Page 79 of Under Southern Stars
“And Lily?”
“Lily talks to plants. Full conversations. She’ll be taking measurements in her research garden, chatting away to the specimens about her day. She swears they grow better when she does. She even names them—her doctoral research subjects are all named after characters from The Lord of the Rings.”
Sophia’s expression has softened. “They sound wonderful. And your parents?”
“Dad keeps a journal. He has since he was a teenager. One entry every day, no matter what. When we were kids, he’d let us draw in the margins sometimes. And Mum…” I smile at the memory. “Mum can’t sing to save her life, but she does it anyway. Loudest, most tone-deaf rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ you’ve ever heard, every single year.”
Sophia squeezes my hand. “Thank you for sharing that. It makes them feel more real to me.”
If only you knew how real they’re about to become.
As the movie ends, Sophia checks on Madison again. “Sound asleep,” she reports, returning to her seat. “Flat on her back with three blankets and an eye mask. Living the dream.”
“Good. She should get some proper rest.”
The cabin is quiet now, most passengers either sleeping or watching their screens with headphones. Sophia leans her seat back and closes her eyes.
“You should sleep too,” she tells me. “Long day tomorrow.”
“I will,” I promise, though sleep feels impossible with my thoughts racing.
Despite everything, I must have dozed off. The steady hum of the engines, Sophia’s warmth beside me, the wine—it all conspires to pull me under. My head drifts toward her shoulder, consciousness slipping away.
I am vaguely aware of Sophia shifting beside me, then getting up. Bathroom, probably. I should rouse myself, but my limbs feel weighted, my eyes too heavy to open.
Just five more minutes…
Someone gently pokes my shoulder. I force my eyes open, blinking in the dim cabin.
Sophia stands in the aisle, her eyes glittering in the dark.
“Jack,” she whispers, bending close. “Come with me.”
Suddenly, I am very much awake.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
SOPHIA
The gentle hum of the engines and the subtle swaying of the cabin should have lulled me to sleep hours ago. Most passengers are already out cold, strange shapes in the dim blue lighting, wrapped in airline blankets and contorted into whatever passes for comfort at 35,000 feet. But my mind is wide awake, hyperaware of everything—the lingering taste of surprisingly decent New Zealand Pinot Noir, the quiet breathing of sleeping strangers, and most of all, Jack’s warm weight against my shoulder.
He’d dozed off halfway through our second movie, his breathing deepening until his head tilts toward me, hair brushing my cheek. I don’t mind. I like watching him like this—face relaxed, defenses down, the perpetual good humor in his expression softened into something more vulnerable.
A flight attendant passes silently through our cabin, checking on sleeping passengers, adjusting a blanket here and there. When she notices me awake, she offers a questioning thumbs-up toward Business Premier. I nod, understanding her silent question. She mouths “still sleeping” with a smile, confirming Madison is lost to the world in her pod, no doubt exhausted from the excitement and the three desserts she’d managed to consume before finally reclining her seat.
The night stretches ahead of us—hours of enforced stillness over the vast Pacific. Time suspended in this metal tube between our old life and whatever waits for us in New Zealand.
I study Jack’s profile in the dim light. The faint stubble along his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows even in sleep. The curve of his mouth that always seems ready to smile. This man who’d transferred to Medic 402 just for more chances to see me. Who teaches Madison to make pasta. Who’d upgraded our flights with mysterious “points” and looked at me like I was something precious.
This man. This moment. The sheer audacity of it.
Why not?
The thought comes from nowhere—or maybe from somewhere deep inside me that had been dormant for too long. A part of me that has not been consulted during the careful, responsible years of single motherhood. The version of Sophia who exists before scrub caps and badge reels and divorce papers.
I slip from beneath Jack’s head, carefully lowering him against the headrest. He makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t wake. The cabin floor is cool beneath my sock-covered feet as I make my way forward, toward the galley where a flight attendant is quietly organizing breakfast trays for the morning service.
She looks up, surprised to see a passenger vertical. “Can I help you with something?” Her name tag reads Aroha, and her smile is kind beneath professional politeness.
