Page 51 of Fear of Flying

Zach was relieved to see that it was only about $150 to rent a car for the day, picking it up here and dropping it off in Albuquerque. But then he groaned, frustrated with himself, and adjusted the time. The bastards counted things in twenty-four-hour periods, not days. Or something. Some secret math that always ended up twice the price, somehow. He set the drop-off time to 6 p.m. tomorrow, which he hoped would be plenty of time.

The price jumped to $250. Plus gas and stuff. And he’d be out the money for the plane ticket—nonrefundable—more than a few hundred dollars that had come out of the rescue’s pockets. He felt the knot in his stomach twist a little with guilt, and his jaw clenched as he tried to push the feeling away. It would be fine. Really. He’d just work a few more hours to make up for it. He already did that anyway.

So it was settled. He was going to drive home.

Tension lingered in his neck and shoulders and chest, but he already felt an order of magnitude better knowing he didn’t have to suffer through two more takeoffs and two more landings.

He looked up from his phone and surveyed the crowd. There were still a lot of people, and everything was still loud and chaotic, but it wasn’t as painful to exist in the same space anymore. It was more tolerable now. He just had to navigate his way to the rental car counters, get a car, and be on his way. With a short, shuddering breath, he forced his eyes to read the signs up overhead, and then he stood, clutching his duffle bag, and started in the direction of the car rental counters.

Forty-five minutes later, he was on the road, driving a silver Toyota Camry that he’d let the sales attendant upgrade him into because he’d been too anxious to tell the woman no. It didn’t matter, though. It was only a few more dollars out of his pocket. He’d gotten what he’d needed, and he was on his way home. And he just needed to focus on keeping his eyes forward and trying not to count the miles of distance he was putting in between himself and Drew. Because that was dumb, his anxiety reminded him—Drew could be in the air or headed somewhere entirely different than Dallas, for all he knew, and there was no way he could count the miles.

For the first almost-hundred miles, Zach had existed in this state of numbness, maybe. Whatever state of being it had been that he’d needed to survive the rental car process without publicly melting down. But around twelve thirty, his anxiety started ramping back up, creeping back out from behind whatever magic armor had been holding it at bay. The familiar buzz of a text against his thigh startled him, making him pump the gas pedal for half a second. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it on the passenger’s seat. It could yell and buzz all it wanted. He couldn’t handle it right now. He couldn’t handle anything other than eyes forward. On the road.

But what if it’s Drew? his mind whispered.

Dammit. His heart clenched, and he held his breath for a few seconds.

No, it couldn’t be Drew. It wasn’t Drew. It would never be Drew. They’d never remembered to exchange numbers last night. Zach had thought they’d have the whole morning, the whole day practically, together. But now, conveniently for Drew, they had no way of contacting one another. At least not without a lot of effort.

And suddenly, Zach was trying not to think of how little effort Drew must have thought he was worth. His eyes burned, and his throat and chest tightened. Hadn’t he already used up all his tears during that first hour or so, when his vision had been a little too blurry and he’d really wished he’d had some tissues or a fast-food napkin to wipe his nose?

God, it hurt so much.

His phone was vibrating still, but now it was with those longer, sustained vibrations that meant a phone call. It had to be Jen. Because she was worried he wasn’t answering her routine series of “get your ass on the flight” texts.

But he didn’t want to talk. Not yet. Not yet. He needed more time.

And he wasn’t even sure he could talk, not without struggling to get the words out around the sobs. God, he was a pathetic mess. A pathetic, unwanted mess. It was better for him to focus on driving now, anyway. Safer that way. And not at all just a justification for not wanting to talk.

His bladder and the threatening cramp in his hip were going to force him to stop soon, though. Still ignoring his phone for now—and the newest short buzzes that probably meant a voicemail or another text or both—he focused his attention on the road signs and navigated himself to the next exit that claimed to have gas and food.

After using the facilities and grabbing some bottled water, a soda, and some snacks for the road, Zach drove over to the far edge of the expansive parking lot of the travel center. He was sure he’d cry more even just reading Jen’s texts, so he wanted to be away from any curious onlookers.

The anxiety hangover was setting in, like it always did after really intense anxiety attacks. His body had finally had enough of the overly taut muscles and anxiety pricking at his every nerve, and now he had this feeling of numbness, his limbs a bit leaden, though the anxiety still hummed just under the surface, like it always did.

Zach stared over at the small pile of stuff on the passenger seat. In it, his phone buzzed again—either a new text or a reminder of voicemail, he wasn’t sure—but he reached for one of the protein bars instead.

His appetite was nonexistent, and he was a bit concerned that he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down given this nausea he had. But he knew he needed to eat something, and the protein bar was quicker and easier than trying to stomach a fast-food burger. He forced himself to eat, wishing that the effort of lifting the food to his mouth, biting, chewing, and swallowing wasn’t so tiring. Even though it was one of his preferred choices when he was on the go, the bar was almost tasteless, its texture like sandpaper.

He washed the last of it down with a swig of soda, and then stared at his phone again. It felt like there was a lead weight in his chest, and the phone was far heavier than it was supposed to be when he picked it up. He turned it over in his hand so he could see the screen.

Eleven texts and one voicemail. All from Jen.

Zach clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the conversation he was about to have. He’d read the texts first—so he would know where her mind was at, which was reasonable and logical, he told himself, and not at all a stalling tactic. But he knew what they would say. The first ones were always the same, every flight, and he had a damn good guess what the follow-up texts would be. He took one more deep breath and swiped the screen.

Jen: Hey, you! It’s go time. Tell me your butt is in a seat!

Jen: ON THE PLANE, not in the airport.

Jen: You’d better not be freaking out!

Jen: How are the air vents in this plane? Good? Bad? Text me back to complain about them!

Jen: Dude, I’m trying not to worry here. Or be offended. Like, are you totally hung up on your new hunk of a man and ignoring my texts??

The words hit him straight in the gut, robbing him of breath. He hadn’t expected—ah god. Fuck. Shame and sadness flooded through him with a heavy heat. He wasn’t even sure why the shame was there. It wasn’t like Jen would actually have been mad or he’d done anything wrong. But god, he was feeling all sorts of insecure, and he was doubting every single decision he’d made in the past forty-eight hours.

Jen: Okay, I’m going to choose to believe that you’re just being rude and ignoring me in favor of making cartoon love eyes at your seatmate.