Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
"I do," he cut me off. "I understand. I'm just here to say it's important to push past that. You can't let fear rule every decision in your life. You're afraid to spend money on yourself because you might need it for your father. You're afraid of making a mess because you might have to clean it up after. You're afraid of heights because you might fall. You're so afraid of life that you're barely fucking living it, babe. So what if you feel sick and dizzy and scared? It's two hours of your life. That's it. Then it's over and you're on a beautiful beach and getting a tan. And I'll be right there holding your hand or refilling your glass until you're so fucking bombed that you can't think straight enough to remember how to be scared. Come on. Trust me, getting over this fear will be worth a couple hours of feeling shitty."
I paused, taking a deep breath. Because he was right. Everything he said made sense. It was my default setting to shrink away from things that made me uncomfortable, even if they promised fun, exciting, life-changing things on the other side of the discomfort.
"Prue..."
"Okay," I said, before I could talk myself out of it. "Okay, let's go," I rushed, quickly ducking into the car. I knew if we could get to the airport that there was no going back. I wouldn't feel comfortable throwing a fit or making Byron turn back around and, possibly, miss his appointment. So the sooner we got there, the better.
"Okay," he said, getting into the car and pulling out quickly, as if sensing the urgency for us to get going. Ten minutes into the drive, his hand landed on my thigh, offering an anchor, and it did more to settle my nerves than any words he could have said.
By the time we got to the airport, checking the bags and getting through security took enough of my focus to momentarily stop freaking about the flight. But as we boarded the plane, me taking the window seat, and Byron the aisle, I was pretty much just... shaking. Almost violently. Byron reached past me and slammed the shade down on the window and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing and half turning me into him.
"Breathe," he reminded me and I pulled in a shaky breath. "Drink?" he asked and I shook my head. My stomach was wobbling too much to tolerate alcohol. "Think you'll be sick?" he asked and I could practically feel him scoping out the air sickness bags.
"I don't think so."
"What do you need?"
"For this to be over," I said, snorting a little as I attempted a laugh. My insides felt like they were vibrating, the contents of my belly sloshing around ominously. I half-listened to the spiel about safety and was vaguely aware of the plane accelerating for take-off. But then we were ascending and all I felt was the dropping sensation in my belly. And, doing just as my father used to advice me not to do on the carnival rides he took me on as a kid, I squeezed my eyes tight, stopped breathing, and waited for it to be over.
"Babe, we're up," he said what seemed like too-short a time later.
"Up?" I repeated, the settled feeling in my stomach agreeing with him. We certainly weren't climbing anymore. I pulled slightly back and sucked in a deep breath, looking around. I was vaguely aware of motion, as one is vaguely aware of motion in any vehicle. But it wasn't anything different or worse.
"Can I get you guys anything to drink?" the flight attendant asked, her voice a little cautious, like she wasn't sure she should interrupt so soon after my freak-out.
"Scotch," Byron answered immediately for himself, then looked at me. "Figure this isn't a glass of wine situation."
"Jack and Coke," I agreed and the flight attendant shuffled off to get our drinks.
"Jack and Coke?" Byron repeated, brow raised.
"It was the first drink I ever had when I was eighteen."
"Party?"
"No. I didn't really do parties. High school graduation."
"Mack's drink?"
"Yeah."
I had four Jacks and Cokes. Byron had two scotches. And then we were descending. While my stomach did the in-my-throat thing and my hand practically crushed the bones in Byron's... he was right. It was over. I had gotten through it. It sucked. I didn't like it. But I was fine. We were on land again and, after we picked up our bags, I would be on my way to a beach.
While I hadn't been expecting to stay at some random hotel chain, I hadn't exactly anticipated the giant, sprawling resort we pulled up to half an hour later. "What?" Byron asked as I stood beside the car and looked at the immense white building sitting on its own private stretch of beach.