Page 4 of Big Dill

With fingers that are barely moving, thanks to the cold cargo plane, I start to text something sarcastic back, but stop. Honestly, even though I don’t think I belong here, I’d be even more lost if he didn’t offer me a place to live and a job teaching yoga at his social facility. I owe him so much. My heart thumps a little faster as tears prick my eyes. I swipe at them, half expecting the droplets to be crystalized from the cold, but nope, still warm. Like lumber-snack’s hands…

Le sigh.

* * *

Me: Can’t wait to see you, too.

* * *

I slide my phone back into my pocket, and swallow against a painful lump punching into my throat. Maybe I won’t feel so lost or alone once my big brother wraps me in one of his epic hugs. He’s always had that effect on me.

The small plane comes to a jerky stop. Everyone jumps to grab their stuff from the bins. I sit tight, and tug my bag out from the seat in front of me. Other than one checked suitcase and my carry on, I didn’t bring a lot. I don’t have a lot. I figured I could buy what I need once I was sure I was going to survive the tundra.

I wait. The attendants are bustling. What the heck is going on? After being on three different planes to get here, all I want is solid ground, even if that ground is frozen solid.

“Doors are stuck,” some man in the aisle grumbles, like it’s an everyday problem.

“Frozen,” a woman adds. “Might as well sit back down.” She guides her kid back to his seat. “Could take some time, b’y.”

B’y.

Boy.

My brother warned me that Newfoundlanders are a special breed. Accents, slang, customs… No, I am not kissing a cod and yes, that’s a real thing. A man and woman in the aisle strike up conversation, but they’re talking so fast, their rapid-fire dialect might as well be an alien language.

Wait, does this plane have emergency exits? Dammit, I should have paid more attention during take-off. I glance around, but the people filling the aisle prevents me from seeing anything, and why the hell am I suddenly breathing faster? Fantastic. Claustrophobia, just in time for my too early, mid-life crisis.

The flight attendant comes over the intercom, insisting we all sit until they can get the doors open. Grumbles fill the cabin as passengers shuffle back. Outside, I glimpse the luggage truck inching toward the plane.

I tap Jaxon a quick message to let him know we’re stuck and try not to fidget as the metal walls of this flying delivery truck close in on me. Too bad they don’t serve drinks on cargo planes. I sure as heck could use one right about now. Or a dozen.

The curtain to the cockpit is drawn. No clue what is happening at the front. Desperate to distract myself, I scroll through socials on my phone, resisting the urge to peek at Tristan’s. AKA a-hole. Seconds turn into minutes, and just when I start to think we’re never getting off this plane, the attendant rushes by me, and leans in to say something to the passengers near the emergency exits.

Grunt and groans echo through the cramped cabin as they wrestle with the door. It’s frozen solid. But of course, it is. A loud bang reverberates through the plane, as the luggage hatch below finally opens. The only thing that could possibly make this day worse is getting tossed out that hatch—probably ass first.

That can’t happen.

Right?

The attendant grabs a mic. “We’ll be exiting through the back of the plane...through the hatch.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. A few people instinctively step back. Smart.

The attendant—clearly as out of place as the rest of us—works to keep everyone calm, guiding us toward the back. Cold air blasts through the cabin, and I hug myself, shivering as passengers are ushered through the emergency hatch and into the cargo hold.

When it’s my turn, a man below plants his big, gloved hands on my hips and hoists me down. Did he just grunt?

Yes, I might have indulged in a few too many sugary donuts since my breakup. But come on—I am not oversized luggage. I glance around, praying no one is recording my ass-first plummet into cargo-plane history. At least here, the only person who knows me is Jaxon.

I land on my feet like… a cat. Well, a slightly clumsy, frostbitten cat, but upright. I spin around and see my brother waving through the small airport window. I wave back and trudge through the snow as we’re herded inside. Cattle. I resist the urge to moo.

“Jami,” Jaxon calls, and I practically sprint to him. His coat is unzipped—at least the airport is warm—and he pulls me into his arms. I exhale, feeling better now that I’m in his hug.

I pull back slightly and grin. His smile lights up his face—and his T-shirt features a giant mosquito with the slogan: I gave blood in Churchill Falls. Cute. Real cute. And sadly accurate.

“That was…embarrassing,” I admit, nodding toward the plane.

He shrugs, easy-going as ever. “Don’t worry about it.” He makes a fist and playfully nudges my chin.