Page 2 of The Fall Before Flight

I snort.

Jameson scowls at me. He, at least, isn’t afraid of my stare. “It was a fucking nightmare getting you into this place, Mia. You have no idea the convincing I had to?—”

“Jameson,” snaps our father.

My brother’s lips compress to a white line. At length, he expels a heavy sigh, tension unraveling from his shoulders. His eyes, though, remain fixed on mine, the blue depths clouded gray with emotion. Fear. Resentment. Hope.

I look away first.

Gripping both armrests, I propel myself to my feet. Dull pain radiates from my bruised shoulder down my spine, and my muscles blare a sharper reminder of my infirmities. The limitations of my flesh and bones.

The constraints of gravity.

Jameson reaches for my arm, but I jerk away, wincing as my shoulder protests.

“Don’t be such a brat,” he says, but his lips are twitching.

Fighting the familiar lure of our shared, twisted humor, I smirk. “At least tell me this place has good drugs.”

He laughs, but it has an edge. “If by drugs you mean therapy, then yes. The best drugs on the West Coast.”

I open my mouth for a waspish retort, but what comes out instead is a broken plea. “I swear, J, on Mom and Phillip, it was an accident.”

My father makes a small noise. From the corner of my eye, I see him lumber from the room. Jameson stiffens beneath my words as if each one is a blow. His jaw clenches and unclenches as he struggles. He wants to believe me. It’s something.

Just not enough.

His shoulders sag. His eyes—so tired, the left eyelid twitching—find mine. “Do this for me, Meerkat,” he says softly.

He has me.

My molars grinding, I nod. “For you, Jaybird.”

My gaze swings around the sterile guest bedroom a final time. My meager wardrobe is already packed, the single suitcase outside. The only remaining evidence of my stay is my cell phone sitting on the nightstand. The small fissures of its cracked, lifeless screen momentarily hypnotize me. A memory of the spiderwebbed cracks of a car windshield drift through my mind.

Jameson takes two steps and snatches the phone, tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer. My trance broken, I sigh. Now there truly is no trace of me left in my father’s Malibu house. Not that there’s ever been; his home isn’t mine.

“Let’s go, Mia.”

I wordlessly follow my brother from the room, down an airy hallway, across a tiled foyer, and into the golden, afternoon sunlight. Lifting a hand to shade my eyes, I pause on a terracotta step to stare at the heavily tinted town car. My suitcase is already in the trunk. The back door is open, held by the gloved fingers of a suited man. He’s nondescript in every way, his individuality no match for the crushing gears of wealth.

I wonder if he knows I’m a fellow prisoner, or if he cares.

Smiling tightly, I ask my brother, “Will the padded walls be fur-lined, too? Caviar and champagne before my daily shock treatment?”

Jameson snorts, snaking forward to drop a kiss on the top of my head. I bat him away with my good arm, then walk toward the shadowed portal of the car’s back seat. I’m not scared, my steps even and steady. Just another day, another disaster.

Nothing scares me anymore. Very seldom does something move me. Not beauty. Not death. Not pain. Not joy.

I’m fairly positive my father thinks I’m a sociopath. The first diagnosis came from a psychiatrist who treated me at thirteen, after an incident wherein I nearly drowned. The second was screamed by a terrified maid after she found me juggling knives in the kitchen. The third and final judgement came from my ex-fiancé after I made a bonfire of his priceless record collection.

Maybe I am a sociopath, but I don’t think so. I have feelings aplenty, just not fear. I love my twin, robust red wines, blueberry pancakes, and eighties flicks. And I even love my father.

I loathe my ex and the dumb cow he screwed in our bed. I abhor the smell, texture, and taste of pickles. Baby animals make me cry, and there’s nothing funnier than crass jokes.

See? Feelings.

And I have a conscience. I don’t willfully hurt or manipulate others, unless they deserve it. I’m not crazy.

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