New Uses For Old Boyfriends (28 page)

We're going to die.

She kept her hand clamped on the interphone, waiting to hear from the flight deck. But there was nothing.

The plane stopped climbing.

Halfway through her breezy explanation of aerospace engineering, the plane tilted sharply and plummeted downward. People started screaming again.

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a second or two, the plane leveled off again, and Summer started breathing.

Still no word from the flight deck.

The cabin lights blinked off and the screams faded into tense silence. Her memory summoned snapshots of her past, the proverbial life flashing before her eyes.

She'd seen the northern lights in Sweden and fed baby
elephants in Thailand. She'd danced at Carnival in Brazil and gone snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef. She'd traveled all over the world having once-in-a-lifetime experiences.

But she'd never had a garden.

She'd never learned to play the piano.

She'd never let herself fall completely in love.

This is the worst bucket list ever.

If she weren't so petrified, she'd laugh. Pianos were for singing along to and draping oneself across while wearing a sequined gown. And a garden? Really? That was crazy talk. She'd never even
wanted
a garden.

As for love, well, she could try, right? She could open up and let herself be vulnerable. She could accept Aaron's marriage proposal and settle down and live happily ever after.

I can't.

She white-knuckled the vinyl seat cushion and tried to keep a smile on her face. Tried to slow her heartbeat and catch her breath and say something comforting and authoritative.

The plane pitched sideways again and plummeted down through the darkness. The thick shoulder straps of her seat belt bit into her flesh despite the sensation of weightlessness. She heard the rush of her pulse in her ears. She felt a flood of adrenaline coursing through her limbs.

She forced herself to keep her eyes open as she braced her body for the impact she knew was coming.

Two days later

B
efore she even opened her eyes, Summer could smell roses. The floral perfume was stale and cloying, almost nauseating in the warm, dry hospital air.

She lay motionless while she regained her bearings, mentally reviewing the few facts she'd been able to retain over the past forty-eight hours:

My head is concussed.

My back is burned.

My ribs and spleen are tore up from the floor up.

Walk it off.

She was safe. No matter how many times she repeated that to herself, she still couldn't quite believe it. Even though she could feel the tissue-thin cotton of the hospital gown on her shoulders and the starched bedsheets against her calves, even though the confusion of the last few days was punctuated with flashbulb memories of doctors and nurses changing her bandages and asking her questions (“Can you tell me your name?” “Can you tell me what year it is?”),
she couldn't recall anything about how she'd gotten from the plane to the hospital.

She remembered prepping for takeoff to Paris. She remembered the bag of M&M's and Kim teasing her about her shoes and the British passenger who smelled like a distillery. She remembered the plane's sudden lurch and the screams in the darkness and the acrid smell of smoke. But then there was a gap, a thick and impenetrable mist clouding her memory. All she knew for sure was that she'd been in a New Jersey medical center for two days now, and a dozen red roses had arrived with Aaron's signature on the card.

So she understood, on a detached, intellectual level, that she was safe. Her body would mend.

Aaron was safe, too. He'd been busy with debriefings and corporate damage control, but he'd be here as soon as he could. In the meantime, he'd sent flowers she could smell even in her sleep.

So now she had to open her eyes, start patching reality back together, and figure out what to do next.

Or at least try to get her hands on some good drugs.

She took a deep breath, wincing as sharp pain shot through her rib cage, and surveyed the tiny private room. Her lips were chapped, her throat parched. There was a plastic tan water pitcher just out of arm's reach—
so close, yet so far
—on a low metal table. Various electronic monitors hummed and beeped, and a flimsy shade covered the steel-framed window.

She startled as she heard a soft rustling from across the room. Her neck ached as she turned her head to glimpse a shadowed figure seated in the vinyl recliner next to the door.

“You're awake,” Aaron's voice said.

She could hear him, but she couldn't see him. Just like the moments before takeoff. Overwhelmed by emotions she couldn't even name, she had to try three times before her dry throat would swallow.

“You're here.” Her voice came out thin and hoarse.

“I've been here all afternoon.” He got to his feet, cutting a striking silhouette in the late afternoon shadows. The handsome hero, straight out of central casting.

She had dated handsome men before. Fascinating, witty men who were long on charisma and short on integrity. They wined and dined her. They enthralled her. They left her at the first sign of trouble.

Until Aaron.

He was so much more than handsome; he was honest and hardworking and respectful and loyal. The kind of man that every woman hoped for.

Summer had never seen herself as the marrying type, and in fact had strict rules in place:
Never stay in one place too long.
Never stay with one man too long.
She knew what would happen if she broke these rules. If she needed a man more than he needed her. She had experienced the fallout firsthand.

Kim was right. Summer should be able to do this—to grow up and settle down and form lasting attachments. Her friends were all getting married, having babies, buying houses. Being adults. Being normal. They made it look so effortless, this transition from reckless youth into stable families. As if the whole thing couldn't unravel at any second.

She loved Aaron; he loved her. He had literally saved her life. She should marry him.

I can't.

“Why didn't you wake me up?” She struggled to sit up straighter, wincing and reaching for the water pitcher.

“You need your rest.” He intercepted the pitcher and poured lukewarm water into a clear plastic cup. “Ice?”

She shook her head again, heedless of the pain, and gulped the water. Despite the steady drip from the saline IV, her body craved fluid. She felt empty inside, almost hollow.

He adjusted the window shade, and as golden sunlight streamed in, she saw worry and fatigue etched in the lines of his face. The sparkle in his blue eyes had gone flat, and his devil-may-care grin had given way to an expression of grim resolve. He still wore a crisp navy pilot's blazer, but he'd unfastened the buttons of his white shirt, and she could see a patch of gauze taped to his collarbone.

And, in that moment, both of them half-hidden and half-revealed in the shadows and sunlight, she sensed something different about him, a subtle shift in the way he looked and spoke to her.

“Come here.” She put down the cup and stretched out her hand to him. “Are you okay? What happened to your shoulder?”

He took a single step in her direction. “Nothing, just a scratch.”

“That's a pretty impressive bandage for ‘just a scratch.'”

“It's nothing,” he repeated. “You got banged up pretty good, though. I've been calling two or three times a day for updates.” He came closer and smiled down at her. “You look great.”

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “You lie.”

“It's the truth.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek. “Not a scratch on that perfect face.”

“Tell that to my spleen.” As she gazed up at him, she felt the same hot rush of attraction she'd experienced the first time she'd met him.

His right hand patted his blazer pocket, then fell away. Reached again and fell away. And then she remembered: the ring.

She picked up her cup as her throat went dry again.

“I'm sorry I couldn't be here with you the whole time,” Aaron said. “But legal had to interrogate me. And then the public relations team had their turn.”

“Public relations?”

“Oh, yeah. They want to make sure they spin this as a victory against all odds rather than an equipment failure that justifies a
lawsuit. I had to go on one of those morning shows yesterday, and tonight I'm booked for some cable news interviews. Hence, the uniform.”

“I bet you did great. You're very photogenic, and—” She broke off as his hand drifted back to his pocket.

He rocked back on his heels. “That's what the public relations team said. They had the first officer go on air with me. Kim, too. Said her Southern accent was good for the company image. They wanted you, too, but . . .”

Summer let her head settle back against the pillow. “I'm an unreliable witness whacked out on pain pills and prone to passing out.”

“They didn't use those exact words.” He finally came close enough to kiss her, pressing his lips against the top of her head. “Does that hurt?”

“No.” She tilted her face up so he could kiss her on the mouth. “Thank you for the flowers.” She nodded at the bouquet. The rose petals had gone dark and crisp around the edges.

His hand went all the way into the pocket this time, and he started to extract something before he changed his mind and put it back. “Summer. You know I love you.” He sat down next to her on the bed.

“I love you, too,” she forced out.

“How much do you remember about the landing?” he asked.

She finally drew a breath. “What?”

“The doctors won't tell me much since I'm just your boyfriend and not your husband.”

She stilled. “Uh-huh.”

“And your family isn't . . . They're not returning my calls.” He shifted his weight. “I looked up your dad's office number on the university Web site. His department secretary said he's out of town. And your mother . . .”

He gazed at her, a glimmer of pity in his eyes.

Summer lifted her chin and stared at the roses.

He waited for her to respond for another long minute, then gave up. “Anyway, from what I've managed to get out of the nurses, you don't remember much.”

“Yeah.” She laced her fingers together and squeezed, wondering where he was going with this. “Everything after takeoff's a little hazy. They told me one of the engines blew out?”

He nodded. “I had to make an emergency landing. We didn't have time to circle and dump the fuel, so things got pretty exciting for a minute, but we made it.”

“Is that why I have burns on my back?”

“Like I said, things got a little exciting.”

“But you saved us,” she said. “You're a hero.”

“
You're
the hero,” he corrected. “Once we got back on the ground, people were trying to get out the emergency doors, and a little boy fell in the aisle. You managed to push back the crowd and pull him up.”

Summer suddenly wanted an extra dose of morphine. “I let go of the door handle?”

Aaron nodded. “That's how you got hurt. You fell onto the tarmac.”

“Which is why we're not supposed to let go of the door handle.” Summer shook her head. “That's like, flight attendant 101.” She closed her eyes and concentrated, sifting through her consciousness for any recollection. “I really . . . I can't remember any of that.”

“The whole thing was over in less than five minutes,” Aaron said. “But those five minutes changed everything.” He reached into his pocket.

She held her breath and waited for him to produce the ring.

And waited. And waited.

He continued to look at her with that wistful expression. “I do love you, Summer.”

“I love you, too.” She smiled. “We're even.”

He stood up and turned his back to her. “There's so many things I want to say to you, and I don't know where to begin.”

She couldn't stand this any longer. “I know about the ring, Aaron.”

He froze, then turned to face her. “You do?”

“Kim told me everything.” She waited for him to look up.

“Okay, then.” His hand moved back to his pocket. “Kim was right. There was a ring.”

“‘Was'? Past tense?”

He caught her gaze and held it. “When I said I love you, I meant it. I've loved every minute we've spent together. You're fun. You're spontaneous. You make me laugh.”

“Okay,” she said faintly. “But . . . ?”

“I love you. But I don't love you enough.”

She went perfectly still.

He watched her face. “Say something.”

She took a moment, cleared her throat. “You're breaking up with me?”

He lifted his shoulders and blew out a breath. “I've been carrying that ring around for months.”

Her stomach clenched. “Months?”

“I wanted to ask you to marry me. I really did. But it never seemed to be the right time. And after a while . . .”

“You were going to propose in Paris,” she insisted. “It would have been perfect.”

“It would've been,” he agreed. “But we didn't make it to Paris. And maybe that's a sign.” He turned his face away. “Please don't take this personally. My whole life has changed in the last few days. I've realized that all the clichés are true. Life is short. We can't do things halfway. And you and I, we had fun, but we're not marriage material. There's something missing. I wish I could explain it better, but I can't.”

She took her time sipping the lukewarm water.

“You'll be fine.” He couldn't even look at her. “You're the strongest woman I know.”

Walk it off.

At this, Summer finally regained her voice.

“Go.” Her voice came out flat and low. “Just go.”

“I'm sorry.” He reached for her, but she flinched away.

“Don't apologize,” she said. “I don't want apologies. I don't want explanations. I just want you to go.”

Still, he hesitated.

Her voice got louder, sharper. “Please.”

As the door closed behind him, she felt the prickle of tears in her eyes, but she managed to compose herself. Aaron was right about her strength—she had always been resourceful and resilient. When life got hard, she didn't stop—she put one foot in front of the other, moving faster and farther until she pushed through the pain.

She would survive this, she knew. She always did.

And in the end, Aaron wasn't the one who got away. He was the one who reminded her of everything she'd been trying to get away from.

The room seemed to close in on her. She couldn't bear to stay here, confined, inhaling the scent of dying roses with every breath. So she did the only thing she could under the circumstances: She hit the call button, and when the nurse arrived, she announced, “Bring the consent forms or whatever I need to sign. I'm discharging myself, effective immediately.”

Before the nurse could start arguing, the door swung wide again and a firm, feminine voice rang through the room: “Simmer down, crazycakes. No one's going anywhere.”

This time, Summer couldn't hold back her tears. “Emily?”