Page 35 of The Best Bad Decision

twenty

Amie

I’ve flown hundreds oftimes. It’s my job. And when you fly for a living, you spend your life on planes or in terminal buildings, dragging luggage around and dodging the slow walkers and ditherers who seem to congregate in the most inappropriate and unfortunate spots in every airport around the world.

Despite being a seasoned traveller, my anxiety is at an all-time high as I pat down my pockets, double and triple-checking the bag stacked on top of my suitcase. Maisy stands in front of me, blinking up at me with her daddy’s eyes and impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. She’s wearing her favourite jeans with little daisies embroidered on them, and her shoes are tiny high-tops, sky blue with pale pink shoelaces, and covered in fluffy white clouds. She chose the outfit herself and wouldn’t hear of any attempts to dissuade her from it—even though, as I expected, the shoes caused a small delay at the security checkpoint.

Satisfied that I haven’t forgotten anything, I take her warm hand in mine and she swings my arm, giggling. Cam and I have been talking to her about this trip for weeks now. We’ve had to talk her out of bringing Daddy Bear, reasoning that she’ll be able to seerealDaddy instead, but there have been tears about leaving him at home. Still, she’s fairlyconvinced this trip is a magical adventure. I love seeing her so excited. Her exuberance never fails to make me smile—even when I’m stressed out about taking a ten-hour flight with a three-year-old.

There’s a classic American-style diner by our gate, and I treat Maisy to a banana milkshake before the flight begins boarding. She sits on a high stool at a bar by the window, overlooking the airfield, and points excitedly at the aircraft moving around on the ramp. Everything is so exciting. She’s flown before, but only on short flights and not for at least a year—so long ago she can’t remember it. She’s positively beaming as we walk hand-in-hand down the jet bridge and cross the threshold.

At the boarding door, we learn we’ve been upgraded thanks to my staff status, and we turn left to find our plush business class suites stocked with water, washbags, and a little model plane for my tiny plane-loving girl. It’s a model of the exact plane we’re flying on, right down to the registration. She squeals in delight as one of my colleagues, Jenny, shows us to our seats with a flourish. She presses a set of shiny silver wings to Maisy’s chest and gives me a wink as she returns to greet the rest of our fellow passengers.

Maisy settles into her seat quickly, content to wave her new toy around and whisper to Roger who is tucked in beside her. I take a little longer to get comfortable, hyper-aware of every sound, from the hydraulic system to the air conditioning to the call bells and phone chimes. Finally, we take off, and Maisy is asleep before our first meal is served, thoroughly exhausted from the excitement of the morning.

To my surprise—and chagrin, I think, imagining the trouble I’ll have convincing her to sleep again later—Maisy sleeps peacefully throughout most of the flight, waking up twice to use the toilet and eat some strawberries from the bowl of fruit I chose from the menu. Shortlybefore we land, I wake her and carry her from my lap to her own seat, fastening her seatbelt and tucking Roger in her arms again. Then, we’re on the ground, disembarking and making our way through immigration and customs to the arrivals hall.

“DADDY!” Maisy shrieks. She’s clutching Roger tightly to her chest with one hand and holding mine with the other, and when she spots Cam, she rushes forward, pulling me along with astonishing strength. I pull our suitcase with my other hand, releasing my hold on Maisy when we reach Cam. He grins widely and scoops Maisy into his arms, swinging her up to his chest and burying his face in her hair. I see him breathe deeply, shoulders relaxing as he exhales and all the tension leaves his body. He lifts his head and pulls back to look at his little girl.

“Hi Maisy Girl, oh, I’ve missed you,” he says, kissing every inch of her laughing face as she pats his cheeks. He turns to me as he settles Maisy—and Roger—on his hip.

“Hey,” he greets me, pulling me into his other side in a one-armed hug. I smile up at him.

“Hey yourself,” I say. “Thank you for meeting us here.”

“Of course,” he answers, dropping his arm from my shoulder and grabbing our luggage. I start to protest but he silences me with a look, and we fall into step as he leads us to his car.

“I got that car seat you mentioned,” he tells me as we wait for the train to take us to the parking lot. “I think I’ve fixed it right but you might want to look before we go.”

I nod, one hand rubbing Maisy’s back as she cuddles into Cam’s shoulder. She’s missed him every day since he left, and although he’s called every single night to read her a bedtime story, she’s cried with gut-wrenching sobs more times than I can count. My sweet,tender-hearted girl fell head over heels for her daddy the moment they met, and it both warms my heart and terrifies me in equal measure.

When we get to the car—a shiny black SUV about twice the size of mine and probably three times as thirsty—Cam uses one arm to throw our luggage in the back effortlessly, not even relinquishing his hold on Maisy until he rounds the side of the vehicle and opens the rear passenger door to reveal a child seat. I duck in, although I don’t need to duck much given that the car is huge, and tug lightly on the fixing points, inspecting it from every angle.

“Looks good,” I affirm, and only then does Cam release Maisy from his arms, setting her down in the seat and pulling the safety straps tight. He kisses her forehead before backing out and closing the door, then slides into his own seat.

“My car, my music, my rules,” Cam grins at me, repeating the words I threw at him a few weeks ago in my own car. I roll my eyes.

“Okay, as long as it’s not some sad boy bu—” I stop mid-word and glance to the back of the car. Maisy is awake, playing with Roger in the back seat. “As long as it’s not sad boy rubbish.”

Cam snaps his phone into the magnetic dashboard mount and starts the engine, his face reddening adorably as a deep-cut Zach Bryan song blares from the speakers. With a sheepish smile, he taps the skip button a few times before he settles on some Blackberry Smoke.

“I only have a tiny studio because I’m never here, and I didn’t think you’d want to bunk with my folks for the entire week, so I got you girls an Airbnb,” he says as he checks his mirrors and backs out of the parking space.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him.

“I know, but I wanted to. I told you; I’m all in, Amie. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. I’m in and I want to take care of you. Both of you. I have years of lost time to make up for.”

I can’t argue with that, not when he looks so earnest. He points out some landmarks on our journey: his elementary and high schools, the tiny airfield where he took his first flying lesson, the complex that houses his studio apartment. Eventually, we slow and stop outside a small single-storey house with flower boxes underlining the windows.

“Home sweet home for the week,” Cam announces. Once we’re inside, Maisy rushes off to explore whilst Cam unpacks some groceries and I unpack my clothes and Maisy’severything. I can travel for a week in a single bag, but it never fails to astound me just how much paraphernalia kids require. Over half of our cabin-sized suitcase is filled with Maisy’s clothes, books and toys, all the home comforts to keep her happy during our week away. It’s already late, so I keep a set of pyjamas back for Maisy, and soon enough she’s settled into the twin bed in the smaller of the two bedrooms, with Cam lying beside her, reading her favourite book. She’s asleep before he finishes the story, exhausted from the day’s excitement.

“I, uh—I guess I’ll see you guys in the morning?” Cam edges towards the door after emerging from Maisy’s room. “How does ten sound?”

“Why don’t you come over earlier?” I ask. “Have breakfast with us before we meet your parents.”

“You mean, before I throw you to the wolves?” He winks at me and it sends butterflies storming in my belly and a zing all the way through my limbs.

“I said no such thing,” I rebuke, laughing. “But yes, before you throw me to the wolves, why don’t you come over for breakfast? How about eight-thirty?”

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