Conversation ground to a halt. They’d only been in the air three hours and he’d already run through his best material. Patrick found it difficult to refrain from sharing with them other facts about when he was their age—like that cars and planes didn’t have televisions or Wi-Fi, or seat belts, probably—but he knew instinctually that saying things like that made him square. I’m moderately famous, for god’s sake. I can’t possibly be this dull.
“Can I have a fudgesicle?” Grant looked up at him longingly.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t pronounce the word sky, but fudgesicle you nail?” He tickled his nephew so that his observation aped a joke. “When we get to Palm Springs I’ll buy you a whole box of fudgesicles.”
“Can I sit on the aisle?” Maisie asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s been like thirteen years since I even flew in steerage and the aisle seat is the only thing keeping me sane.”
Greg had purchased tickets for them in coach so they could sit three to a row. Patrick wanted to upgrade, but his brother begged him not to. It was important, Greg felt, for them to sit together.
“But what if I’m recognized?” Patrick tried to emphasize the full horror of that happening. “Can’t you fly with them while I sit in first class?”
A stern look from Greg as he packed his own suitcase ended the conversation. His flight was the following day so he could focus on seeing his children off. Everything was set. There was no backing out now.
Bing-bong. The chime alerted them to fasten their seat belts.
“What’s Alaska again?” Maisie asked. Finally, some traction.
“What’s a map?” Grant asked more succinctly, with just enough disinterest to close the subject for good.
“Look, all right? Your flying with me is good. It sets a precedent. Instills a love for travel. I blocked three people from my high school class on Facebook for being grandparents before we were forty. Three people! Why would they do that to me? And that’s your future if you never leave your hometown. So, California here we come.”
“What’s Fathebook?”
“Exactly. Facebook is done. Over. The social media platform for Nana and Papa.” Grant was more hip than he knew.
“You could be our grandparent?” Maisie was stunned.
“Not your grandparent, a grandparent, and NO! No. No, I could not. That’s the wrong takeaway from what I just said.” Patrick cringed. He’d already lied once on the plane and should probably leave it at that. “Well, I suppose biologically. But that’s not the point.”
“You’re too young!” Finally, Grant’s outside voice was warranted; he sounded as offended by the idea as his uncle.
“Thank you. See? Grant gets it.” He gave the kid a high-five.
They hit a pocket of turbulence, sending the kids rising an inch from their seats. Patrick reached over and tightened each of their lap belts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belts sign. Please remain in your seat.”
“You okay?” He placed his hand on Maisie’s arm to calm her. She felt clammy, so he plowed forward to distract them. “You know the secret to staying young? Money. Guncle Rule number four. Not so you can carve up your face, mind you; don’t do that. But if you have money, you’re not stressed. Stress is what ages you. And winter and not getting out of your hometown. You guys really should be writing these down.”
Patrick glanced over again to see if they were laughing. When he looked back, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the screen mounted on the back of the seat in front of him. The crow’s feet around his eyes. Those lines on either side of his mouth. He thought it might be time to touch up his Botox, consider some of the Restylane or Juvéderm his Eastern European cosmetologist, a woman whose face didn’t allow her to laugh and who went by a name like Bianca, suggested might fill in his scar. Or maybe it would be easier to do more than just stop answering his agent’s calls. Maybe he should retire from television officially. Then his face could look however he pleased.
“What state are we over now?” Maisie asked when the plane found a smoother path.
Patrick loosened his seat belt to peer out the window again; all the Western states had the same topography, ropy mountain ranges that snaked like macramé, and bland 1970s color. “I’m not really sure. I think we passed most of the square ones. New Mexico?” He settled back in his seat and tightened his belt before he could get in trouble. “Have you ever been to New Mexico? The whole state is one giant flea market for turquoise jewelry. I went years ago on some sort of men’s retreat and was chased to the Arizona state line by a diner hostess named Luna with a thick mop of red hair and an angry toe for daring to ask what a Kokopelli was and why they all seemed to have scoliosis. I mean, do you guys know?”