Page 33 of The Cartographer

“It’s a nice way to travel. Now come sit so Leanne can bring our breakfast. I’m starving.”

He does as he’s bid, folding his big body into the seat. Luckily it’s wide and plush, actually able to accommodate his breadth. How does the man even fit into a coach seat? If he’ll let me have my way, he won’t fly coach for the foreseeable future.

Leanne brings coffee and orange juice, a bowl of fruit, and a basket of pastries. Allie devours two muffins and heaps melon balls, grapes, and strawberry slices onto his plate. The man eat likes a horse, and for some reason it delights me.

We finish up our breakfast as the pilot informs us we’re ready to go and Leanne clears everything away. I settle back in my seat and close my eyes. It’s not that I mind flying, but you’ve got to be crazy to enjoy the sensations of takeoff and landing. When the plane’s leveled off and I don’t feel so much as though I’ve been launched out of a slingshot, I turn to Allie.

“We’ve got about an hour and a half, Hart. Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where you’re from, for starters.”

“I grew up in Philadelphia.”

“I spent quite a bit of time in Philadelphia when I was in college.” And as a kid, but I don’t tend to talk about that much. “What neighborhood?”

Allie grins at me, flashing those brilliant white teeth, and shakes his head. “No neighborhood you ever spent time in.”

Maybe true, but probably not as true as he thinks. “Tell me where anyway.”

“Nicetown.”

He shifts in his seat, and I can imagine how this must make him feel, talking about his modest beginnings amongst this over-the-top demonstration of wealth. I’m almost sorry I brought it up, but I want to know. Besides, he should get to taste the finer things in life.Heshould especially. The silver spoon will actually taste like something to him, not just what he’s had to suck on for his whole life.

“When did you leave?”

“When I joined up.”

“Is that where you got your tattoos?”

He nods, looking down at his arms as if he can see the ink through the taut fabric of the sleeves. “The ones I didn’t get while I was in a gang.”

The thought of his skin getting punctured by some hack artist in some seedy room makes me distinctly uncomfortable.

“If you feel the need to get more, please let me give you some names of places that will do it properly. Beautiful work too. No more butchers. It’s dangerous.”

He makes a face, and I can see the cocky adolescent he must have been. “Don’t be a dick. You think I didn’t worry about that? Hep C? HIV? Fuck you.”

As soon as he says it, I understand, and I wish I would’ve thought of it before the words came out of my mouth. Yes, sometimes I enjoy being a condescending prick, but only when I do it on purpose. This was completely unintentional assholery, and I won’t make excuses. I hold up my hands to placate him. “I apologize. You had a choice to make, right? Getting that ink was a safer choice than not. In the same position, I would’ve done the same thing. I’m sorry.”

He clenches his jaw and breathes out his nose, but I think he’s forgiven me for my reeking-of-privilege misstep.

“What about you? Did you grow up like this?” He gestures to the interior of the plane with his thumb, and the expression on his face tells me he doesn’t think much of it.

“I did.” Private planes, luxe hotels, expensive cars, well-appointed yachts…yes, I grew up with all of that. “My mother’s family is quite wealthy.”

“Not your father’s?”

“No. My father was a police officer.”

“Seriously?”

I nod, the memory of my father picking me up after school one day for one of our rare afternoons together coming to mind. He always looked so big and imposing in his navy blue uniform, his gun and his nightstick swinging from his hip. Then he’d slide his sunglasses up and smile at me, and he wasn’t a cop anymore. He was just my dad.

“One of New York’s finest. That’s how he met my mother. She got mugged, and he took the report.”

“Let me guess: they fell in love, got married, had lots of babies, and lived happily ever after.”

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