Chapter 5 - Across the AtlanticThe flight to Newark was smooth, a quick two-hour hop that gave me just enough time to stare out the window as the American Midwest melted into the sprawling, hazy coastline of the East Coast.
By the time we touched down at Newark Liberty International, the afternoon sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and burnt orange.
My connection to Lisbon, Flight 144, was parked at Gate B42.
The boarding area was already buzzing with an eclectic mix of excited tourists, business travelers carrying garment bags, and elderly couples chatting animatedly in Portuguese. I found a seat near the charging station, pulled a paperback mystery novel from my tote, and settled in to wait.
About twenty minutes before boarding was called, an energetic woman with short silver hair and bright red lipstick sat down in the empty seat beside me, lugging an oversized leather tote bag that looked fit to burst.
“If this flight is delayed by even ten minutes, I am going to hyperventilate,” she announced cheerfully, turning to look at me. “I’m Joyce, by the way. You must be Myrna—from the travel club group chat?”
I blinked, instantly recognizing the name from the dozens of text messages that had pinged my phone over the last two months. “Joyce! Oh, wow. Yes, I’m Myrna. I didn't recognize you without your profile picture of your golden retriever.”
Joyce let out a booming, infectious laugh that turned several heads nearby. “Thank you! Buster has much better lighting than I do at six a.m. Did you make it through security without any cardiac events?”
“Barely,” I laughed, shaking her hand warmly. “My morning was a little… complicated.”
“Oh, darling, everyone’s morning is complicated,” Joyce waved her hand dismissively as the gate agent’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing pre-boarding for rows thirty and above. “That’s why we drink gin and tonics over the Azores. Come on, let’s go find our seats before the overhead bins fill up with oversized roller bags.”
Walking down the jet bridge behind Joyce, stepping across the threshold into the wide, quiet cabin of the Boeing 777, felt like crossing an invisible boundary line between the life I had inherited and the life I was choosing.
My seat was 24A—a window seat right over the massive left wing.
As the giant engines whined to life, pushing us away from the terminal and out onto the rain-slicked runway, I pressed my forehead against the cool plastic of the window pane. The cabin lights dimmed to a soft twilight glow.
With a roar that vibrated deep in my chest, the aircraft surged forward down the runway, lifting its heavy nose into the night sky, tearing through the low clouds and climbing steadily upward toward the stars.
May you like
Below us, the lights of New York and New Jersey smeared into glittering constellations before fading into the vast, dark expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
I closed my eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and smiled in the dark.
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