I toss my duffle bag into the overhead bin and then plop into the aisle seat of row 20, seat C. I feel sorry for the poor sucker assigned to the middle seat. The empty space looks just large enough for a pack of spare ribs to rest. Not my problem. I stretch one of my long legs out, as I crane my neck toward the premium seats. I’m stuck in Coach because first class is booked. There’d be no warm towels and cold beer for me. That’s what I get for changing my flight at the last minute. Sometimes, in life, you have to get in where you fit in.

I’ll gladly suffer a few hours of discomfort for Shayla and Cee. I’m ready to man up and do what I need to do to take care of them.

A movement to my left snags my attention. A family of three—make that four—the woman is obviously about to pop any minute, is sitting in the row across from me, holding hands. The man drops a kiss on the head of a toddler in the center seat, who could easily win first place in Cutest Kid of the World. Then he caresses the pregnant woman’s stomach in slow, almost reverent circles.

The kid puts her hand atop his and says, “Can’t wait for my baby brudder to come. Love him so much!”

“We love him, too. Me and mommy love both of you.”

The smile the kid gives her old man has enough wattage to light up the set of Sesame Street.

I try not to stare, but this tender scene is enough to make even the worst cynic choke up. I can’t help but picture myself as the head of my own family of three. Could I be as loving and patient as this guy? I hope so.

My own father wasn’t perfect, but he’d done one hell of a job raising three rambunctious sons with bigger egos than brains. Along with the life lessons and demands of responsibility Dad imparted, my brothers and I were loved. And there was no questioning the respect and affection Dad had for my mom, who was the best mother a kid could have. I ache to be the same kind of man. I want to be the type of husband Shayla dreams of and the type of father Cee is proud to have.

I chew on my lip as self-doubt rears its ugly hydra head. The Colt Emerson of the past wasn’t up to this challenge, but the new Colt definitely is. I appreciate my ready-made family. The moment I land, I plan to show them exactly how much.

“Excuse me, could you be a dear and switch seats with me?”

I look up to see a robust senior citizen holding a lumpy, white crocheted purse close to her heart. Her matronly blue and white dress makes me think of the Noritake plates in my mom’s china cabinet. If she looked any more like a grandma, the big bad wolf woulda jumped out and demanded to know where to find Little Red Riding Hood.

The woman’s gaze flits from me to the center seat.

Damn. I’m just getting used to the idea of stretching out for the two-hour trip. Now, she wants me to sit in the middle while she enjoys my coveted aisle seat?

“Those middle seats are so cramped. It’s hard for a woman of my size to fit comfortably.”

I know the feeling. Besides, it’s only for a short while. “Sure.” I move over and she sits down in my vacated seat, smelling of vanilla and something that smells like sugar. Does sugar have a scent?

“Cookie?” she asks, pulling a plastic bag from her purse stuffed with what appears to be tempting treats of chocolate chip and macadamia. My stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped lunch and dinner. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. The tiny lines around her blue eyes crinkle.

I’d planned to pop in my ear buds and listen to some music on my iPod, but Cookie Grandma ain’t havin’ it. She talks my ear off, and before I know it, the plane is in the air. I don’t remember the flight attendant’s safety drill, the pilot talking, or the rumble of the plane taking off. But I do know all about this lady’s six grandkids—I was right about the grandma part, her retirement from J.C. Penney thirty years ago, and her skills with confectionary delights.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, pulling her knitting needles from her bag, as I wonder exactly what else is hidden among the tight knots of yarn. “I’m glad my kids are grown. They were rotten, all three of them. I never wanted kids. Having children was my husband’s idea. He sold insurance and traveled a lot, so he was rarely home. Then the fool up and died on me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I mumble. My fingers itch to press play on my iPod.

“Me, too. The cancer got him. Prostate.”

I cringe, while stifling the urge to cup my nuts. The threat of prostate cancer was the only reason I submitted to having a doctor handle my balls while I coughed last year. Let’s just say it was the closest thing to humiliation I’ve suffered in a long time. I don’t know how women can stand the yearly invasion between their legs.

“The good thing was he had a great insurance policy. The bad thing was I used it to spoil those kids, trying to make up for them only having one parent. But my grandbabies… Well, that’s a different story. I feel like I have a chance to start over and do things right. I’m on my way to see two of them now.”

Her face lights up and I can tell this is her purpose in life—cherishing these grandkids. The more she talks, the more I start to listen. I learn that her name is Adelai. After a while, I don’t mind the conversation so much. It feels good to focus on someone else for a while. Adelai probably has no clue of who I am. My baseball cap pulled low over my forehead gives me some modicum of anonymity. I’ve also forgone my usual chinos and designer loafers for jeans and sneakers. I’m just an average guy sitting in coach, chatting with a nice old lady, and munching on cookies.

“I never had the best relationship with my youngest son, Sam. It’s only through my grandkids that me and Sam are finally starting to—”

Adelai gasps as mild turbulence rocks the cabin.

“It’s okay,” I pat her sun-spotted hand. “It’s only turbulence.”

“Turbulence? How long does it last? This is my first time flying.”

“Well, Ms. Adelai, you failed to mention that. But don’t worry. I’m a veteran at this. I’ve flown thousands of times.”

“Thousands? That sounds exhausting.”

I chuckle. “Okay, not thousands. Maybe hundreds.”

A smooth, authoritative voice cuts into our conversation. “Folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re running into a rough patch of weather. Nothing to worry about, but please remain seated with your seatbelts on.”

The Fasten Seatbelt sign flashes, as if we need a reminder.

Adelai murmurs, “Dear Lord, I hope nothing happens to us.”

“It won’t,” I reassure her.

“I don’t want to die before I have a chance to reconcile with Sam.”

“You’re not going to die. None of us are.”

Behind me, a woman breaks into prayer. White noise fills the cabin. Though my ears can’t pick out all of her words. I catch snatches of “…shadow of death…fear no evil…” Psalms 23. I’m not the most religious guy, but I know that comforting prayer when I hear it. I’m thinking she’s being a little dramatic, but a shout-out to the man up above never hurts.

The plane lurches and Adelai clutches my arm. We’ve hit more turbulence. This time, the plane shudders so violently that the oxygen masks tumble down. A scream pierces the air. The guy in front of me across the aisle vomits in his lap. A flight attendant rushes down the aisle barking orders. “Everyone return to your seats! Fasten your seatbelts!”

She disappears toward the rear restrooms a moment before the plane becomes possessed by the exorcist. In the grip of turbulence, the cabin shakes like a rag doll.

Fuck!

I let Adelai hold my hand. She’s clenching it in a death grip, but I don’t care. I need the human contact as much as she does. Her fearful blue eyes meet mine. “I’m seventy-three. I’ve lived a good, long life. I have no complaints.”

I wish I could say the same. Yes, I’m successful. Good-looking. Wealthy. Doing what I’ve always dreamed of. But I have plenty of regrets. Plenty of unfinished business. Would I go to my grave still at odds with Ruger? Suddenly, all I can think about is the people I’ll be leaving behind. What will happen to Shayla and Cee? Will they take care of each other when I’m gone? The fact that Shayla is my wife, and therefore entitled to all of my finances, gives me some comfort. At least I know she won’t hurt for money.

It dawns on me that if I die, I’d be leaving her alone, once again. She would never forgive me. Knowing Shayla, she’d probably blame me for my own death.

My eyes wander to the family sitting across from me.

“I love you,” the pregnant woman says to her husband.

“I love you more,” he replies.

My heart tightens like a lead ball in my chest. What I wouldn’t give for that declaration from Shayla. I’d told her that I loved her, but she hadn’t returned the sentiment. I guess I have no one to blame but myself.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not safe to keep flying in this weather. We have to divert to Birmingham. Prepare for an emergency landing.”