Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

“I think I can help. You have plans tomorrow night?”

“Thursday?” We never went out on school nights, even during the summer.

He nodded. “We haven’t been on a date in weeks.”

It had actually been months, but who cared? My husband was taking me out for a romantic evening. I was getting flutters just thinking about it.

“I’m off all day, so say we leave after you get home?” he said.

My smile fell. “I’d love that, but what about the girls?”

“Cutie, they stay home by themselves all day.”

That was true, and I fretted about Charlotte’s blood sugar the whole time—in hindsight, I really should have hired a sitter after we ended up canceling their camps. “I guess I can make them dinner before we go, and ask Isa to keep an eye on Charlotte,” I conceded. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I do like surprises.”

“Liar.”

I laughed and nestled into his side again. “You got me. But I’m game for whatever you have in mind.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “I’m sorry we haven’t even had a chance to celebrate your scans being clear. That’s a big deal.”

“It’s okay,” I said, because even though it still stung, saying it was all right made that feel closer to true. Anyway, we were going on a weeknight date—and if that wasn’t the opposite of coasting, I didn’t know what was.

SIX

Had I survived cancer only to meet my bitter end in the middle of New Jersey? Had I narrowly escaped a brush with death in one propeller plane, just so I could crash in another?

No. No, I had not.

But apparently my husband had not gotten that memo.

I’d first realized I was in trouble when we merged into the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. “We’re leaving the city?” I’d said, like he’d just suggested a jaunt to North Korea. “But we never leave.”

Then I realized this wasn’t true at all. Shiloh made this drive several times a week on his way to the Teterboro Airport. By the time I fully gathered what was happening, we were pulling into the employee parking lot. I considered flinging myself out of our moving vehicle and running in the opposite direction, but then I remembered what Paul had said about coasting. Didn’t I owe it to my marriage to try something new?

“Are you sure this is safe?” I yelled. There were just two seats in the whole tin can of a plane, which was far smaller than the ones he flew for work, so I was seated to his right. However intimate the setup, the acoustics weren’t so hot, so I had to attempt to blow out my vocal cords in order to be heard.

“Don’t worry, I would never do anything that wasn’t safe, and conditions are perfect, Libby—that’s why I wanted to go out today!” Shiloh yelled. “And you’ve been fine on all the other flights we’ve taken!”

Sure, on large commercial planes manned by not one but two pilots, just in case. This was not that.

“Wait until we’re up a little higher,” he added. “This will be fun!”

Fun? Who’d said anything about fun? I’d wanted romance. Not an activity that was best experienced wearing a panty liner.

But at least he was trying, I reminded myself. He looked so happy, and it would be over soon; there was absolutely no reason to burst his bubble.

“You okay?” he hollered.

“Great!” I said through gritted teeth, but that’s about as far as I could get because my breath started getting shallow and ragged. When I’d said I wanted to feel alive, I hadn’t meant by being reminded that I was going to die—and soon. “Oh, sweet Cheez-Its!” I yelped as the plane began to dip. Had I given a copy of our will to Paul? How would Charlotte manage her diabetes without me?

“Libs? Do you want me to take us back down?” he said, glancing over at me. “We’re about to hit smoother air, but say the word and we’ll be on the ground in five.”

I was staring at him, and even though my parasympathetic nervous system was seconds from blowing a fuse, he looked so handsome and hopeful that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I hated everything about this experience.

“I’m fine!” I gasped. “Just find that smoother air, okay?”

To myself, I thought: Well, if this is how it ends, at least I’ll get to see my parents again.

Seconds later, the ride did get noticeably less choppy. And knowing Shiloh would ask me the minute we were on the ground, I made sure that I found something to like. It wasn’t impossible: To my right was the Hudson River and New York’s jagged skyline, which never failed to dazzle me. In front of us, there was an expansive forest filled with oaks and evergreens—this, just a few miles outside of the city!—and to my left, a small town that looked absolutely idyllic, at least from the sky.

But as I dug my nails into my thighs, all I could think about was whether this flight was a sign that maybe my husband and I weren’t actually on the same page.

“I’m sorry, cutie. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“It was fine,” I said, even though my hands were still trembling a little. I’d tried to skirt the subject on the drive back to Brooklyn, since I hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. Now we were home and sitting on the patio, sipping the prosecco he’d bought. Though he hadn’t said as much, I knew it was a do-over for the other night. The thought alone counted for a lot. And who knew—maybe a glass of bubbly or two would be just what we both needed to move our party into the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking so bummed that I had the urge to comfort him. “I know you don’t like to hear about bad flights, but I honestly had no idea you were really afraid of flying.”

“I’m