Page 17 of The Plus One Contract

Because of my face.

Because I look like grief itself.

Because I am giving off such intenserecently bereavedenergy that this woman, who checks in hundreds of passengers every day, took one look at me and thought:Damn. That girl has lost someone.

I can’t take it. So, instead of politely correcting her, I do the worst possible thing.

I start talking.

“Oh, no, not a funeral,” I blurt, waving my free hand. “Just my brother’s wedding.”

The agent blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” I nod gravely. “The real tragedy is that my ex is the best man. Who, by the way, is engaged now. And my family, being the wonderfully supportive people they are, assumed I was coming alone. It would’ve been fine if they hadn’t been so patronizing about it. So, I might have panicked and told them I have a boyfriend.”

She stares at me.

Other passengers line up behind me, but I’m past the point of no return.

“Now I have to show up without said boyfriend,” I continue. “Which means I have to pretend I just had a devastating breakup.”

She keeps blinking. I take her silence as encouragement.

“I’m thinking I'll say I outgrew him. That I needed more. That I wanted to focus on myself.” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “I’m even planning on using the phrasepersonal growthunironically.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Exactly. But I still have to sit through this entire wedding pretending I’m completely fine. Which I am. Mostly. I’m just… having a day. And right now, my only coping mechanisms are caffeine and, uh, an ill-advised decision I really, really don’t want to talk about.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Oh.”

“Yep.” Nathan flashes through my mind, and a blush heats my cheeks. “It was… so good. Like ruin-my-life good. Which is exactly why it’s a complication I don’t have time for. I'm hungover, overwhelmed, and now have to endure six hours on a flight.”

The agent tilts her head, studying me like an abandoned puppy. “Wow.”

I nod again. “I know.”

She presses her lips together, tapping rapidly at her keyboard. “Okay, listen. You’re a mess.”

I blink. “Rude.”

She shrugs. “A very pretty mess, but still a mess.”

I groan, dropping my head onto the counter. “I’m aware.”

She keeps typing. “And I can’t, in good conscience, let you board like this.”

I straighten, suddenly worried. “Am I being denied boarding for looking emotionally unstable?”

She swivels her screen toward me.

My mouth falls open.

Staring back at me is a new seat assignment.

First class.

I suck in a sharp breath, my exhausted brain short-circuiting. “Wait. What? Are you serious?”

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