In the arms of no one (Completed)

Chapter 5.

Vallon's POV

The voice of the co-pilot cuts through the fog in my head, polite and chipper like he's auditioning for an infomercial.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing shortly at Grand Forks International Airport. Please return your seats and trays to their upright positions..."

Fifty hours and thirty minutes. Three interconnecting flights, two near-breakdowns in airport bathrooms, one lost toothbrush, and at least six cups of bad coffee later — I am, miraculously, still alive. Barely.

The seatbelt sign pings overhead like a smug little reminder that I've officially crossed oceans and time zones and left everything familiar behind. I push my tray up, pretending I have the kind of calm travelers in airplane ads always seem to have — the ones who smile softly at sunrise while sipping orange juice. My orange juice has been sitting here for two hours. It's warm and slightly suspicious.

The co-pilot drones on about the temperature — minus five degrees Celsius, lovely — and the local attractions, which I doubt I'll be seeing any time soon. Then he finishes with the date and time: December 22, 10:45 a.m. Almost Christmas. My chest tightens a little at that. I grip the armrest like it might keep me from thinking too hard.

Beside me, a soft voice trembles. "Are you ready, dear?"

I turn my head and find Gladys looking at me, her hands folded primly on her lap, her reading glasses perched low on her nose. Seventy-three and somehow more alive than anyone I've ever met. She's been my unexpected travel companion since Honolulu — and the only reason I haven't curled into a ball somewhere between LAX and Minneapolis.

Her first words to me back in Honolulu had been, "Travel is easier when you make friends, darling." I'd smiled awkwardly, unsure what to say, and before I knew it, she was telling me about her son, her grandkids, and the cabana boys waiting back at the beach resort she calls home. Apparently, she "retired to sin" after her husband passed three years ago.

I'd laughed then — an actual, real laugh — and she'd winked like we were co-conspirators in mischief.

Now, she's smiling at me with that same glint in her eye.
"As ready as I'll ever be, Gladys," I admit, fastening my seatbelt. "But... I'm nervous. I don't really know these people."

She snorts. "Oh, phooey." Her wrinkled face creases with exaggerated offense. "We didn't know each other before this flight, and look at us now — soul sisters! Besides, they're your family. Nothing more important than that."

She pauses dramatically, then adds, "Even if sometimes you want to gag them, tie them up, and run a hot poker over their skin."

My eyes widen, then I can't help it — I burst out laughing. She's completely unfiltered, a one-woman hurricane of brutal honesty.
"You're a total badass," I tell her.

She pats my hand, eyes twinkling. "Like your mothers!" Then she cackles, loud enough that two passengers ahead of us turn around. I shake my head, smiling despite the exhaustion clawing at my bones.

There's something about Gladys that disarms me. Maybe it's her warmth. Or the way she listens like she actually sees you — not the polished version you try to present to the world, but the messy, cracked, half-healed version you try to bury.

Half an hour into our first flight, I'd found myself blurting out more than I'd meant to — about my cursed luck, the reasons for this move, the way grief has a way of sinking its claws in even when you think you've moved past it. She hadn't judged or interrupted. Just held my hand and whispered, "That's what living looks like, dear — surviving the parts that try to break you."