Page 38 of Presley's Christmas Catch
I shake the daydream off and force a smile. This is going to be a long day.
Flying private is amazing.Security is a breeze, and the plane is simple, yet gorgeous. The leather of the seats is buttery. There arefour single chairs, two on each side of the plane, and they swivel so they can face each other. There’s also a love seat and a small bar taking up the back part of the seating section. Brock sits in one of the single chairs, and I sit in the one that’s already swiveled to face him. I busy myself with pulling out my blanket and rummaging in my backpack for my headphones as the plane prepares for takeoff, and we’re both quiet. I’m hoping it has to do with the early morning hour rather than still being uncomfortable around each other.
Once I’m situated, I stare out the window and try to think of a conversation topic that will put us back on even footing. Obviously anything about TOK. Without any awkwardness, we can speculate all day long about what we think will be in book sixteen. We can argue about how Brock thinks the black ring that grants Lyra her power istheObsidian Ring that makes her identity as the Obsidian Queen obvious.
Listen, I can see how he might get there. But isn’t that a little too obvious? Right? Thornridge is a better writer than that.
The ring.
I can ask him what he thinks I should do about the Christmas ring.
That’s perfect. I can pick up on the conversation I planned to have with Brock before the Christmas Cookie Debacle.
I turn from the window to look at him. “Brock, what level would you say our friendship is?”
There’s panic in his eyes for a moment, but he smooths it out. I hear how that could have sounded, considering what happened last week, but I don’t address it.
“How are we measuring?” he asks in an indifferent tone.
“From you’d like my post on Instagram to you’d bury a body with me.” Before I tell him everything, it’s definitely important to know if he’ll support me in slightly criminal activity.
“Who else in your life would actually be as well-equipped as me to carry a body for you?” His lips twitch, and I struggle to keep a straight face.
See. When we can ignore the silly thing I did, our friendship is great. But also, the way he went right to that joke? Heart flutters.
Why, Brock Hunter? Why can’t you fall in love with me?
“Good point,” I say, instead of indulging the urge to beg him to love me. “So we’re saying we’re at bury a body level?”
“Absolutely.”
I look down at my lap and tap my fingers against my bag. “And you wouldn’t be bothered if I admitted tomildcriminal activity.” I look up in time to catch his eyebrows jumping.
His expression stays chill, but the amusement leaves. “I know you well enough to trust that any mild criminal activity you’d participate in is probably justified.”
I let out a sigh. “It is. And it’s Aunt Shannon’s fault.”
He leans forward, but a flight attendant interrupts to ask us to buckle our seatbelts so we can take off. Brock sits back again, and we do as we’re asked. We wait until the attendant has left before we speak again.
“How did your aunt rope you into criminal activity?”
“She stole a ring. Or she held on to a ring for someone who stole it.” The words come in a rush of need to have someone else in on this when I haven’t been able to say anything. To haveBrockin on this, the person I’ve come to trust as much as I did Aunt Shannon herself. “I don’t know because she left it in my box to take care of.”
He tilts his head, his expression clearly saying, “Go on.”
So I do. I tell him about how the Christmas ring was stolen from the Westcott’s party a year ago and how I found it.
“It would have been impossible for her to have stolen it herself,” I explain. “It was upstairs in a safe, and even if she knew how to break into a safe, she couldn’t have made it up the stairs without help. I don’t know how she got it or why she has it or why she left it with me, and I don’t know what to do.”
“And you want to know why,” he says in a low voice.
“I don’t want to turn it in and have Aunt Shannon blamed forstealing it when I don’t have any answers for how she might have gotten it.” I twist the fabric of my bag, wishing Brock has some magic answer for me.
He reaches across the space between us, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “We’ll figure it out.”
I relax, and I believe him. He doesn’t have an answer, but he’s there for me. And that’s enough, I think, for me. It doesn’t have to be more.
The lies I tell myself.
