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Authors: Elle Lothlorien
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sickness. I sometimes get nauseous when I’m driving, especially at night, when it’s hot, or when it's raining. Just to be safe I throw two tablets into my mouth and chase them down with a gulp of tea.
We exit the interstate at Arapahoe Road and turn off into a cluster of treeless business parks. I look around at the nondescript buildings, wondering what out here could possibly make me motion sick other than spinning in an ergonomic leather executive chair.
A bulb-shaped tower over the building-tops catches my eye, and I freeze. One part of the mystery is now crystal clear. No, we wouldn't be throwing ourselves from airplanes, but airplanes would definitely be involved.
My face breaks out into beads of sweat, like someone has flicked double handfuls of water on it. My stomach decides it is no longer a team player and does a slow, sideways roll into my liver. I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else as we get closer and closer to the control tower.
“You okay?” says Roman, his voice tinny, and very distant.
I inhale a long stream of air through my nose. “I'll be fine.” Which has a high probability of being true, as long as our departure doesn't take place immediately. The longer the medicine has to work, the better.
Roman pulls the car up under a canopied drive connected to one of the many anonymous glass and brick buildings. A sign reads “Centennial Airport.”
"It’ll be about thirty minutes before we leave,” he says. He points to the group of couches in a lounge-like area through the windows. “You can wait here while I do the preflight.”
“The preflight? Doesn’t the pilot do that?” I say, wondering what kind of cutting corners, self-service airport this is.
Roman laughs. “I am the pilot.”
“ You're the pilot,” I say, pointing at him. He gets out and when I don’t follow suit he peeks his head back through the driver's side window. “ You’re the pilot?” I repeat, rephrasing it in the form of a question.
“Leigh, I've been flying since I was sixteen.”
“What are we flying in? And where?”
“A Citation Mustang. And you said I could surprise you.”
I mull over the words Citation Mustang . It sounds like something cobbled together by cannibalizing parts off a Chevy and Ford and slapping a pair of wings on it. Roman’s head disappears from the window. He walks to the back of the car and pops the trunk. I scramble out of the car and join him just in time for him to hand me the carry-on and the two purses.
“This is a plane we’re talking about, right?” I say, as he snaps the trunk shut.
“Christine said you would be a little panicky about flying.”
“I'm not panicky," I say in a sulky voice. “I'm just not used to flying in planes named after automobiles.”
He laughs and slides back into the driver seat. “Go watch some TV in the lounge. I'll come and get you in a bit.”
The car pulls away, leaving me standing next to my luggage. I lean sideways to adjust the strap on my shoulder when I suddenly feel like an ocean swell has rolled over me. I stand up straight, trying to orient myself again in relation to the ground.
What is wrong with me? Suddenly I feel…heavy. Using all the willpower I can muster, I manage to get myself into the airport lounge before collapsing onto one of the beige couches.
I feel someone shaking me by the shoulder and I reluctantly open my eyes to see Roman leaning over me. “Everything’s loaded,” he says. “You ready to go?”
He pulls me to my feet and I try not to stagger like a drunk as he leads me back outside, towards what looks like a fleet of small aircraft. I follow him to the only plane in the row that is not lashed to the ground. The door is open, and a set of stairs extends down to the ground.
Roman enters before me, turning around to take my hand as I ascend. “You can either sit in the cockpit with me, or if you want to sleep there's plenty of room for you to spread out back here,” he says, pointing to
We exit the interstate at Arapahoe Road and turn off into a cluster of treeless business parks. I look around at the nondescript buildings, wondering what out here could possibly make me motion sick other than spinning in an ergonomic leather executive chair.
A bulb-shaped tower over the building-tops catches my eye, and I freeze. One part of the mystery is now crystal clear. No, we wouldn't be throwing ourselves from airplanes, but airplanes would definitely be involved.
My face breaks out into beads of sweat, like someone has flicked double handfuls of water on it. My stomach decides it is no longer a team player and does a slow, sideways roll into my liver. I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else as we get closer and closer to the control tower.
“You okay?” says Roman, his voice tinny, and very distant.
I inhale a long stream of air through my nose. “I'll be fine.” Which has a high probability of being true, as long as our departure doesn't take place immediately. The longer the medicine has to work, the better.
Roman pulls the car up under a canopied drive connected to one of the many anonymous glass and brick buildings. A sign reads “Centennial Airport.”
"It’ll be about thirty minutes before we leave,” he says. He points to the group of couches in a lounge-like area through the windows. “You can wait here while I do the preflight.”
“The preflight? Doesn’t the pilot do that?” I say, wondering what kind of cutting corners, self-service airport this is.
Roman laughs. “I am the pilot.”
“ You're the pilot,” I say, pointing at him. He gets out and when I don’t follow suit he peeks his head back through the driver's side window. “ You’re the pilot?” I repeat, rephrasing it in the form of a question.
“Leigh, I've been flying since I was sixteen.”
“What are we flying in? And where?”
“A Citation Mustang. And you said I could surprise you.”
I mull over the words Citation Mustang . It sounds like something cobbled together by cannibalizing parts off a Chevy and Ford and slapping a pair of wings on it. Roman’s head disappears from the window. He walks to the back of the car and pops the trunk. I scramble out of the car and join him just in time for him to hand me the carry-on and the two purses.
“This is a plane we’re talking about, right?” I say, as he snaps the trunk shut.
“Christine said you would be a little panicky about flying.”
“I'm not panicky," I say in a sulky voice. “I'm just not used to flying in planes named after automobiles.”
He laughs and slides back into the driver seat. “Go watch some TV in the lounge. I'll come and get you in a bit.”
The car pulls away, leaving me standing next to my luggage. I lean sideways to adjust the strap on my shoulder when I suddenly feel like an ocean swell has rolled over me. I stand up straight, trying to orient myself again in relation to the ground.
What is wrong with me? Suddenly I feel…heavy. Using all the willpower I can muster, I manage to get myself into the airport lounge before collapsing onto one of the beige couches.
I feel someone shaking me by the shoulder and I reluctantly open my eyes to see Roman leaning over me. “Everything’s loaded,” he says. “You ready to go?”
He pulls me to my feet and I try not to stagger like a drunk as he leads me back outside, towards what looks like a fleet of small aircraft. I follow him to the only plane in the row that is not lashed to the ground. The door is open, and a set of stairs extends down to the ground.
Roman enters before me, turning around to take my hand as I ascend. “You can either sit in the cockpit with me, or if you want to sleep there's plenty of room for you to spread out back here,” he says, pointing to
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