In the Likely Event(25)

“We’ll handle it together,” she whispered. “Just like we always do.”

I nodded and cleared my throat, banishing the knot that threatened to close it. “I’m fine. Serena will get me back to school.”

“Of course she will,” Dad said, pride filling his tone. “And we’ll see you at Christmas. And I know this has been horrible, but I’m glad we got to talk to you. We love you.”

“We love you!” Mom declared. “And we’ll get you something special at the next port.”

Tell me your love language is gifts without telling me . . .

“Sounds great. Love you guys too.”

Serena and I said our goodbyes, and she hung up the phone.

“I’m so sorry, Iz. I legitimately thought . . .” She sighed, plopping down in the armchair.

“No, you didn’t.” My voice softened. “Let’s not lie to each other.” The priorities in Mom and Dad’s life were Dad’s company, and themselves. Serena and I had always been hood ornaments, shined up and shown for status. But still, my lungs hurt when I drew my next breath.

“You have me.” She leaned in. “You always have me.”

“I know.” I clasped her hand for a moment and then took a shuddering breath. Crying about it wasn’t going to help, so I focused on the chart in my lap, flipping through the pages until I found the first documents. “There it is!”

Serena stood and leaned over the bed. “Are you sure that guy wasn’t a doctor? Because his handwriting is utter shit.”

“Nathaniel,” I whispered, my fingers skirting over the signature, but I couldn’t read the rest of it.

“How the hell did you get Nathaniel out of that chicken scratch?” She shook her head. “All I see is an N and . . . whatever that is.”

“Nate.” My lips curved into a wide grin, my first since waking up. “His friends call him Nate.” That was all I could remember, and probably all I’d ever know, but at least I had a name to put to the face of the man who’d saved my life.





Two months later, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and stomped off the snow from my boots on the entry mat of my dorm. Colorado got snow, so it wasn’t like I was a stranger to the white stuff, but Syracuse got snow, especially in January.

It was up to my waist out there.

I walked to the mail room and spun the dial on my box as students chatted around me. My eyebrows rose at the telltale orange slip that meant I had a package to be picked up.

Mom and Dad weren’t exactly the care package type, and I’d seen them just last week before coming back to New York after break, so there was absolutely no chance it was from them. Serena, maybe?

I shut my mailbox, tossed one of the weekly credit card offers in the trash, and headed to the line at the window to pick up whatever had been sent to me. There were only two people ahead of me.

“Hey, Izzy!” Margo, my roommate, called out from the lobby with a thick southern accent, trudging toward me and leaving wet boot prints all over the muddy floor.

“Hey,” I answered. “How was psych?”

“Normal.” She shrugged as we moved forward in line and shook the snow out of her midnight-black hair. “We’re studying posttraumatic stress disorder.” A meaningful gaze cut my way. “Thought any more about maybe . . . discussing yours with a therapist?”

Nice and subtle.

“I don’t have PTSD. I’m scared of planes.” Which was why Serena and I had driven a rental car all the way from Colorado after break, despite my father telling me that I couldn’t afford to let the fear of flight hold me back.

“Resulting from a traumatic experience of a freaking plane crash,” she lectured, and the line moved again.

“I was scared of flying before the crash.”

“Slip?” the attendant asked, and I handed mine over. He disappeared into the mail room.

“I’m just saying that it really helped me after I lost my brother,” she said softly, and I couldn’t help but look over at her.

The thought of losing Serena was incomprehensible.

“So maybe it might help you to talk too,” she suggested. “I live with you. I know you’re not sleeping like you were before the crash. It couldn’t hurt, and from what I’m studying, the earlier you talk it out with a professional, the better.”

Maybe she was right. If anything, a therapist could tell me I was perfectly fine, and maybe suggest a few alternate forms of transportation. “I’ll look into it.”

“Good!” She hugged my side.

“Astor?” the attendant said, pushing a box across the counter. The brown box was a foot wide, about eighteen inches long, and maybe six inches tall if I had to guess.

“That’s me.” I reached for the clipboard he handed over and signed my name on the recipient line.

“Who’s it from?” Margo asked.

“Not sure.” It was surprisingly light as I picked it up off the counter and read the printed address label. “Transcontinental Airlines.” My chest tightened.

“Is it a giant check for your pain and suffering?”

“No clue.” What could the airline possibly have to send me? A pillow so I’d sleep better? A thousand travel vouchers I’d never bring myself to use?