Comeback Route (New Hope #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

everything i wanted - Billie Eilish

Grace, Now

I was doing better on planes, but I can flush that progress down the toilet—literally. Morning sickness and turbulence are two instances that should never be combined. If it weren't for Payton holding me upright, my vomit would cover the bathroom floor on the private jet.

Goosebumps prickle the nape of my neck, and perspiration dots my brow, wetting the hair at the edge of my scalp. My shoulders curl inward, my intestines writhe, and I gag violently.

"Oh, baby," Payton groans for me, holding my hair. "It's okay. I got you."

There goes my smoothie, eggs, Ensure, and about a gallon of bile. Saliva drips from my mouth into the basin, and the sight triggers another gag reflex. My throat feels as raw as it did the day after surgery—when physicians stitched artificial skin grafts into my esophagus, larynx, and trachea. The plane loses altitude again, and I knock my chin on the toilet seat.

"Shit," Payton curses, struggling to hold my limp body with one arm. "I'm sorry."

"She's very sick," the stewardess comments from the doorway, as if we aren't aware. "Should I tell the pilots to make an emergency landing?"

I manage to shake my head. Payton is going to be on Saturday Night Live tonight. Besides, once the turbulence stops, my stomach will settle. I turn to face the stewardess, lifting three fingers to my throat.

"Water," Payton translates. "She needs water."

"Yes, sir," she replies, retreating to her station.

A few moments pass, and I regain the use of my skeletal muscles. I flush the toilet, leaning back against Payton's front. He brackets me with his long legs, wrapping an arm around my cramping abdomen. He takes deep breaths, reminding me to do the same. His heart pounds against my spine, and my own pulse flutters in my neck. Payton is too large for this cubicle, but he's somehow crammed himself inside.

The stewardess returns with a chilled bottle. Payton twists the cap, holding the opening to my mouth.

"Small sips," he murmurs.

The liquid is refreshing on my throat. It swirls down my esophagus, cooling my belly. My eyelids are heavy, and I'm shaking from head to foot.

"The pilots said we're out of the air pocket now," the stewardess informs us. "We'll be landing in two hours, and the skies should be calm until then."

"Thanks," Payton clips, his focus on me.

Over the course of fifteen minutes, I finish half the bottle. Once I feel strong enough, Payton helps me to my feet, and we enter the main cabin. White clouds race by the oval windows, like veils surrounding heaven. Occasionally, the sun peeks through, warming the leather seats.

Payton claims an armchair, guiding me onto his lap. He brings the water to my lips again and again, prompting me to drink. The stewardess delivers a banana and a package of saltines, then leaves us alone until it's time to fasten our seatbelts.

When we land, some of the color has returned to my cheeks. As our aircraft taxis, I run my fingers through my hair, dab at the liner smeared beneath my eyes, and swipe on a fresh layer of lipstick. Our bags are being delivered to the hotel, so we don't have to worry about lugging them to Rockefeller Plaza.