“Okay, wonderful.” She grabbed a paper with six names on it. “And you are?”

I stabbed the sheet with my index. “Galloway Oak.” Conveniently located at the top of the list. “That’s me.”

Her black eyes met mine. “Thank you for flying with us, but I do have some unfortunate news, I’m afraid.”

Shit.

My heart sank, along with an unwanted dose of anger. “If it’s about the storm—the pilot on my inbound flight said it’s blowing over.”

She nodded, her gaze warm and gentle. “That’s true. Fiji has many storms, all which blow over very fast. But I’m sorry, Mr. Oak, the rain has delayed our schedule. We won’t be flying tonight.”

My gut clenched. “But I have a commitment.”

Shaking her head, she drew a tick beside my name. “You’ve been booked on our first available service tomorrow.”

It might still work.

If I get there before six a.m.

Swallowing my frustration, I asked, “What time is that?”

She beamed, her hair catching the overhead lights. “A very suitable hour of midday. You can relax at a local hotel and come back after a delicious breakfast. No early starts.”

I dragged a hand over my face, suddenly feeling the effects of jetlag. “That won’t work. I have to start work at eight.”

“I’m sorry.” She curled the corner of the page. “That’s just not possible. It’s our first available—”

“What about another airline? Is anyone else flying?”

She pointed at the madness behind me. “No one is leaving tonight, Mr. Oak. The international airlines will resume in an hour when the storm is over, but the local planes will not. We are all working hard to ferry you to respective hotels then have you on your way tomorrow.”

I groaned.

I couldn’t wait.

If I did, I’d have no accommodation because the deal was my labour for bed and food. I didn’t have any money to stay in fancy hotels.

“Surely, there must be something you can do?”

Her friendliness faded. “Mr. Oak. The storm is—”

“If the weather calms enough for other planes to depart, surely it’s safe to fly tonight?”

She grabbed a pen, scratching out my name on the manifest and scrawling a hotel name beside it. “Our airline has decided not to take that chance.” Passing over an envelope, she said, “Here is your voucher for dinner and breakfast along with a shuttle to take you to your hotel.” Her smile returned, a little more forced than before. “Have a pleasant night, Mr. Oak. See you in the morning.”

Before I could argue, she snapped her fingers, looking over my shoulder. “Next.”

A man rudely bumped me, squeezing his considerable bulk between me and the desk, effectively shoving me away.

Bloody—

I bit my tongue.

I’d always had an issue with my temper. It’d gotten me into far too much strife. I’d made a personal promise the day I left England that I would rein it in. Working with timber and innocuous items helped calm me when others pissed me off (yet another reason why I loved my vocation).

I might’ve been able to control my outward reaction, but inside, all I wanted to do was shove the asshole’s head multiple times against the desk.

Don’t have time for that.

Kadavu was a short flight away. The storm was fading. I would find a way to get there tonight.

I grabbed my bag from the floor and stalked away to find a solution to my nightmare.

Chapter Five

...............................................

E S T E L L E

......

I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I shut out those who told me to abandon lyrics. I avoided those who didn’t understand g-sharps and b-flats. I ignored those who didn’t realise my pronunciation came in the form of octaves and arpeggiated chords.

I’m a mistake. I’m my own person.

I made wrong choices. I made the only choices I could.

I died. I lived.

I didn’t listen. I listened.

Taken from the notepad of E.E.

...

HOLY MOTHER OF God.

Hadn’t I lived through enough drama on this trip? First, all the issues with security and boarding, and then, an attempted crash landing.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

I’d vomited in the stupid bag the air-hostesses provided for inflight sickness. I’d hugged my jacket full of belongings as if by some miracle I would survive with a pocket mirror and travel-sized toothpaste. And I hated how the fear of dying had shown me just how much of my life I’d wasted. How I’d pinned happiness on a future I couldn’t predict. How I let fear rule my decisions rather than doing what I quoted in my songs.

You’re alive.

Be grateful.

I was grateful.

Beyond grateful.

But despite my thankfulness, I couldn’t stop trembling at how close to death I’d come.

It was a minor storm. You weren’t anywhere near death.

I moved through immigration in a strange mind-space, unable to untangle the last hour of turbulence, terror, and finally, landing intact. I didn’t understand how strangely accepting I’d been in those final moments where I’d truly, deeply looked at who I was and was forced to stare at the one conclusion I’d been running from.

I found myself lacking.

It was odd to drift through the airport, still looking and sounding and moving like myself when something so irreversible had changed.