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High in the sky, on the cusp of an unremarkable Tuesday morning, a plane hurtled towards the ground.
Passersby should have stopped. The tiny cars creeping along the highway should have thrown on their hazards, and come to a complete stop, and should have leaned out from their windows, gaping up at the great metal bird as it careened downwards. Faster, faster, and the trees hurtled to meet it, excited to make the acquaintance of the passengers onboard—who should have been panicking, but strangely enough, nobody was.
People flicked through tabloids, downed the last dregs of their beverages, worked the ice around in their mouth until it melted to pass the time. A couple checked watches or out the windows, unimpressed at what they saw. Down below, traffic was at a standstill, but for no reason other than the morning rush hour—children with toy cars raced the plane against the window, as it grew ever larger and nearer. The only person who seemed to realize anything was wrong was the baby, crying a few seats ahead. But even she was shushed hastily by shameful parents.
A few rows down from the baby was the only other passenger who seemed to have a problem with the planes’ descent. White hands turned whiter still as they clenched the laminated, and mildly sticky safety brochure—the literature both a comfort in the essence of what it was, and maybe through the information it provided. If the passenger was not frozen, perhaps he would have followed directions and braced, but that would require ungluing his eyes from the horrifying sight out the window.
The trees were getting closer.
Closer.
Details suddenly jumped into definity. Suddenly buildings had windows, and those windows had panes. The wings fluttered and changed to catch the air, and oh God, he could see right through them—were those flaps revealing holes in the wing?
A bump, and the man gritted his teeth.
Closer.
Closer.
What would the evening news say? That a plane had downed, so close to its destination, too? The world would mourn countless passengers that did not even know they were dying as it was happening…
All but one.
One would not be mourned.
One was not known.
Nobody knew his name.
And maybe nobody was waiting on him.
“Hurry! We’re going to miss it!”
“I’m hurrying as fast as I can! There’s traffic!”
Far below the plane screaming towards the ground, silent in its downfall, was a car that was not silent at all. It contained only two passengers, and the driver was hardly speaking at all, but the passenger in the front right seat made up for a whole plane’s worth of screaming passengers, all on his own.
“HURRY FASTER! We aren’t going to make it!”
The driver gritted his teeth and flipped the signal on the steering wheel, pulling into another lane of traffic, riding up close to another car’s bumper.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he grumbled, “I swear.”
The plane plummeted through the sky, its wings working desperately to keep it aloft and in control. The passenger let his eyes dart from the window to the interior of the plane, and then back again, and he could not help but hug the brochure tighter as he realized how much closer the world had crept.
It seemed like ages, and ages, and ages where they were in the sky directly above the runway but not on the ground.
Surely they hovered inches above the pavement for hours.
He kept waiting but it didn’t come.
Something had gone wrong. The wheels had broken. And what would they do when they were out of runway, and the airport itself came hurtling up to meet them… he could see it now, the fire and the screaming, the wire structural supports raining down like the airport was a collapsing metal ribcage—
Bump.
The man gasped and shuddered. He closed his eyes very tight.
The wind rushed and whipped and they only moved faster.
They were going to die—
And then suddenly the tempest died down, and the voices rose, and everything was still and peaceful and finite.
The man took a moment to collect himself, brushing some of his bangs behind his ear, pulling the raggedy hood tighter around his visage.
Now, time for the scary part.
“DEACON! Do you want me to drive? I can drive!”
“I know you can drive, Chase, but you drive like a crazy cabbie and if we get pulled over we’re going to be even more late.”
The passenger drummed his hands anxiously against the dashboard, glancing out the window at the sky, where various planes were coming to land. Any one of them… he thought, his mind and heart both racing, the energy lost without anywhere to go but his tapping fingers.
“Short-term parking,” he said, pointing.
“I know, Chase.”
“You’re in the lane for the long-term parking!”
“It’s the lane for both. It’s okay. It will be okay.”
But the anxiety was tangible in the car.
A stream of passengers came from the exit ramp, chatting, checking watches, consolidating bags. A loudspeaker announced their arrival as they fed into the airport traffic—the several gates, the domed ceiling, that great rib cage that was fortunately still intact. It was a large hall, so juxtaposed to the tiny exit ramp.
The exit ramp was cramped.
And crowded.
Breathe. Walk. You know how to be a human.
It felt hilariously untrue, because the truth was that he didn’t, and as the man with black hair stumbled down the exit ramp and tried to remind his legs they belonged to a body that was still alive , he could not link the brain and the exterior. He would have laughed, except that anxiety had started to claw at his throat, and nothing was funny. He felt alien, staggering along without friend or luggage, his eyes darted around the pressing walls like they wanted to swallow him. So afraid, always. Afraid of the space, afraid of the closure. Afraid of the world and all of its walls.
He had passed on from stifling familiarity, a bird released from its cage… but oh, the sky was so big.
And it was so easy for your wings to fail.
Will he be there?
Shadows slid along the car as it made its way down a narrow street, turned twice, and then pulled into an empty parking space underneath a letter marker.
Two pairs of feet landed heavily on the concrete.
“Come on, come on, come on!” Chase cried, eyes darting down to his watch, which had stopped working the previous summer when he tried to push his cousin into a lake. He gave up and checked the time above their heads instead, as they hurried through the airport doors. “We’re late!”
“We don’t even know if he’ll be there!” Deacon pointed out in a hiss, as Chase took the escalator two at a time and squeezed his way past those lingering.
The look Chase gave him was incredulous. “He will,” Chase said.
“But… we have no idea if he made his flight, if he even came… you have no way of texting him, he doesn’t have a phone!”
“I know that! I know we can only talk in books… but Deacon, I did talk to him when he landed in Chicago, last night—”
“We had no idea if he made the layover.”
“I’m sure he did. I’m sure he’ll be there. And it still takes, like, twenty minutes to get through security, ‘cause we’ve got to print our gate passes and everything so they let us meet him there… so please , move your feet…”
The man walked down the exit ramp and felt the sun, from the soaring terminal windows, kiss his face like a lover.
He was shaking all over.
His arms found their way around himself out of instinct, the perfect picture of hesitation, as he shuffled along closer, and closer to the exit… slowly the terminal itself was coming into view, and with it, every ounce of fear was growing into a painful conglomeration in his stomach… it felt like one question, one giant, looming question, that easily defined his immediate future… because if the space was empty… what would he do?
Like a lost dog without a collar. Wandering alone. No home to look forwards to, and shelter only left behind.
He reached the mouth of the tunnel and stopped.
Eyes skated quickly, desperately, achingly over the room, like they themselves were tearing it apart in a desperate search. The chairs dappled with dozing toddlers and old folk sharing over-priced breakfasts wrapped in paper, a few sleepy teenagers bundled snugly into hoodies and headphones. People talking, greeting, laughing. Holding up signs to demonstrate, for everyone to see, their lack of aloneness.
But Buddy was alone.
Because amidst all those who were waiting for their loved ones, nobody was waiting for him.
He felt his already weary heart start to fragment even further.
No.
I came all this way.
He said… he said…
He offered himself a hug, but to accept it felt pathetic.
“Hey! Stop blocking the way!”
He staggered as he was shoved aside, carelessly, like a blemish upon the happy airport. The stranger’s suitcase whipped at his ankles, but he did not whimper, although it hurt.
He drew himself into the quietest corner he could, bundled away where he could be respectful and only quietly implorative of want, and—because he did not have anything else—he waited, like the most polite vase on the shelf, hoping to be taken home.
Thundering feet, although desperate, at least gave way to some sort of productivity. Movement. The nearing of a goal.
But they were not running.
They were at a near standstill in a very long line.
“Ugh!” Chase growled, standing on his toes to see over the heads of the passengers. “ Why are there so many people? We’re going to miss him… he’s going to think we forgot about him!”
Deacon didn’t answer, pressing a knuckle to his lips. His gray-blue eyes did not fully betray what he was thinking, but it was obvious enough… he did not believe their trip to the airport would yield anything at all.
But Chase had spoken to Buddy in Chicago, when Buddy had the chance to pop into a book during a brief sleep in the hotel. And Buddy was on his way. He was obviously nervous, but Chase had promised—Chase had promised they would be there!
He did not doubt at all that Buddy would be absent from the terminal, unless the plane went down.
But they were absent, and he had made a promise. One that, every second wasted in this line, was shattering around the edges.
“Oh no,” Chase whispered, threading his hands through his hair.
Deacon leaned against him to provide unspoken support.
But the large clock above their heads seemed to mock them.
He’ll come.
Of course he’ll come.
He always comes for me. He promised he would.
I’m… I’m here now… he’ll come…
Drawing in on himself only made everything feel tighter.
The room.
His chest.
Buddy hugged himself harder but it hurt more than anything because it just made him feel so small.
Eyes glazed over him like a piece of furniture.
He was used to it, but now it hurt because he was looking for someone in return… eyes wide, darting, desperate and insatiable —
I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, it won’t be a problem, sir.
Just look at me, just want me… please, just be there…
He wasn’t there.
Buddy was half tempted to go into a book to communicate to Chase, but he had no way of finding privacy here, unless he left, and he couldn’t leave! He was going to meet Chase here ! The moment he left he would forfeit everything, everything, he would lose all of it and then he would walk the world and have nothing…
So he would stay…
He would wait. He would be quiet, and good. He would wait for years if he had to.
Because the minute he left he would lose it all.
As long as he stayed, he had a chance.
“Deacon, if we’re too long, he’s going to get fed up and leave!”
“Relax,” Deacon said, nudging Chase up to the counter. “This will only take a moment, and then we can run to get to him.” He left his personal opinion unsaid as he showed his ID to the TSA agent, and Chase fumbled to show their pass.
The minute they were through, they were running.
“Please, Buddy,” Chase whispered, like he was trying to coax life itself from a body instead of thin air. “Please… please, be there… I told you I’d come for you and I will… ”
“Chase,” Deacon said hoarsely.
“Not now, Deacon. Not now.”
They ran through crowded hallways, squeezing past the reuniting families. Chase’s eyes slid from sign to sign as his breath hitched in his throat.
“C6, C8, C10… C12! Deacon, I see the sign! He’s supposed to be there!”
C12 was at the very end of the terminal wing, and it was mostly deserted; there were no restaurants beyond it, so nowhere to convert it into a place to pass through, only an end. And everyone had left right now; the flight had gotten in at least fifteen minutes ago. The seats were deserted, and nobody was there.
Except for one.
Deacon slowed as Chase came to an abrupt halt. His cousin’s hand went to flippantly smooth his blonde hair, a habit of the sudden anxiety growing in his chest. Chase was a few paces ahead of Deacon… he looked back at his cousin with fear.
“It’s okay,” Deacon said. “He’s there.”
Chase hesitated… then looked back.
The figure lounging back by the windows was both achingly familiar and also different. Chase had never known Buddy to seem so… so small. He was dressed in both a hoodie and a face mask, so only his eyes were visible, and these were eyes fixated determinedly on the ground. His shoulders were pulled in, and his foot playing a restless tap dance against the carpet.
“Buddy.”
He looked up.
The boy with golden hair was like the sun. He was like an oasis in a desert, like the lightbulb illuminating a stage.
His feet were suddenly moving, and Buddy had only managed to climb awkwardly to his feet when Chase threw himself at him—arms going around shoulders, shoulders and arms and faces that were real, two hearts beating against one another in space, tangled laughter and maybe a couple of tears.
Anxiety boiled into nervous excitement… it felt nearly the same.
“Buddy! I’m so sorry we’re late, we got stuck in traffic, I’m so, so sorry—”
They sank to the ground in the hug, both caught off guard by the sudden meaning of it—expecting a casual escape, turned quickly into the reunion of a lifetime. Chase was laughing awkwardly, gripping the fabric of Buddy’s hoodie. Buddy was only dumbstruck. His words left him in a breath and a whisper as he, however unintentionally, gave his whole self in that very moment to the boy in his arms.
“You’re here.”