Page 75 of No Hope of Rescue

“Where’s that nasty thermos?” she asks.

She wants to clean the stuff I grabbed from the Bell. I point to my parka.

She fishes around in my pockets for just a moment and then stops. On the table is the thermos, the pair of aviator glasses, and the photo.

“What’s this?” she asks, holding it out toward me.

I raise my head and offer one open eye. “It’s that picture of us from the day we met. It’s what kept me present.”

“What?”

“It’s what kept me grounded, Riley. When I was I the air, I just kept thinking of you.”

Silence.

I don’t know what I was expecting. It certainly wasn’t tears. I pat my lap and wave for her to come and sit.

“I’m fine,” she says, settling in. “I’m just tired.” I wipe hot tears from her face, and kiss salt away from the corners of her eyes. These tears aren’t desperate like before. These are gentle, sweet.

Her weight rests against my pelvis. I place an arm behind her back. She snuggles down into my arms.

“I’ve always carried that picture. I clipped it to the dash to help keep me focused on what was happening in the moment. Not something that happened five years ago.”

There’s a sniffle and then another tear she wipes away.

I rock her for a moment. “You okay?”

She nods, reaches up, and takes my chin in her hand. “I think I understand what must go through when you sit in the pilot’s seat—just a little now.” Though I don’t understand quite what she’s talking about, it doesn’t matter, because she’s pressing her lips to mine. Her mouth is so sweet. I can never ever, ever let her go. The thought of her being on the other side of that thin piece of sheet metal and getting hit makes me hitch her up in my lap, tighten my arms around her, and deepen that kiss.

If I ever lost her, I’d lose myself.

Her voice is soft. “Please promise me you won’t ever do anything like that again.”

I rub her lower lip with my finger, and my heart sinks. If I am to believe Crystal, this is why she broke up with me. But I have to tell the truth. “I can’t do that.”

With her small face tilted to mine, she closes her eyes, then opens them again. She sighs. “I know. I just thought I’d ask.”

“I love you, Riley.”

“I love you too.”

I can’t seem to see all of her at once—it’s like I want to love and cherish in the moment different aspects of her: the crescent curve of an eyebrow, the thin skin at her temple, how many strands of blonde is cast in the light, the corner of her mouth and that perpetual smile, a freckle under her left eye, the blotchy rash on her cheek and chest from my three-day beard.

She smiles. “What are you looking at?”

“You. All of you.”

΅

In an hour, she’s sound asleep. I pick her up and move her to her silly little girly room. Those are her words, not mine. A beaded lampshade, floral wallpaper, candles, and too many pillows for one bed. I stared at it the first time I saw it.

“Really?” I’d said at the time.

With a hand on her hip, she’d fake punched me. “No judgment. I need a girly-girl place.”

Of course she does. I already pulled back the sheets earlier. She’s so deeply asleep she doesn’t stir when I lay her down. Gently covering her with the comforter, I have to remind myself to leave the room.

I ease the door closed.