Aubrie Edmond, Contributing Writer
“Love is the real nosedive in Aubrie’s new short story, which sets the scene for her upcoming album, “nosedive,” which will be released in February.”
Things had finally begun to feel settled. We were sitting in an exit row with no one between us, tons of space to stretch out. You took the window. You wanted to feel the sun on your face, but you didn’t want to see the world. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the plastic. I tried to watch the world through the glass, but my eyes kept getting caught on the way the light painted you warm.
I must have dozed off at some point. The loudspeaker dinged overhead, shaking me out of the stupor of sleep. “Attention passengers,” the pilot began, “the seatbelt light has come on and will remain on for the duration of the flight.” The crackle of the loudspeaker stopped as quickly as it started. Flight attendants materialized out of thin air, speaking in hushed tones to those of us scattered throughout the exit rows. They assembled in formation, clearly practiced and rehearsed. Maybe it was supposed to make us feel less scared.
“Due to some maintenance miscalculations,” one of the flight attendants spoke, tone remaining even, “the aircraft is currently experiencing engine failure.” You still had your headphones on, eyes half-closed from sleep and confusion. You slid them off as soon as your eyes met mine, eyelids widening as the flight attendant continued. “The plane is no longer able to climb or maintain altitude…” I zoned out. I couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears. It didn’t stop until I felt your hand in mine, clasped tight, fingers untangled.
As the flight attendant droned on, I wondered if everything sounded underwater to you too. “We are currently on a collision course with a small uninhabited land mass, and the pilot is going to have to make an emergency landing,” the flight attendant spoke quickly and clearly, with a voice designed to quell panic. “The pilot is going to attempt to steer the aircraft into the sea, but there will not be another announcement until the course is clear. Please remain calm as…” I zoned out again, ignoring the needling feeling that I should be paying attention. The flight attendants rattled off instructions, something about doors and slides. You watched them intently, eyes creased in the corners with concentration. I watched you.
Since there was nothing to do but wait, I closed my eyes and almost dreamt. We’re stranded on an island, apocalypse-style, sitting on the beach close enough to almost touch. I tell you that if you were a blood-sniffing shark, I’d be a vampire; that I’d feed off that, that we’d feed each other. “What does that mean?” you ask. That I need you. The thought makes me bite my tongue. That maybe we need each other. “Well, we’d be a team,” I say, considering it seriously. I’d just been talking to talk, mouth moving before my mind again. “You’d find them, I’d drain them, you’d eat them,” I continue, “we’d be a dream team.” You look at me for a moment, pondering. “Or maybe, I could just find them and eat them,” you say with a grin, “and let you starve.” I look at you and the world feels off kilter. There’s nothing but dread and doubt and this crazy feeling that maybe you could finally settle it. “I have to tell you something,” rolls off my tongue in spite of my best efforts. I’m rambling like a fool, saying nothing and everything at once.
Like all good things, the dream ended, shattering like glass as we continued our down spiral to nowhere. With my eyes wide open, I thought, maybe this is love. The plane dipped, and your hand gripped mine so tight it was almost fatal. I looked at you with pleading eyes, but you kept yours cast towards the ground, as if it could swallow your fear. I knew this was it: the bottom of the barrel roll, the last frontier. I wanted to say something, anything, a thousand things. The overhead speaker dinged. “Attention passengers,” the pilot spoke, pausing for suspense without meaning to. “We will be making an emergency landing at sea. Please follow your flight attendants’ instructions…” I couldn’t force myself to listen to the rest of the pilot’s announcement or the flight attendants’ instructions. Your eyes finally met mine with a knowing smile, a promise. We’re alive, it said, there’s no world without you and I. You let go of my hand as we put on our life vests and grabbed it again as we braced for impact.
The plane continued its nose down descent, gaining speed as the water grew closer. I saw the island out of your window, a hair’s width to the right, like the wrong breath would send us tumbling into the trees. I knew in that moment that I would tell you. I had to. Whether we hit the sand or sliced through the water, even if I dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t crawl out of, I had to know. Luckily, the pilot was an expert, crash landing and parting the sea. There was jubilation everywhere, shouts and cheers and answered prayers. I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of my own heart beating, I couldn’t look at anyone but you. As soon as I opened my mouth, you laughed out a question. “Why are you still holding my hand?” And didn’t that feel like an answer?