Mirage(41)

The jumpsuit is too small for my height, and I curse myself for picking the wrong size off the women’s rental rack. I’m Catwoman with a tiger’s head. Hiding in a toilet stall in the bathroom until right before the hop is the only way I can think of to stay concealed. Goggles and gloves help, but an extra body in the jump plane is going to be hard to hide. For the hundredth time, I remind myself that this is who I am. I need to do this. I cannot go from being fearless to fearful. It’s alienating me, making everyone question the differences between the old me and the new me?—?and my seeing the eyes has made them question my very sanity. Most of all, though, it’s making me feel like I’m less than what I was.

I can’t believe that Avery accused me of faking. She’s full of crap, but she got one thing right: I’m standing out for things opposite from what made me stand out before. I’m standing out because I’m acting like the walking dead.

My hands are shaking when I check the time. The demo jumpers are to board the plane in five minutes. I take deep breaths as I slide my legs through the leg straps, heft the parachute pack onto my back, and slide my arms through the harness before buckling it to my chest.

There is a tiny gold angel pin on the nylon chest strap. I finger it before sliding the helmet over my head. I’ve got nearly three hundred jumps under my belt. I can do this. So why do I feel like I’m about to walk to the electric chair? Trembling, I steel my resolve and force my legs to move.

It’s go time.

Outside, the wind kicks up the smell of wet sagebrush and moist earth. The windsock complains, shaking its fist at the eastern sky. Engines are already humming. Jumpers file out of the hangar in a disorderly procession?—?demo team and solo jumpers mixed together. The lack of organization is good for me. I’m just another bird in the flock.

I slip into the troop without anyone taking much notice except to gawk at my body in the skintight suit. Trying to catch my breath isn’t easy as the engines push wind into our faces. We wait under the wings for our turn to board. When it’s mine, I heft myself up through the jump door. With the thrust of the engines, the metal vibrates under my hands, sweaty in the gloves. A hand reaches out and pulls me up. I suck in my breath when Dom and I lock eyes.

The astonishment on his face quickly fades. His brows crinkle in confusion, and he chews a moment on his lip. That’s the evidence of the war within him: whether to say anything about the fact that I’m suited up and ready for action.

“Nice helmet,” he finally says, and nods me toward the back of the plane.

I make my way to the metal wall behind the pilots and scrunch into a ball. I’m not sure I can go through with this . . . When my father spoke of how alive skydiving makes him feel, when he spoke of how similar we are, I wanted nothing more than to feel both those things in my body instead of the unvarying static of detachment. I wanted to feel the muscle memory of being me, not just see me in the pictures in my head.

I am Ryan Poitier Sharpe.

I am bold and fearless.

I show people how to live life to the fullest. Pushing limits is in my blood, right?

So why am I so terrified? Why are my heels tapping a strange song on the floor of the plane? I need to relax, trust myself. My body is humming, but I can’t tell if it’s pure fear or the ghost of me inside, longing to fly free again.

I can do this.

I must do this.

It will prove to everyone who I am. That I’m back.

It will prove to me . . .

. . . the only thing that matters?—?I am alive.

Everyone is seated in two long rows. I’m glad to be in the very back of one, so that my trembling might only be felt by the person in front of me. I keep my eyes closed for the eternity it takes us to climb to fourteen thousand feet.

Someone has opened the jump door. The engines throttle back. The plane lurches a bit in the wind.

Burbles of laughter erupt from me as we dip and sway, and a few people gasp.

The guy in front of me turns around. “What could be funny?”

I don’t know. It’s all funny. It’s terrifying and hilarious.

I don’t answer him. He’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

“Only thing funny is the boss’s brain,” he says. “Bright idea, going ahead with this weather.”

“You didn’t have to get on the plane!” I yell over the noise.

Dom is suddenly standing over me. “Neither did you. Stand up.”

As if on cue, everyone stands and begins checking each other’s equipment.

“Slow is fast,” I hear a girl next to me mumble as she fixes something on her rig. Dom moves behind me to perform the same checks on my gear. “If this means you’re coming back to yourself, then I’ll trust you,” he says against my ear. I turn my face toward him.

“How did you know it was me?”

He rolls his eyes and grins. “I know this body.” His fingers cling possessively to my hips. He taps on my newly painted helmet. “But the tiger gave you away.”

Heat warms my cheeks. Despite all our times together, Dom feels like a stranger to me. His familiarity with my body is unnerving but scintillating, too.

“Let the demo team and other jumpers go first, and then go out right after them, okay?”

I nod, swallowing down my fear, but the plane pitches to the right and terror courses through me again. I realize I’m clutching Dom’s hand. He kisses my cheek. “You got this. Have fun, tiger.” He heads to the doorway.