson's sleeping body, I very well might lose my mind.

The water pressure is lacking, but it's enough to let me splash my face. I rub my eyes, desperate to keep the tears at bay. Their incessant mission to push through today leaves me exhausted in more ways than one. A quiet sob escapes me, a wrenching feeling in my stomach leaving me wondering if I might throw up again.

I want more than anything to just rewind a week and wake up on a summer day in the south of France with the man of my dreams next to me. However, we're no longer in France, and Jackson's not an option.

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