Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

48 | Bad Habits

THE FLIGHT OVER was painful, absolute torture to say the least. I'd been tired before, ready to sleep during the few hours but with Dr Khan's icy, coldly professional voice ringing through my ears, those cursed words along with it, sleeping was the last thing I was able to do.

"A drink?" The flight attendant asked.

I shook my head no. She passed, that far from genuine smile, decorating her make up covered features, unwavering. Even so, I felt like an absolute bitch. Here she was just trying to do her job and being polite to me, and I was being like one of those rude passengers I'd always looked at in distaste. Now I was one.

I began clicking my knuckles excessively, that habit I'd started in high school rearing its ugly head. The old lady across from me threw me a glare, so I sat on my hand to stop the nervous tick. Even under my leg, I could feel my fingers itching to move, to do something.

It felt like we were in the air for dozens upon dozens upon dozens of agonising hours before the crisp sound of the pilot came through the speakers.

I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, grinding my teeth as he tried his hand at a light tone.

Thirty minutes, I tried to ease myself. You can do half an hour, thirty times sixty seconds.

But it hardly made much difference, other than making me look out of the window every other second rather than every five seconds. I begged each time that I'd seen the city lights below and when I didn't, prayed the time after that I finally would.

"Stressing is not going to help," I whispered to myself, grateful that the guy next to me was sleeping soundly, too unconscious to think I was crazy. Even if he was awake, I struggled to imagine myself actually caring whether he would think I was psychotic or not.

When the plane did finally land, the lights raised from their previous dim state and the dosing passengers now gradually waking up, I grabbed my bag and got out as soon as they would let me. At that point, I didn't care who I shoved out of the way to be out quickly, I just knew I needed to get out.

I picked my phone up as soon as I got into the airport. I hadn't realised how badly my hands were shaking until I raised it to my ear, feeling it's coldness practically rattling against my skin.

"Miles?" I asked into the phone when it picked up on the last ring. My words shook uncontrollably and I couldn't settle my laboured breathing.

"Look, Jolie, I really don't—"

"You have to help me, Miles," I begged. "Please."

"What's wrong?" He asked, discarding his resentment for me as soon as he heard the panic in my voice. "What's happened?"

"My Mum's in hospital," I said, holding my hand to my mouth to muffle the sob, even though it did very little. "And Archer and I broke up, and I really need to get to the hospital. Mum's in hospital." I was repeating myself, saying what I still struggled to comprehend over and over like if I said it enough, my brain would finally accept it.

But it was futile.

"Alright, Jolie," his soothing voice said through the phone. "I'm going to need you to breathe. I'm here. And I'll take you to the hospital, but I'm going to need you to tell me where you are."