Page 18 of Catfish

"I know when everything is," I interject. "But, I'm technically still on vacation until I land at the airport."

Her eyes roll as she crosses her legs to get more comfortable.

Great, now this is going to be a long conversation.

I know this girl like that back of my hand. When she positions herself comfortably in her seat–legs crossed and hands perfectly set in her lap—we’re about to be here for awhile.

Emmy Lou is around my age, I know, because I know everything about her right down to her shoe and bra size. Anyone that works close to me goes through an extensive background check, along with their families and close friends. I don't have time for a Judas in my midst because the shit I pull and run, can't leak to the press.

And Reagan was right, I am fucking paranoid.

“You are in the States,” Emmy Lou dismisses as she pulls out another notepad and pink pen—that has a panda on top of it.

“What’s with the pen?” I blurt. “Are we still in grade school?”

She glances up at me, face expressionless. “What about it?”

Yep, thought so.

Don’t know why I bothered to ask. Arguing with Emmy Lou is like fighting with my sister. An effortless, it's-not-going-to-go-anywhere sort of contention. So usually, I only save it for the good shit.

But I'm irritated that she's here and made an actual effort to do so. Especially when she was excited that I decided to go on this trip in the first place.

“What else do we have on the agenda?” I press, ignoring her question to mine. She pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me.

“Career Day at Marshall Elementary.”

I scoff. “I don’t have kids.”

“It’s exposure, kids like ‘famous’ people.” She actually has the balls to use air quotes with her hands like I’m some wannabe politician on the streets that’s still in law school and I don’t know this shit. “And it makes it look like you’re ready for kids of your own soon.”

I hit her with a glare—can’t help it—and lock my jaw.

That shit won’t be happening in the next century and not because I don’t want it to. It wasn’t fate that gave me that card but someone else that I’d like to burn from my brain cells.

Em must sense my irritation because she flags down the flight attendant and orders me a whiskey.

“It won’t always be like this,” Em mutters softly, looking down at all the paperwork and crap that she has in her binder. “Once you get the presidency, we’ll make everything better.”

I shake my head, looking out the window just to see blue skies and the clouds that lie underneath. "Won't be enough.”

It'll just add to my Wikipedia page, and I don't want that shit or human being landing underneath my name.

“Wade,” Em prods. “I’ll handle it.” I glance over at her, to be met by the stern and confident facade that she always wears when she wants me to believe her.

I want to.

I want to have all the faith in the world that there would be something we both could do to rid me of my looming past.

But, it’s not the right time.

Hasn’t been for years.

However, I’ve never seen Emmy sweat under pressure, which is good. She’s yet to freak out over things that come across her desk last minute. She wears a mask of calm extremely well. Or has the superpower of being calm as a fucking cucumber at all times.

Sometimes I think I need to get her drug tested just to make sure.

“Already another case waiting back home for me,” Chase sighs, taking his seat back next to me. “Money laundering—again.”

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