The CEO looked at him.
No answer.
The Single Dad continued:
“Parents don’t keep score the way children think.”
“Sometimes.”
She smiled.
“You sound confident.”
“My son owes me approximately nine years of sleep.”
She laughed.
Then he became serious.
“If he grows up and thinks he needs to become rich to repay me, I’ll know I failed somewhere.”
The CEO looked down at her hands.
“I bought my mother a house.”
“Nice.”
“She complained the kitchen was too big.”
“Smart woman.”
“I bought her a car.”
“She still drives her old one.”
“Smarter.”
“I arranged a private nurse after surgery.”
“She fired the nurse after three days.”
The Single Dad smiled.
“I like her.”
The CEO laughed.
Then grew quiet.
“I can’t remember the last time I sat with her for an entire afternoon without checking my phone.”
The Single Dad looked toward the CEO’s phone.
It had been face down since the Captain’s announcement.
He said:
“You’re practicing.”
She glanced at it.
“I suppose.”
“Terrifying?”
“Extremely.”
They smiled.
The flight continued west.
Conversation became easier.
Not constant.
Comfortable.
The Single Dad told her about his son building a homemade motion detector to catch whoever was stealing cookies.
It caught the Single Dad.
Twice.
The CEO told him she once accidentally disconnected an entire startup’s demo server ten minutes before meeting investors.
The Single Dad stared.
“You?”
“I was twenty-four.”
“You unplugged it?”
“I needed the outlet.”
He laughed so loudly a passenger turned.
The CEO smiled.
“Do not repeat that.”
“Absolutely repeating it.”
“To whom?”
“My nine-year-old.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I know powerful attorneys.”
“I know the Captain.”
“Fair.”
Lunch service began.
The Single Dad refused the expensive snack box.
The CEO bought two.
Placed one on the middle seat.
“For the turbulence coaching.”
“I don’t charge.”
“Take it.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He took it.
They ate.
The CEO removed her heels beneath the skirt and tucked her feet slightly beneath the seat.
The Single Dad noticed.
Said nothing.
Somehow the gesture made her seem younger.
Less constructed.
She caught him looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were smiling.”
“No.”
“You were.”
“I’m allowed.”
She moved slightly closer.
“Why?”
He shook his head.
“CEO of a billion-dollar company taking off her shoes in economy.”
She whispered:
“My feet hurt.”
“History will remember.”
She laughed again.
Then her phone lit up.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The smile disappeared.
She picked it up.
Read.
Her entire body went still.
The Single Dad immediately noticed.
“What happened?”
No answer.
She read again.
Then tried calling.
No signal.
The aircraft was descending through a patch of poor reception.
The CEO’s fingers shook.