In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(85)

“It isn’t far,” she smiles.

I don’t ask questions.

She loads her guitar into the back of her car, and I notice the scratch that still mars the side. I’ll fix it for her next week when she’s at school, because I know she can’t be without her car long enough to get it done.

She remains secretive during our short drive that winds through her quiet suburb and along a dark country road until I notice a row of flashing lights flanked by two farm fields. When we pull over and she punches in a code on a gate that looks weak enough to just drive through—even with my car—I sit up and roll down my window.

“Is this…a runway?” I ask, tilting my face to the sky. There aren’t any planes lining up, but this is definitely some sort of runway.

“My dad has a hangar here. It’s where they keep a lot of the crop dusters and the tankers for fire season,” she shouts, finishing the code to the countdown of beeps as the gate slowly slides open. She jogs back to the car and slams the door closed, speeding in and racing to a row of metal buildings away from the lights.

“Your dad’s a pilot?” I ask.

“No,” she smiles, screeching to a stop outside of the last building.

Falling forward, my hands hit the dash and I’m stunned still while she’s already out her door and pulling her guitar from the back. I have an odd sense that we’re about to visit an alien ship or that I’m about to see the time machine her family’s been hiding.

I exit the car and follow her to the door on the side, stepping into the dark space behind her when she gets the door unlocked. She lets it slam closed behind us, and before my eyes adjust, I feel her hand on my cheek and her lips against mine.

“Well, hello there…” I tease, grabbing her ass and squeezing.

She giggles in the dark, and without her touch, I’m lost. I can’t find her.

Seconds later, there’s a loud clatter and lights begin to buzz on. The glow is dim at first, and it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust, but soon the plane comes into view. It’s red and magnificent, and the propeller at the front looks sharp and well cared for. I’m already afraid of flying, even in seven-forty-sevens, so there’s no way I would step aboard something that, at a quick glance, looks like it runs on rubber bands. But I can appreciate its beauty.

“It was my grandpa’s; he built it himself,” she says, running her hand along a wing as she walks toward me. There isn’t even a single speck of dust to be found.

“It’s something,” I say, taking a small tour around the body of the craft.

“It’s just a replica. My grandfather was a history professor, and he was fascinated by flight. It’s the same kind of plane they flew in the Czech Army Air Force in the late twenties,” she beams. Her hand wraps lovingly around one of the support rods and her head falls against her arm as she looks at me. “My entire family is afraid of flying, so she’s never even been airborne,” she laughs.

I join her and move to the cockpit, looking to her for approval before I step inside.

“Do you fly?” she asks.

I laugh loud, and it echoes against the metal walls.

“I’m not much better than you. I drink heavily when I fly just so I don’t rip the seat arms away with my death grip,” I admit, running my fingers over the small switches and levers that have jobs I don’t understand.

“Good old Jim Beam, huh?” she chuckles.

“Don’t you mean Johnnie Walker,” I tease.

Her head leaned to the side, she holds on to the rod tightly and swings her body underneath the wing until she’s standing next to me.

“If you were a pilot, I’d let you fly me to the moon,” she says.

I stare into her eyes and wait for her to laugh at her line, but she doesn’t—so I leave it alone, too, and lean my head forward against hers. We rest like this for nearly a minute, her hand running over mine along the edge of the cockpit. She traces every knuckle, and my nerves react by sending signals to my heart. The kick is swift, and constant.

“Thank you for showing me this,” I say, finally breaking our silence. “I’m really glad it isn’t a spaceship.”

She gurgles a laugh, and the sound makes me laugh, too.

“My dad comes to clean it once a week. He was here a couple days ago, and I came along to hang out,” she says, holding on to the edge and stretching her body back before finally letting go and urging me to follow.

I climb from the plane, my feet hitting the ground in a loud clap. We both cross back to the other side to a small workbench set up against the wall, and she brings her guitar case up from the ground, unclasping the hinges and pulling her instrument out.

“I would always come here to test out songs, especially when I was still learning,” she smiles shyly, holding one of her picks in her teeth while she plucks her strings and twists the bolts for tuning. Taking the pick in her hand, she strums a few times, making minor adjustments until her ears are satisfied. Her eyes come to me and her smile is crooked.

“Even when I sucked…” she starts.

I interrupt.

“You never sucked,” I say.

Her head tilts to the left and her lips purse.

“I did. Believe me,” she says. “But even then, I sounded good in here.”

She strums a few more chords followed by a soft melody that she picks out. It’s sweet at the heart, but the echo does something special to her tune. She’s right—an old airport hangar off a country back road is the great equalizer.