Betting on You(3)

I pulled it out and looked at the display.

Mom: Did you make it on time?

I leaned back a little in the cramped seat, way too fucking tall for flying.

I hated flying.

I replied: Yes.

I buckled my seat belt, but before I could even let out a sigh, my phone buzzed again. Mom: Did your dad go in with you, or just drop you at the door?

I reached into my pocket, needing a TUM already. After I popped two into my mouth, I ignored her question (because no good could come of the answer—dropped me at the door because parking was too expensive) and texted: Nana Marie said to tell you hi.

I knew that would stop the texts.

My mother and my grandmother had always been close, but as soon as my parents decided to divorce, that was history. Now my mom referred to her as “the old battle-axe,” and Nana Marie called my mother “that woman.”

Mature adults, right?

I rested my head on the back of the seat and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that summer was over. It seemed like days ago that I’d been pumped to fly to Alaska and spend the summer with my dad’s family, but now here I was, leaving them (and Grace) behind, flying back to life with my mom and her new boyfriend.

I was too damn old to feel this fucking homesick, especially when the plane hadn’t even taken off yet.

I felt a dull ache between my ribs as I pictured Grace, and I swear to God I could still smell the fruity mousse she used in her hair. My brain took off on an unwelcome montage that captured a summer full of Grace’s laughter, and I gritted my teeth.

Fuck me.

I put the phone back in my pocket, even though all I wanted to do was get lost in one of our mindless exchanges.

But there was no point in texting Grace. Like, ever again. Because relationships failed on a daily basis when people lived in the same fucking house. Relationships were doomed to fail period.

So the mere notion of a long-distance one? Total joke.

The only good that could come from staying in contact with Grace was that I might finally be depressed enough to take up songwriting or flirt with drinking.

Walking away—no, flying away—was absolutely the way to go.

One of the flight attendants started on the safety checklist, and I glanced over at Hall Monitor. She was attractive, but the braces and poofy hair weren’t doing her any favors. Her arms were still crossed, and she was listening so intently that I half expected her to pull out a binder and start taking notes.

Yeah, it was time to mess with her.

Messing with her in the boarding line had actually taken my mind off Grace for a few minutes, so perhaps it was karma that had assigned her uptight ass to the seat beside me. I’d been good all summer, so maybe karma knew I needed a distraction.

Maybe karma was a girl in glasses.





CHAPTER THREE Bailey




“How much do you think she gets paid?”

“Shh.” I tried tuning out Mr. Nothing so I could hear the flight attendant’s emergency instructions.

“Oh, come on—you’re not actually listening to this, are you?”

I refused to look at him. “Please be quiet.”

“Everybody knows that if the shit goes down, we’re dead.” His voice was deep and rumbly as he murmured, “They go through these motions to give passengers a false sense of hope, but the reality is that if the plane crashes, our bodies are going to be splattered for miles.”

“Good Lord.” I did look at him then, because there was something seriously wrong with Mr. Nothing. “What is your problem?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a problem—I’m just a realist. I see things for what they really are. You, on the other hand—you probably believe this shit. You probably think that if the plane hits the ocean at Mach five, that inflatable seat is going to save your ass, right?”

I pushed my glasses up my nose and wished he’d stop talking about crashing. I wasn’t scared, but it also didn’t make a bit of sense to me how an object as heavy as a plane could stay in the sky. “It could.”

He gave his head a slow shake, as if I were the world’s biggest fool. “Oh my God, you are precious. You’re like a sweet baby child who believes everything her mommy tells her.”

“I am not precious!”

“Are too.”

Why couldn’t I have been seated beside a mature businessman or Visor Man in front of me, who was already asleep? Hell, the screaming baby squalling somewhere in the back would’ve been a better choice.

“No, I’m not,” I said, irritated by how whiny I sounded but unable to stop myself. But this guy was really pissing me off. “And just because you say shocking things like Oh, this plane could crash doesn’t make you edgy or any more of a realist than I am.”

“Oh yeah?” He turned a little in his seat, so he was facing me, and he pointed to my carry-on. “I bet you put all of your liquids in a baggie before you hit security, right?”

“Um, that’s actually the law,” I said, unwilling to let the guy think he was hot shit, “so that doesn’t mean a thing.”

“It’s not the law; it’s just a stupid rule that isn’t going to do dick to save us from a terrorist attack.”

“So you don’t follow the rule?”

“Nope.”