Fly Away by Kristin Hannah Page B

rain
     is falling, clattering drops on my windshield, obscuring my view. Every single second,
     I want to turn back, but I don’t. I force myself to keep going, until I am on the
     plane, seated in first class.
    “Martini,” I say to the flight attendant. The look on her face reminds me that it
     is not yet noon. Still, a drink is all I can think of to help get me through this
     embarrassing episode.
    Softened by two martinis, I finally am able to lean back in my seat and close my eyes.
     I will be better once I am back to work. It has always been my salvation.
    In Los Angeles, I see a driver, dressed in black, holding up a sign. HART. I hand him my small calfskin overnight bag and follow him out to a waiting Town Car.
     On the drive from LAX to Century City, the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. People on
     these freeways honk constantly, as if it will make a difference, and motorcycles zip
     dangerously between lanes.
    I lean into the cushy seat and close my eyes, taking a moment to collect my thoughts
     and organize my ideas. Now that I am here, moving forward, taking my life back, I
     feel a little calmer. Or maybe it is the martinis. Either way, I am ready for my comeback.
    The car pulls up to the imposing white building identified only by a discreet carved
     sign: CREATIVE ARTISTS AGENCY.
    Inside, the building is an endless stretch of white marble and glass, like a giant
     icehouse, and equally as cold. Everyone is dressed well, in expensive suits. Beautiful
     women and gorgeous men move through what looks like a magazine shoot.
    The girl at the front desk doesn’t recognize me. Not even when I say my name.
    “Oh,” she says, her gaze disinterested. “Is Mr. Davison expecting you?”
    “Yes,” I say, trying to maintain a smile.
    “Take a seat, please.”
    Honestly, I feel like putting this girl in her place, but I know I need to be careful
     in the hallowed halls of CAA, so I bite my tongue and take a seat in the modernly
     decorated waiting room.
    Where I wait.
    And wait.
    At least twenty minutes after my scheduled appointment time, a young man in an Italian
     suit comes for me. Wordlessly, like a drone, he leads me up to the third floor and
     into a corner office.
    My agent, George Davison, is seated behind a huge desk. He stands at my entrance.
     We hug, a little awkwardly, and I step back.
    “Well. Well,” he says, indicating a chair for me.
    I sit down. “You look good,” I say.
    He glances at me. I see the way he notices my weight gain, and my ponytail doesn’t
     fool him. He sees the gray in my hair. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
    “Your call surprised me,” he says.
    “It hasn’t been that long.”
    “Six months. I left at least a dozen messages for you. None of which were returned.”
    “You know what happened, George. I found out that my best friend had cancer. I wanted
     to be with her.”
    “And now?”
    “She died.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
    “I’m sorry.”
    I wipe my eyes. “Yes. Well. I’m ready to go back to work now. I’d like to start taping
     on Monday.”
    “Tell me you’re joking.”
    “You think Monday is too soon?” I don’t like the way George is looking at me.
    “Come on, Tully. You’re smarter than this.”
    “I don’t know what you mean, George.”
    He shifts in his chair. The expensive leather makes a whispering sound. “Your show, The Girlfriend Hour, was number one in its time slot last year. Advertisers were clamoring to buy time.
     Manufacturers loved to give away products to your audience, many of whom drove hundreds
     of miles and stood in line for hours to see you.”
    “I am aware of all of this, George. That’s why I’m here.”
    “You walked off set, Tully. Took off your mic, said goodbye to your audience, and
     left.”
    I lean forward. “My friend—”
    “Who gives a shit?”
    I sit back, stunned.
    “How do you think the network felt about your exit? Or your employees, all of whom
     were suddenly