The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(46)

Probably Cory. He left half an hour ago, on his way to the gym.

“Just lay low. I’ll check in this afternoon,” he told her.

“No need. I’ll be fine.”

“You,” he said, “are never really fine when it comes to this stuff. And I know you well enough to know that is especially true today.”

She didn’t argue with that. It is true, but even if it wasn’t . . .

It’s just easier, she’s discovered, to let Cory think he knows her better than anyone.

“Better than you know yourself,” he once had the audacity to claim.

Not true at all.

If he really knew her, he’d realized she wasn’t about to lay low, trapped in her high rise for a day, a weekend, or God knows how long until the latest storm blows over.

If he really knew her, he’d expect her to escape.

Yes. When the going gets tough, the tough get going . . . literally. She’s been doing it all her life.

On Lexington Avenue in the Sixties, Jaycee steps to the curb, turns to face oncoming traffic, and raises her arm to hail a cab.

A yellow taxi promptly pulls over.

She opens the door and climbs in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks as he starts the meter.

“JFK.” She leans back in the seat, clutching her bag on her lap.





Reaching Out

The first time my blog went live, I remember feeling totally alone, envisioning the void beyond my laptop. I was writing extremely personal stuff, things I might never mention to anyone in real life, face-to-face, yet there it was, heading out to . . . where?

Somewhere.

I guess deep down I was hoping someone might find it. But I doubted it, and knowing no one was reading made it easier to keep going. It was very liberating, writing about the day cancer changed my life or how exposed I felt at the hands (literally) of my surgeons or the difficulties keeping my job at the prison a priority.

Then one day it happened: a stranger—a reader—commented on my blog. And then another one did. And another. Each comment that said I was understood, justified, and among friends lifted my load bit by bit until somewhere along the way I got my brain back. It was no longer jam-packed with thoughts of cancer, but slowly, the real things that make up my life filtered back in.

Would that have happened simply with the passage of time? Would that have happened without all of you? I don’t think so. Sharing freed me from cancer’s hold. Discovering and connecting with an amazingly supportive and caring online community did that and more in ways I never thought possible.

—Excerpt from Kay’s blog, I’m A-Okay





Chapter 7

“Need a hand with your bag?”

Landry turns to see her handsome friend from the gate area standing right behind her in the narrow aisle of the plane, gesturing at her rolling bag.

“Oh . . . that’s okay, I . . .”

“Which seat are you in?”

“Right there, 12C. Aisle.”

He’s already picking up her bag, lifting it into the overhead bin above her seat.

“Thank you,” she says, sitting down.

“No problem.” He turns to lift his own bag into the bin just opposite, then settles into seat 12D, directly opposite. What a coincidence.

As the rest of the passengers board, obscuring her view across the aisle, she texts Rob to let him know that she’s on the plane at last. The flight delay was extended—twice—meaning they’re now going to land almost three hours late. She’ll be lucky if she has time to drop her bag at the hotel before the memorial service starts.

Okay, call me when you land. Love you, Rob texts back immediately, probably still out on the golf course.

She sends back a little sideways text heart the way Addison showed her, using the < and the 3 key. Then she texts Kay and Elena to let them know what time she lands.

She’d already texted them both earlier, after the second delay was announced. Neither has responded so far, but maybe— “Ladies and gentlemen, the cockpit door is now closed,” the flight attendant announces. “Please turn off and put away all electronic devices.”

So much for hearing from her friends before she gets to Cincinnati.

The plane jerks as it begins to roll away from the gate. Landry puts her phone into her pocket and leans back. The two people beside her—a young couple occupying the window and middle seat—are whispering to each other.

Unfortunately, she already finished all the magazines Addison gave her, along with the newspaper she picked up back in the airport. Her only other reading material is digital—meaning she can’t access it until they’re in the air and the flight attendants green-light electronic devices again. She looks in the seat pocket for the airline magazine—does this airline even publish a magazine?—and finds just a barf bag and safety card.

Nothing to do but stare at the illuminated FASTEN SEAT BELT sign in the row in front of her.

Until her friend across the aisle asks, “So what’s in Cincinnati? Family? Friends?”

“Friends,” she says simply. “You have family there?”

He nods. “It’s my hometown. I lived there until I retired last year.”

“Retired? You’re retired?”

“I’m youthful for being in my late sixties, don’t you think?”