Torry holds her breath and fights to calm her flipflopping stomach, clutching the the armrests and completely failing to relax into the force of takeoff. Even after leveling out it’s no good, this noisy, droning contraption, like being strapped inside a Tylenol with wings, good Lord, haven’t these people heard of jumbo jets? The flight attendant can refer to the aircraft all she wants, but as far as Torry’s concerned, it’s a closet with seats.
Still, it might be worth it, that Frank really really wanted her to be there to decorate his arm at his company do tonight, and that he so blithely sprang for her ticket is a good start.
Torry carefully keeps her eyes on her lap, on her phone, on the Glamour she can’t concentrate on, looks anywhere but toward the window and the sheet of metal and thousands of feet of empty air that are all that stand between her and defenestration, and focuses on her lawyer’s advice: “Marry well, divorce better, remarry best of all.” That third one’s the only reason she’s on this flight.
Aero Icarus. CC.