Page 10 of Love is a Game

It’s supposed to flip my shitty thoughts into shiny, happy ones in an easy three-step process.

First, I write down all my garbage feelings. Then, cross them out: “Exorcise those demons!” Nina, my therapist, says.

Then I get to replace them with opposite feelings—basically brainwash myself with newer, sexier, improved thoughts. It sounds so simple and transformative.

It means that I’m not a complete failure at relationships. No—I’m just…learning to be better at opening up to people.

And I’m not useless at keeping my business on track. No—I’m just…not so great at delegating because I’m kind of a nit-picking perfectionist. But surely striving for perfection is a good thing, isn’t it? Shit. I’m so confused.

What about thebone-deep dreadI feel about inching closer to Blue Mountain Lake, my mom’s house, my past? Nope. I’ve swapped that out forhopefulness.

Yeah, I’m hopeful, all right. Hopeful there’s tequila on this flight.

But first, I have to do battle with my luggage. I’ve never been one to pack light—no capsule wardrobes for me. I like to have options.

And besides—what do you take on a trip to your tragic past? Hazmat suit, crash helmet, and Valium? That’s the bare minimum to fend off the memories I’d rather keep buried.

Back to an empty house, where my mother won’t be waiting to critique my choices or lament how she never got to live the life she wanted after having me too young. And all my accomplishments since leaving Blue Mountain Lake? They’ll evaporate the second I cross that threshold, leaving me right back as the insecure girl who never fit in.

I’m snapped out of my usual downward spiral as the final boarding call blares—right as I hit the bathroom. Perfect.

Resigned, I awkwardly sidestep my bags into the tiny cubicle, wrestling with the inward-swinging door and feeling every second slip away. By the time I make it to the gate, I’m frazzled and anxious, not surprised to find I’m practically the last person to board.

I hustle. Lugging bags, with my biodegradable Danish sunglasses almost slipping off the top of my head as I squeeze down the aisle, scanning for my row.

Of course, the plane is packed.

Then…my heart skips.No way.

I tilt my head in surprise—and quickly rescue my sunglasses from toppling again.

“What are the odds?”

“Of being seated next to the best-looking guy onboard?” Tuck grins, leaning back like he owns the entire regional airline. “Pretty high, apparently.”

Before I can respond, he’s up, grabbing my bulky carry-on and sliding it into the overhead compartment with practiced ease.

“Window seat’s yours,” he offers, all charm.

“Nope,” I say, thumbing him back to his seat. “I don’t need to stare at the void and be reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

“That there’s no escape from this trip. I’ll take the view on the way back.”

He chuckles, brushing past me to fold his tall frame into the cramped seat.

It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Tuck’s mom must have shared the screenshot of my flight info—seat number and all. But still, I can’t believe he’s here, sitting beside me on this hellish journey.

My chest is swirling with conflicting emotions so that I can barely extract how I feel about it. But one thing I do know—he’s acting way too upbeat for my liking. This is going to be a long flight.

Before I even manage to click my seatbelt, Tuck pulls out a plethora of colorful confectionery.

“What do you feel like?” He shuffles through the packets. “I got raspberry licorice, Peanut Butter cups, salt toffee…those chocolate-coated almonds you like.”

“What are you doing?” I meet the eagerness of his blue eyes—vibrant flecks of green evident in the angled light, like serene tropical waters under glistening sunshine.

“Offering you premium snacks to break up the flight?” he waves the licorice toward me like this whole situation is the most natural thing.

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