Shared Air: Stories From Flight 819
Seat 10D, Passenger Greg Morrisson
Greg hadn’t been “home” in something like 35 years, and he wondered how much the town had changed. He had no idea what to expect—from his hometown, or this 40th high school reunion. This was his first one. He was really looking forward to seeing his old teammates (what was left of them, anyway). He knew he’d get to tell the story of his winning touchdown in overtime against the Panthers that brought home the state championship—and he was absolutely going to stop by and say hello to that old trophy on this trip.
“Greggo! Tell ‘em about the night you made the Panthers go home crying to their mommas!” they’ll say. “Tell ‘em about our senior season!”
Greg loved to tell that story. All those stories. Everything in the world was still in front of him, and he was on top. Thirteen-and-oh. Senior year. A fucking legend.
Claire was part of those stories. A big part. That night, they stayed out way past curfew, losing track of time in the back of his dad’s Chevy Caprice.
Greg and Claire lost a few other things back there.
They got grounded. Hell, it was worth it.
Greg smiled to himself, thinking about Claire in the back of that old Caprice. He knew she was divorced, and he knew she was coming tomorrow—and so, most of all, he was looking forward to seeing her.
Winning her back.
The one that got away.
He hadn’t seen Claire in decades, either. She broke up with him after he dropped out of college in his sophomore year.
But he had to—he lost his scholarship, along with any shot at the pros.
If you asked him, Greg would admit that Greek life was a lot of fun. Okay—probably too much. Weekends ended a little later, started a little earlier, and before long, a practice or three got skipped. Coach Bosky was always bitching at him, accusing him of being hungover, saying he was slow and flabby. Then Bosky cut him. Just like that. It was over.
Without football, he had nothing. He couldn’t pay for school. Going back home was his only option.
That was the beginning of the slide.
When he got there, Claire didn’t waste time. She dumped him. She said he was drinking too much. That he was ruining his future.
He was humiliated. Brokenhearted. They never spoke again.
But Greg was sober now. After two divorces, a daughter who wouldn’t even see him, a hundred different jobs—and, finally, a very expensive DUI, he’d agreed he had a problem. He’d started the AA thing and was six months in. And he’d even lost a few “LBs”—even though he was still carrying a little extra weight and a whole lot less hair, Greg was feeling good about himself.
And now he was here, on a plane. Hoping. If Claire could still see something in him, then maybe there was something left to see. She had loved a version of him he still believed in. He needed to know that she did, too. With Claire back in his life, he could see himself as happy again, for the first time in a long, long time. He’d bought a suit, he was going to get her flowers—the whole nine. This was the most important thing to Greg since...well, second only to his decision to stop drinking.
Greg absently thumbed through the airline magazine, not really looking at any of it. He thought about Claire. He thought about everything he’d messed up, the things he’d ruined and wasted. He thought about tomorrow night and started to feel nervous.
Really fucking nervous.
He thought about the drink cart, now making its way toward his row. And then he had a familiar thought: What could it hurt to have one—just one—“to take the edge off”?