Page 39 of In Every Chapter

If only she remembered the truth.

Chapter sixteen

Paisley

Five years ago . . .

I hated sweating. The feel of fabric sticking to my skin. The dampness pooling with no place to run. The inevitably embarrassing sweat stains that followed. I had no business sweating this much in November. It was practically winter for goodness’ sake. As it turned out, though, I had a fear of flying. Who knew! Certainly not me.

So there I was, in the middle of the Boise airport, white-knuckling my luggage like a troll hoarding gold about to take my first ever flight—all the way across the country to South Carolina—solo.

Could you blame me for sweating?

I recounted my bags—all two of them, again—and squared my shoulders. Because the AC was always too high on flights—so I was told, no firsthand experience here—I’d opted for layers. But my nerves were sizzling hotter than bacon grease, and I was ready to start stripping, here and now.

When Greyson had invited me to the Marine Corps Birthday Ball, I’d been giddy. Me at a ball with the handsome man I was falling for wearing dress blues? World’s easiest yes. I was ready to live my Cinderella dreams. But the flying . . . Oh boy. I didn’t even know I had that fear until I stepped inside the airport. Then it was a clawing ache in my chest.

It was my Smaug. My Mordor. My thing to defeat.

I had never flown, so why would I think of being afraid? And Greyson had bought my ticket, so there was no way I wasn’t getting on that plane. I just had to not think about all the black box airplane podcasts Juliet insisted on listening to while she cleaned the washroom—sans earbuds. I did true crime; she did plane crashes. I guess a girl’s got to have a hobby.

“You ready?” Mama D’s warm honeyed Alabama drawl wrapped me in a hug, cutting through my panicking haze.

“Hmm? Oh. Of course!” I chirped with false bravado. I had nine hours of travel ahead and two layovers—Phoenix and Charlotte—and Greyson had gotten me a window seat even though I protested at the extra cost. He was too good to me.

She propped a hand on her hip, spearing me with a bemused look. “I wasn’t born yesterday, honey.”

I tried to laugh, but it was tight with tension. Worse than the sweating or the flying was being alone. I hated being by myself. And traveling solo . . . My imagination worked overtime free of charge to catalog every possible kidnapping scenario and disaster. Remember those true crime podcasts? Yeah, I’d go back and tell my younger self to pick a different hobby.

I was an introvert but still, I needed my people. Aragorn had Legolas and Gimli. Merry had Pippin. Frodo had Sam. Even Bilbo had the dwarves. The best adventures happened with friends. Mine were bookending my adventures. Mama D would see me off, and my hunky boyfriend would pick me up at the Hilton Head airport. But the middle part—where all the actual adventures happened?—I’d be alone. And I hated the feeling.

Being alone brought back too many memories of childhood. Of nights I’d come home from school to our dumpy trailer park and the house would be empty. Sometimes there would be cereal in the cupboard and maybe milk in the fridge. But not always. And I’d spend the night too afraid to sleep, utterly alone in the dark, curled under a yellowed and faded My Little Pony comforter Mom found at the thrift store, cradling my small flashlight and listening to Stevie and Nancy’s adventures with the Music Machine on my little tape player. Agapeland was the first fictional world I’d escaped to, and it was safer than the monsters under my bed or lurking outside the rickety aluminum windows. I’d been escaping into stories ever since.

Half the time, Mom never came home by the time I woke up. And I’d haul my half-asleep little self off to school the next morning, not always with breakfast.

I was only seven.

Mama D cupped my cheek, breaking the painful memory. “It’s time.”

I hefted my purse higher on my shoulder and snapped a nod. I had everything. Time to hit security.

“I’m not pressuring you,” she said gently. “But I’m so happy for the light you’ve brought back to Greyson.” She sighed. “I hope you’ll be the one who finally brings my boy home.”

Greyson rarely visited, hence the long distance. Part of that was his stint in the military. But it had been ten years, and he’d only been home a half-dozen times. I shook my head. I knew some of his reasons, but as the girl who’d never had a proper home—not like his—it hurt to see the way he distanced himself from the ones who loved him so much. If only he let himself see how proud they were of him.

I did a grand tour of Arizona and North Carolina, courtesy of an airplane window, and by the time I arrived in South Carolina nine hours later, I was beat. I needed to update my watch with the time zone. And find a washroom. And get some sleep.

I saw Greyson before he saw me, and I pelted across the floor to where he waited at the baggage claim. Without hesitation, I flung myself into his waiting arms, ignoring the two rogue tears that fell. A girl could get used to being swept off her feet. At least this girl could. “I’ve never been so grateful to be on solid ground.” I groaned into his chest.

“Was the flight that bad?”

I tilted my head up to look at him, chin still propped on his chest. After months of long-distance phone calls, texts, and video chats, I was ready to soak up being in this man’s arms. He felt like home, and I could breathe again. “I’m scared of flying, and it’s all Jules’s fault.”

Surprise lit Greyson’s fathomless blue eyes. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t know until your mom dropped me off at the airport. Then every single plane-crash fact from Juliet’s obsession with that black box podcast hit me like a tidal wave, and I traumatized the nice grandma sitting next to me the minute we took off from Boise and then nearly made a fool of myself when we hit turbulence over Oklahoma.”

He laughed and kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry I had no idea. But you’re a true crime junkie. Is it really all that different?”