Page 144 of PS: I Hate You
The flight to Pika Glacier.
Josh’s coordinates put us squarely in the Alaskan wilderness, on a stretch of frozen land reachable only by airplanes. It’s June, five months since the day Dom showed up at my condo asking for a hug. After he left, I started planning. Researched the coordinates, booked our flights, and found a small cabin for us to stay in. Two bedrooms.
The whole way out here, he’s been cordial to me, as if we’re at work.
I don’t know if I appreciate his approach or not. Part of me wants Dom to keep his distance, as my entire being feels made of cracked glass, ready to fracture at even the slightest touch.
But then there’s what’s just past that fragile shell. I miss Dom so bad, sometimes I forget why he’s not waking up in my bed. And when I try to stitch together the arguments I made against being with him, they are flimsier each time. The excuses slip further from my grip the more I meet with Mary and articulate my fears of intimacy and work through where they originated.
At our last meeting I made what felt like a breakthrough.
I told Mary Iwantto trust Dom.
That may be a far step from actually trusting him, but it’s a step nonetheless.
But here we are, on an airplane headed into Denali National Park, and all my hard-won confidence and self-assurance is crumbling under the hefty fear of what this day is.
There are about sixteen seats in the aircraft, and we’re all snugtogether with only a thin aisle between seats—one on each side. As we board, I worry Dom might get lodged in the tight space like he did in Dismals Canyon. But he maneuvers his wide shoulders at just the right angle to slip into his seat. The other passengers load on the same time as us, the family of six claiming the seats farther back and leaving me across the narrow aisle from Dom.
And I find I want him there. Inches from me. So close I swear I can feel his body heat even through my layers of clothes. Close enough that I can smell his cedar scent and see the grain of his facial hair that he shaved off before we left the cabin this morning.
As the pilot buckles in behind the controls, I clutch my backpack hard against my chest, feeling the small round container that contains the final piece of my brother.
That last bit of Josh.
Multiple times on the way out here, I noticed Dom rubbing his chest, and I wondered if the man might have heartburn. But then his coat parted when he crouched to retie his shoe, and I saw the flash of a corner of an envelope.
The final one.
My brother’s last words living close to his chest.
The plane’s engine roars to life, and Dom’s body goes rigid beside me. I wonder what it’s like being a control freak and yet having to put your life in someone else’s hands whenever you board a plane. The reality must be hard to ignore in an aircraft this small.
As the plane slowly rattles over the asphalt to a runway, my hand loosens on its own accord, fingers peeling away from the fabric of my backpack. Like a snake, my hand creeps across the less than a foot of space between us and settles over the back of Dom’s where his tendons stand out like tight guitar strings.
Unable to acknowledge what I’m doing, I choose to stare out the window at the Alaskan landscape. Only this touch connects me to him.
Against my palm, I feel Dom’s tense grip slacken. Then he flips his hand and laces our fingers together.
We hold on without a word as the plane lifts into the air, and we keep a firm grasp on each other for the forty-five minutes it takes to fly to the last destination Josh left for us.
We’re going to say goodbye.
The thought tightens like a cluster of rubber bands around my lungs. I utilize the breathing exercises my doctor gave me, and turn my mind to other comforting things.
Like Mary telling me I’m strong for wanting to take this step in the process of dealing with my grief.
Like how I successfully trained both my boss and a backup on how to perform the necessary tasks of my job. Training started slow, but now they can do it, and I can take time off.
Like the engagement ring Carlisle asked Tula’s and my opinions on.
Like the puzzle table that Adam planned to surprise me with next month for my birthday but was too excited about to wait. He and Carter are road-tripping out to visit in a few weeks to deliver it.
Like Dom’s hand. The feel of his familiar fingers in mine. How I can still remember exactly how his touch felt against all the intimate parts of me even though it’s been close to a year since we were last together that way.
He’s what comforts me. Better than anything or anyone else. His gentle thumb brushing over my knuckles. A solid presence beside me when this plane seems so insubstantial. The one that will stand steady beside me for this moment that is sure to be all kinds of painful.
Don’t think about it. Not yet.