People don’t get the whole attachment disorder thing. They see Sophia dishing out cuddles and wanting to tickle the postman, and they see a girl who’s affectionate, caring, loving. And she is all those things, but with a whole bag of issues that mean it’s not always directed the right way.
“Well, I can’t see a problem at all,” my mum said, after she’d babysat for a few hours. “Sat on my lap, having stories—lovely little thing.”
It would hurt Mum to be told that it’s easier for Sophia to form relationships with people who don’t matter to her. The postman, babysitters, grandparents she only sees every few months—she’ll open her heart to them because she doesn’t expect anything in return.
But us? We’re the ones who matter. Loving us means getting hurt—or so her instincts tell her.
I start clearing our plates. “We only travel so much because of Mina’s job. We wait at the airport on standby, in case there’s space. Sometimes we just come home again, don’t we, Sophia?”
“I don’t like it when that happens.”
“Me neither.”
Sophia starts telling Becca about the fuel capacity of a Boeing 777, and the older girl laughs. “You really know your stuff, don’t you?”
“I can fly a plane too.”
“Oh yeah?” Becca’s dismissive, and Sophia looks cross.
“I can. Tell her, Daddy.”
“They had a families day at the airport,” I explain. “Mina took her on a flight simulator—the sort of thing they use for training. She was pretty good; they both were.”
“I’m going to be a pilot.”
I wonder if the police station could hold an open day, if Sophia might enjoy sitting in a police car, trying on the uniform.
“Mummy wanted to be a pilot.” I fill the sink with hot water, remembering that first time I met Mina. The photo she showed me of her in her uniform, the unadulterated joy on her face.
After Mina ghosted me, I made a half-hearted attempt to track her down. She wasn’t on Facebook, so I went to the airport where the training school was. The security officer on reception wouldn’t look up her name—said it was against data protection rules—but as I walked away, he called after me.
“Try the White Hart, around the corner. Most of the students drink there.”
I nursed a warm beer until a group of students filtered in, midconversation about tomorrow’s forecast.
Mina had dropped out of the course.
“She had a panic attack, the first time she took a plane up.” Mina’s former colleague struggled to keep the derision from his voice. “They almost crashed as a result. Total wipeout.”
“Is that right?”
I turned to see an older man, sitting at the bar, one eyebrow raised in our direction. He nodded at me. “Vic Myerbridge. I’m one of the instructors. Ignore Xavier—he’s prone to exaggeration.”
“Mina didn’t have a panic attack?”
Vic’s answer was considered. “There was no danger of the plane crashing. And look, we get a lot of dropouts—it’s a tough course. She’s not the first to realize it wasn’t for her, and she won’t be the last. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.”
“I don’t suppose you know where she is now?”
“Sorry, I wouldn’t have a clue.”
That was that, then. She really had ghosted me.
Three months later, I saw her going into a shop on the high street. I raced across the road, narrowly missing being run over, only to pull up short on the other side. What was I thinking? Did I really want to be rejected all over again, only this time in person?
But what if she’d just lost my number?
I was still dithering when Mina came out. She’d cut her hair. All those crazy ringlets were gone, replaced by a close crop too short to curl. It sharpened her features and made her eyes even bigger, and I experienced the same surge of desire I’d felt when we first met.
“Oh,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t call. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Well…”
Mina took a breath. “If I were to call now…I mean, not right now, obviously, but if I were to call you some time and suggest we went out…would it be too late?”
There was nothing nonchalant about the goofy smile that split my face in two. “Great. Shall I give you my—”
“I have it.”
“You still have my number?”
“I still have your number.”
That Friday, after drinks and a curry, Mina came back to mine, and she didn’t leave till Monday morning.
Not a conventional love story, perhaps, but ours.
“If Mina wanted to be a pilot,” Becca says now, “how come she’s an air hostess?”