The Accidental Text - Becky Monson Page 0,1

many. Twenty-six is much too young to lose your mom.

“What are you texting Hannah about?” Chelsea asks, and then takes a sip of her coffee.

I jerk my head up, bringing my mind back to my older sister, still standing in front of me with her signature I’m-not-giving-up-until-you-tell-me facial expression. It’s a look I’m quite familiar with.

I stare down at my phone, still lying facedown in my lap, the silver sparkle case glinting in the overhead lighting of the hangar.

“I was just venting,” I say to Chelsea. It’s the truth. Just not the whole truth.

Chelsea dips her chin once, letting me know I should continue. Or rather, expecting me to continue.

Part of me wants to lie. I could tell her I have a stomachache or a serious case of diarrhea … but in an effort to be more honest about my feelings, I decide to tell her the truth. “Fine,” I say. “I’m just … not … feeling this.”

“Not feeling what?” She raises just one perfectly shaped eyebrow. It’s an exclamation point on her well-practiced judgmental look.

“This.” I throw my arms out, gesturing around the space. I look over to see a group of people heading toward the big hangar door, getting ready to load a plane. Some have a skip to their step, but it’s clear by the rigid posture of one particular man that this is his first time. I’d love to tell him that it’s not half as scary as it seems, but even after jumping many times, I’m currently struggling myself.

Chelsea’s eyes go wide, the one eyebrow rising even higher, and I could put money on what she’ll say next. “But it’s what Mom wanted,” she says, sounding exasperated.

Yep. Those were the exact words I knew would come out of her mouth.

“I realize that.” I hold back an eye roll.

“So then, what’s your problem?

I look to the side, away from Chelsea’s penetrating gaze.

“I just feel … anxious. Like something could happen … to you, or Dad, or Devon, or me.”

Chelsea moves to sit next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She has the ability to go from judgmental to compassionate in a split second. It’s impressive. The comforting gesture, combined with my still-churning stomach, makes tears well up in my eyes.

“Mags, it’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” I say, adding a sniffle. “I was totally on board until we got here. I’m just—maybe I’m not ready or something.”

“Ready for what?” my dad asks. He’d been standing some feet away from us engrossed in something on his phone, the white cylinder urn filled with my mom’s ashes tucked under his arm. I hadn’t realized he’d moved closer to us. Now he’s looking at me with concern in his blue eyes, deep crow’s-feet in the corners. Chelsea has his eyes, minus the crow’s-feet. Devon too. I got my mom’s green ones.

“Maggie’s having second thoughts about the jump,” Chelsea says.

“Oh, Magpie.” My dad uses the nickname he’s called me since I can remember. He takes a seat on my other side, setting the urn next to him. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit with gray detailing. He wraps an arm around my waist. I’m now in a very public family sandwich. I just need Devon to come over here and pull us all in a big hug. Not that Devon would ever do that.

I feel my dad reach up and run his hand down my ponytail, then he tugs lightly on my dark-brown locks. I may not have gotten his eyes, but I did get his hair, except that his is now mostly gray.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I feel … anxious, I guess.”

“We don’t have to do this today,” he says.

My heart skips a tiny beat at this idea, and the churning in my stomach starts to slow.

“What?” Chelsea says, sitting tall next to me, her back rigid. “We have to.”

“Why?” Dad asks. “There’s no rule.”

“But it’s—”

“Your anniversary,” I finish Chelsea’s sentence for her. My shoulders slump, and a weight drops inside my gut.

“So what?” my dad says.

“Well … I mean … I …” Chelsea trails off, and I feel her stiff posture falter next to me.

Today, February eighteenth, would have been thirty-three years for my parents. That’s why we picked this date. It has significance. My parents had a marriage for the ages. Something I’ve hoped my whole life to find. They met through mutual friends when my mom was twenty-four and my dad was twenty-six. It was love at first sight, according to my dad; my