Chapter 1: MIKKI – January 8th

The moment you realize you’re going to die is nothing like I imagined it would be. I imagined a deep internal struggle coupled with a visceral, physical response – fight or flight. But there’s no fighting this. I’m going to die.

It’s possible that everyone on this plane is going to die. I wonder if they feel this overwhelming sense of peace, or if the squeal of the plane engine has drowned out all their thoughts.

He grabs the oxygen mask as it drops from the compartment and he’s yelling something as he puts the elastic band over my head. He pulls his own mask over his head then he grabs my hand and looks me in the eye. There’s no panic in his eyes. Maybe he feels this same calm I’m feeling. Or maybe he just wants me to know that he loves me.

He loves me.

Or maybe the look in his eyes is his way of telling me he trusts that whatever happens to us in the next few seconds was meant to be.

Fate.

I used to think fate was for religious nuts and people who were too afraid to take their fate into their own hands. Now I know the truth.

Chapter 2: MIKKI – January 3rd

Rina,

Please don’t look for me. You probably won’t find me. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and please don’t blame yourselves. I’m just tired. Trying to cope . . . trying to forget . . . It’s not enough anymore. I just want to close my eyes and know that it will all be over soon. There’s nothing anyone could have done. You’ve all done more than enough. I hope you all find peace knowing I am no longer suffering. I love you guys. Tell Meaghan I leave her my black box.

Mikki

I used to write long suicide letters, but I don’t see the point in it anymore. If I’m going to leave this world a better place, I don’t want to leave behind a ten-page letter detailing all my emotional baggage. Besides, most of the people who know me, the ones close enough to read the letter, already know how screwed up I am.

I tuck the note inside a plastic baggie and seal it tightly, then I lift my bedroom window an inch and lay the bagged note on the windowsill. I shut the window tight to trap the note there.

Taking one last look around the bedroom, I smile as I think of how much I won’t miss this house. The pink tulip-shaped knit cap my best friend Rina bought for me in Holland sits on top of my dresser. I’ve only worn it once, the day she brought it back for me from her family vacation last summer. I was in High Point Treatment Center at the time, in the dual diagnosis unit because I’m one of the special cases that needed treatment for attempted suicide and drug detox.

‘You look awfully cheerful for someone who’s traveling alone.’ Meaghan’s green eyes follow my suitcase as I drag it behind me, violently bumping along the stairs.

My sister is seventeen, but she’s not stupid. She knows the signs, which is why I’m trying my hardest not to exhibit the typical suicidal behavior. I didn’t give away all my belongings. I’m not traveling light. I have tried not to appear too chipper over the last couple of days. Yes, it feels amazing to have a plan. It feels like a ten-ton slab of cement has been lifted off my chest. I can breathe. I can think about the future without the crippling anxiety and depression that comes with not knowing if the pain will ever end.

But I can’t let Meaghan or my parents see how ridiculously relieved I’m feeling. They’ve seen that behavior too many times. The last time I made plans to die, three months ago, my mom saw the signs and followed me to the hotel room where I was going to hang myself. The time before that, I swallowed a bottle of pills in my uncle’s bathroom. It was my cousin Gertie who noticed I was acting too happy. She told my Uncle Cort, ‘Mikki is smiling again.’ Uncle Cort broke down the bathroom door and that’s when I ended up in High Point. That’s also when I swore I wouldn’t commit suicide anywhere that someone could find me.

‘Cheerful?’ I repeat Meaghan’s adjective as I pull up the telescoping handle on the suitcase and roll it across the tiled foyer toward the front door. ‘More like nervous as fuck. I’ve never flown without Mom.’

Meaghan yanks her green parka out of the coat closet and pulls it on over her hoodie. ‘I’ll take that.’ She pulls the hood of the parka over her long, brown hair and grabs my carry-on bag.

I open the door and we both suck in a sharp breath when we’re blasted with a flurry of freezing winter air. The snow sticks to my face and I quickly close the front door so it doesn’t get inside the house.

‘Jesus fucking Christ. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. They’re going to cancel the flights if this shit keeps up,’ Meaghan says as we carefully descend the front steps. My dad covered the steps in his special mixture of salt and sand, but it’s not foolproof.

‘I have to at least show up. I saved up three months’ paychecks for this fucking ticket.’

Meaghan opens the wooden front gate and the cab driver scurries out of the car to help us with the bags. As he stuffs the bags into the trunk, I turn to Meaghan and she’s crying. Something tells me she knows. But she would stop me if she knew – wouldn’t she?

‘Why are you crying? It’s just a job interview. I’m coming back in four days.’

‘I know.’ She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me so tight it hurts. I wish I could make myself cry. ‘I’ll miss you. Bring me back a hot actor.’

‘I will.’

We hug like this for far longer than normal. It takes every bit of self-control in me not to tell her that everything will finally be okay when I’m gone.

At last she pulls away and punches my arm. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

‘I love you, too,’ I say, sliding into the backseat of the cab. My heart stutters as I look at the house I grew up in for the last time.

The driver slams my door shut then scrambles around the front of the car and gets into the driver’s seat. ‘Logan?’ he asks as he turns up the heater.

‘Yeah, Terminal B.’ I watch Meaghan scurry into the house to escape the cold. Her heart will heal. She’ll be okay.

I reach into my handbag and pull out my gloves, then I spot the bottle of pills. I lay the pink gloves on my lap and reach into my purse for the bottle. On the outside, this is just a normal bottle of anti-psychotic meds. On the inside, this is my self-prescribed emergency meth stash. Each capsule is carefully filled with one dose.

I quit meth last week. Something about booking a plane ticket to Los Angeles to end my life gave me the fortitude to face the world without drugs. Besides, I was never really addicted. I just didn’t want to quit because it made me feel as if I was in control. But, even though I’m technically no longer a meth-head, I brought my emergency stash in case I lose my nerve to get on that plane.

I’m going to Los Angeles, specifically to the Pacific Ocean, to down this bottle of pills then swim out into the open ocean until I can’t swim anymore. The water is so cold this time of year, my body will be numb and exhausted by the time I reach the point of no return. I won’t be able to fight it when the water enters my lungs. Plus, I’ll be so far out in the ocean, the odds of my body being found will be slim. My parents won’t have to identify me.

The cab driver turns the volume up on the radio and ‘Take You Higher’ is playing. The dance beat buoys my mood and I allow myself to smile for the first time in days. I set the bottle of pills back inside my purse and pull my gloves on as I sit back.

Fifty minutes of horrendous traffic later, the cab pulls up in front of Terminal B and one of the two guys working at curbside check-in rushes over to help us. The cab driver gently places my suitcase on the curb and the skycap waits patiently to help me inside. I pay the driver and he mutters a quick thank-you before he hurries back inside the warm cab.

‘Holy shit,’ I whisper, yanking my faux-fur-lined hood over my head.

‘I ain’t seen it like this in years. I bet they’re already canceling flights,’ the skycap says as he takes my carry-on bag and we race toward the automatic sliding doors. He leaves my bags and me just inside the doors then he jogs back to his station outside in the freezing cold. What a terrible day to have an outdoor job.

I push my hood back and begin peeling off my pink knit gloves. The line at the check-in counter snakes across the floor as everyone watches the TV monitors above the counter.

‘Canceled,’ a voice says behind me.

I whip my head around and find a guy with messy brown hair sticking out the front of his knit cap. He’s sitting on a gray suitcase with his phone in his hand and a guitar case propped up against the wall behind him. Something about him looks familiar, though I’m pretty certain he’s the kind of guy I would not forget if we’d met before.

‘You can probably still catch a cab if you leave now,’ he continues as he thumb-types on his phone.

‘Then why aren’t you running outside to catch a cab?’

‘I’m in no hurry to go back.’

I stare at the curb outside just as another cab pulls up to drop off another unknowing passenger. I told Meaghan I’d go home if they canceled the flight, but that’s the last place I want to go right now.

‘Yeah, me neither.’

The guy looks up from his phone and smiles. ‘Yeah, you also have to check in to get your flight rescheduled.’

‘Yeah, that too.’ I try not to blush. Something about his smile makes me feel naked.

Chapter 3: CRUSH – January 3rd

The flattened penny gets warm as I rub it between my thumb and index finger. I’ve memorized every dip and rise in the design: Hillman’s Diner, established 1923. My grandfather bought me this flattened penny from a vending machine at Hillman’s Diner when I was ten years old, a couple of months before he died. The crushed penny is one of three gifts from my grandfather that I’ve carried with me everywhere since his death. Well, actually, the third gift, his only copy of Black Box, has been missing for nearly four years. I guess the book is technically not missing if I willingly gave it to a stranger, but it’s definitely gone forever.

The flattened penny now serves as a guitar pick – my lucky pick – and it looks as if I’m going to be spending a hell of a lot of time with it over the next few days since my flight to Los Angeles was just canceled. Staring at the monitor above the airline check-in counter, I try to imagine what my grandfather would say in a situation like this; flight canceled right when I’ve finally decided to take this music gig to the next level. Grandpa Hugh would probably say something like, ‘You can’t choose the road you take; you can only hope to avoid the potholes.’

As much as I loved Grandpa Hugh, that’s a ten-ton load of bullshit. I don’t believe my life is already planned out. I refuse to believe that I don’t have control over my worthless fate. I’m not a brilliant man like my grandfather, but I am a pragmatic man. And life has shown me all too often that there is no rhyme or reason to the cruelty inflicted upon humanity.

The glass doors slide open and a girl rushes in with a skycap, bringing with them a swirl of freezing air. The skycap leaves her luggage just inside the entrance doors to the terminal then he rushes outside to his curbside post. She’s tall and thin, and when she pushes back her hood I get a strange feeling in my belly. Something about her looks familiar. Maybe we shared a class at Harvard. No, I would definitely remember if she were in one of my classes.

She continues to stare at the monitors above the check-in counter in a daze. I feel the need to help her. ‘Canceled,’ I say, pulling my phone out of my back pocket to type a response to Harlow’s text message.

My older sister Harlow is the quintessential overachiever. She graduated from MIT four years ago and now works on the West Coast as a social media advisor to the CEO of one of the largest tech companies in Silicon Valley. I’m not supposed to disclose the name of the company to anyone. She almost made me sign a non-disclosure agreement, that’s how serious she is about her job.