The sentiment was spoken simultaneously with Aaron’s whispered, “Oh, fucking fuck.”
The courtroom was packed. People crammed, shoulder to shoulder, on the long wooden benches. Huddles had formed in the aisle, and quiet conversations hummed as though we were at a library.
“Breathe,” I quietly reminded him, hooking my arm through his, pressing myself into his side. I told myself I was comforting him, but uninvited nerves fluttered in my stomach as we made our way through the crowd.
“Why are there so many people here?” he asked.
“Right? Is there an open bar no one told us about?”
“Good idea. Let’s go get drunk and then come back.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” I gave his arm a tug. “We can have drinks tonight when this is over. Hopefully by then, you can buy a whole bottle of tequila on Sky High’s dime.”
His face got hard. “I don’t want their money, Remi. And you shouldn’t, either.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t, but there’s nothing wrong with celebrating the fact that they no longer have it.”
He blew out a ragged breath. “Why do we have to be here?”
I opened my mouth, hoping a grand pep talk would vocalize out of thin air, but I was interrupted before I had the chance to find out.
“Remi!”
I plastered on a smile before I turned to see a beautiful woman with a sophisticated black bob rolling our way.
Katherine Gates.
Everyone processes tragedy in a different way.
Some shut down and get lost in the emotion, spending their days fighting demons and trying to forget.
Some get angry, rage at the world, and try to find someone to blame in the hopes that it will release them from the suffocating weight of their guilt.
Some turn inward, trying to figure out why they were one of the few chosen to survive, and then they dedicate their lives to repaying Karma for sparing their life.
And some, like Katherine, create an email distro for all the survivors to share essential oil concoctions, cat memes, and plan monthly get-togethers no one attended.
“Hey, Katherine,” I greeted, releasing Aaron’s arm to bend down and give her a hug. “You look gorgeous today.”
She beamed up at me with a bright smile. “Thanks. You too.”
“Aaron, this is Katherine Gates. Katherine, this is—”
“Aaron Lanier.” She extended her hand. “So nice to finally meet you. You’re number twenty-six for me. Only one more and I’ll have met all the survivors. What’s your number?”
Shaking her hand, he chuckled uncomfortably. “Including you? Two.”
“Oh, honey. Don’t forget to count yourself. You’re a survivor too.”
He chuffed. “I don’t know about all that. I’m surviving. I’m not sure I’m to the survivor part yet.”
She cradled their joined hands and tugged him down. “You’ll get there. We’ll all get there. We just have to stick together.”
“Sure,” he whispered, gently freeing his hand from her grip. Lately, optimism was not Aaron’s strong suit.
With narrowed eyes, she watched him for several beats, and just before the shroud of awkwardness suffocated us all, she looked at me. “How are your arms?”
She didn’t mean anything by it, but guilt still slashed through me. I’d been luckier than most.
Katherine hadn’t been in a wheelchair the day she’d boarded flight 672. I’d never been brave enough to ask for the specifics of her injuries, but they were extensive. In the early days of her emails, she’d updated us all from a hospital bed. Then a rehabilitation center. Recently, she’d sent photos of home renovations to accommodate her wheelchair. Her communications were always upbeat and filled with positivity, but it was times like that when I couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t become an erupting volcano of bitterness.
I smiled tightly. “Good as new.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” And she was. Genuinely. The world needed more people like Katherine Gates.
Her husband suddenly sidled up beside her, resting his hand between her shoulder blades. “Remi, it’s so good to see you again.”
Aaron’s body jerked before he swung an accusing glare my way. “Again?”
Shit.
Yeah, okay, fine. I’d attended a few of Katherine’s get-togethers. I felt bad that no one ever went. I hadn’t mentioned it to Aaron because he would have rather been shot out of a cannon into a pool of hungry sharks than attend a “survivor’s mixer.” But at the same time, he would have gone just so I didn’t have to go alone. We had this really fun relationship where we took turns emotionally drowning for each other. It was super healthy.
I ignored his reaction. “You too, Tim. You still treating our Katie here to your culinary genius every night?”
“Torturing her with it is more like it.” He leaned in and used his hand to curtain off his mouth, but he never lowered his voice. “But the dogs are getting fat off the scraps she sneaks them when she thinks I’m not looking. So I guess it’s working out for them.”
