Page 50 of Fear of Flying

Because there was only one way to escape this hell—he had to leave, go home, and bury himself in his work. But goddddd. Flying. Flying.

Fuck.

He’d actually slept great last night, no tossing and turning because his brain was busy running scenarios about plane crashes. Nope, he’d slept great. With Drew. In Drew’s arms. That is, for at least half of the night he had, blissfully ignorant of the fact that he’d be flying alone today and apparently flying solo in his love life too.

He closed his eyes and tried his damnedest to take a deep breath and calm himself, but his chest was too tight. On the third attempt, he gave up, huffing out what little air his lungs had let him take in, and he grabbed the pants and shoved them in his duffle, zipped up the bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he made a beeline for the door, through the living area with its giant TV and stupidly arranged couches, and out of the most ridiculously posh hotel room he’d ever been in.

Zach wished the door would have slammed shut behind him, because maybe it would’ve helped fuel his anger. Because anger might be the only way he would survive the day. He managed not to fall apart in the hallway or going down in the elevator or even during the walk across the hotel lobby. But whatever daze or trance he must have been in ended the second the sliding doors of the hotel entrance opened in front of him.

It was as if the air in Pittsburgh International Airport was thicker, louder, because suddenly it was hard to breathe again. He had the urge to clamp his hands over his ears, but he didn’t. Instead, he started moving forward again the second he realized he’d stopped—he didn’t want to be in anyone’s way or draw any extra attention to himself. And he wanted to get the fuck home.

But with every step he took, it felt more and more like the world was closing in on him. He tried to keep his head down, eyes up just in front of him, and bag hugged tightly to his chest so he took up as little space as possible, but still he was bumped and jostled what seemed like every other step.

He wasn’t sure how long he fought the crowd—moving forward, always moving so he wouldn’t stop and freeze—but when the organized yet chaotic flow of foot traffic suddenly scattered around him, everyone heading in different directions, he came to a grinding halt and looked up, his heart pounding. He must have made it to one of the main terminal hubs, but fuck if he knew which one or where he was or which way he was supposed to be headed.

People bumped and jostled him from behind as they also came to a stop. Zach’s gaze darted around, his eyes trying to settle on a sign, any sign, so he could read it and try to figure out which way the security checkpoint was. But his eyes wouldn’t focus and his mind was racing frantically, trying but failing horribly to orient himself.

He sucked in half a breath, willing his lungs to take more in before they pushed the air back out again. He needed to move. He needed to get out of here. He needed people to stop bumping him. He needed for the signs to stay still and stop swimming around. And he needed to sit. Needed to sit before he passed out.

Somehow, he managed to work his way toward a wall. And somehow, there was an empty seat. And somehow, his whole world shaking, he sat down hard and succeeded in taking a deep breath. Well, deeper, anyway.

Zach pulled his phone out of his pocket, and he flinched and almost dropped it when the alarm went off. He hastily thumbed the screen, trying to get the thing to stop. It was 9:39 a.m. At some point during his anxiety-fueled departure, his alarm must have gone off in his pocket, vibrating and clanging and snoozing itself without him even noticing. He made sure the alarm was really off instead of just snoozed again—the last thing he needed was more sensory input.

Fuck, why had he even gotten his phone out?

He thumbed the screen frustratedly, swiping away the picture of Times Square at night that he’d made his home screen picture. The time. He’d just wanted to check the time. Right. It was nine forty. His flight was at one. Almost three more hours in this airport, then he had a short layover, and god, trying to calculate in his mind the hours and hours of airports and crowds and planes and takeoffs and turbulence and landings that waited for him the entire rest of the day made his chest tighten even more.

How the hell was he supposed to survive?

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

His anxiety seemed to taunt him, repeating both things in his mind until they melded together, as though he had to pick just one.

You’re flying alone.

Drew left you.

Flying or Drew. Flying or Drew. Flying or Drew.

Fuck. What if Drew was still on the same flight? No, that didn’t make any sense. Drew would have definitely made arrangements for a different flight if he was—if he was trying to never see Zach again. There was a stabbing pain in his chest that grew and spread and morphed into a dull, heavy tension.

God, he hoped Drew wasn’t still in the airport. What time had he left this morning? Was he already long gone, driven by some urgent need to get as far away from Zach as he could? Or was he somewhere here, waiting at his new departure gate and hoping like hell he wouldn’t see Zach?

Both options pushed all the air out of his lungs again. And added more fuel for his anxiety to flare.

Fuck. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get up, force himself to push through the messy crowd and find the security checkpoint, make his way to his gate, and then—and then get on the airplane. Alone. Alone and broken and, fuck—

Drive. He could fucking drive home, right?

He looked back at his phone, swiping it open and quickly navigating to the Maps app and then doing a search for “Home.” About twenty-four hours, though that was straight through—maybe he could drive it in twenty-six or so. And there were no traffic or weather alerts, so it seemed like the roads were clear enough now after the storm, at least the main ones. He didn’t need to calculate a stop for sleep; he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while.

Zach swallowed past the grief and pain that was trying to rise up out of his chest. He couldn’t think about that. About him. Not right now.

So, twenty-six hours would get him home tomorrow, around lunchtime. That was fine, he had the day off. Zach finally took a deep breath—a mostly deep breath—his chest and lungs already feeling a bit less tense. He had the time, and he probably was going to need time alone.

Shit. Jen. He was supposed to have lunch with Jen tomorrow. But... fuck. She’d understand. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d not made it onto a plane. Before his thoughts could latch on to “lunch with Jen” and “best friends” and “talking,” he looked down at his phone again and started up a web search for rental cars. He couldn’t think about talking to Jen right now. She would... god, she would be so angry at Drew on Zach’s behalf, ready to fight and call him names and... Zach wasn’t ready for that. He needed time. Like twenty-six hours of time.