Page 11 of Mistletoe and Mayday
The screen almost cracks under my thumb as I silence it.
Anger’s good. Anger keeps me standing. Keeps me searching for solutions instead of drowning in the humiliation of being played so perfectly.
The clerk’s still talking, something about weather patterns and safety regulations. I tune her out, scanning the terminal for any signs of movement. Any hint of escape.
The departure board blinks red. Cancelled. Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled.
But there’s movement near the cargo area. Pilots in heavy jackets hurry past, checking manifests. Where there’s cargo, there’s someone willing to bend rules for the right price.
The cargo board’s display wavers. But one listing grabs my attention.
Crosswind Logistics, set to leave in forty minutes.
I hunt down their contact information and hit the call button.
“I’ll take anything. Cargo hold, cockpit floor, strapped to the wing—just tell me the price.” The desperation in my voice would horrify Father, but my pride evaporated somewhere between catching my girlfriend with another man and watching my meticulously planned proposal fall apart.
“Sir, this isn’t a passenger flight. There’s no?—”
“Twenty thousand. Cash transfer, right now.”
He pauses. “The pilot won’t?—”
“Thirty.” The figure feels insignificant compared to the crushing weight of staying here another minute. “Final offer.”
His resistance cracks. One phone call later, I’m booked on a cargo flight to Chicago. The ultimate walk of shame—a Lockhart flying coach would be bad enough, but cargo? The family name might never recover. Thank God no one will ever find out.
But here’s the thing—all I feel is...relief. Not heartbreak. Not devastation. Just relief.
Actually, no. That's not all. There's anger too. At Rebecca, sure. At her lover, abstractly. Butmostly at myself.
I spent months planning the perfect proposal, down to the last rose petal. And I missed all the signs.
The late-night “research calls,” the sudden trips, the way she always kept her phone face down.
But what really twists the knife? I’m more upset about my ruined plans than my ruined relationship.
What kind of person does that make me? What kind of relationship did we really have, if I care more about a failed execution than a failed connection?
Four
BAILEY
Fifty-eight minutes until I can fire up the engines and leave this frozen hellscape behind.
My cargo plane’s fueled and waiting, departure slot secured thanks to a case of that craft beer Charlie in Air Traffic Control likes so much.
The weather radar on my phone shows a wall of blue and white bearing down on us. A storm that would’ve trapped me here through Christmas if I hadn’t sweet-talked my way into an early takeoff.
‘All I Want for Christmas’ plays for the fortieth time today, and I’m humming along because soon I’ll be home, eating Mom’s cookies, and nothing can ruin this?—
My phone buzzes.
I stare at Jake’s name flashing on my screen like it’s a bomb about to detonate.
No. No way. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” I answer, zipping up my flight bag and tucking my weather charts into the side pocket.
