Page 150 of Salto

"Good," I said, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "And it's okay, Mom. I understand."

"If I could, I'd be there in a heartbeat."

"There'll be the livestream, and I'll just picture you in the stands," I said, suddenly fighting back a swell of emotion.

Gosh.

I looked down, blinking back the tears. Why did it feel like someone was taking my heart in their hands and clenching it?

"We'll all be watching. Call me right after it's over, okay? I love you."

"I love you too."

"Please be safe, sweetie."

"I will," I whispered, and hung up the phone because I couldn't speak anymore. The lump in my throat had gotten too big.

When I finally pulled myself together, I looked up and Rove was walking back over to me.

“Got our carry-ons checked. They needed volunteers.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to smile but it was weak.

The energy it was taking to sound normal, to act normal, was almost becoming as strenuous as the skills in my routine. And I hadn't had nearly as much practice doing it.

Rove looked about to say something, but the attendant at the gate started announcing boarding groups and he was abruptly cut off.

I stood up, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and got in line.

We boarded, and thirty minutes later we were taking our seats. Rove gave me the window, and I settled in, content to simply stare out at the view for the next four hours.

What was that saying? About windows and doors? And finding one that would finally open?

I thought about my little porthole back in my tower, hundreds of miles away now.

Where were the portholes? The ones that led to a sky full of stars. I needed a porthole to the stars so I could make a thousand wishes for all of my problems to go away.

But something deep inside me knew that even a thousand shooting stars wouldn't be enough.

I'd have to be patient and wait for a real door.

But what if it never came?

I fell asleep.

Somehow, despite the torrent of thoughts in my head, the dim cabin lights and steady hum of the airplane engines eventually pulled me under.

When I woke, my cheek was pressed against the soft fabric of a hoodie I didn't remember leaning against.

I turned my head slightly, and the familiar scent of mint filled my senses.

My eyes fluttered open.

I was leaning against Rove's shoulder.

My breath caught.

"Sorry," I mumbled, lifting my head.