Page 29 of The Best Worst Mistake
I’m a little jealous since I drained the nasty cup on the drive over, just to prove a point. But a mimosa sounds better right now anyway.
“How did things go in Tampa last week with your mom?” Silas asks.
Andy straddles the aisle, resting both forearms across one of the seat’s backs in front of us.
“Mama pulled through just fine. Thank you again for insisting that I take ol’ Gloria down there to be with her. Appendicitis waits for no one, just like her doctor told me. I wouldn’t have been down there in time to be with her when she woke up from surgery if you hadn’t insisted on it. Thank you again.”
“It was nothing,” Silas tells him, while pulling the seatbelt across his lap. “Glad she’s recovering alright.”
“Gloria?” I ask, confused. “Who’s ol’ Gloria?”
“That’s just what the crew has nicknamed this jet,” Silas says, smiling over at me before buckling his seatbelt.
Andy smiles at me warmly before adding, “After Gloria Estefan. This ol’ bird was just begging to be addressed properly.” He grazes my shoulder with a squeeze before making his way down the aisle toward the service kitchenette at the front of the plane. “And if you think ol’ Gloria is pretty, you should see the Queen B!” he calls over his shoulder. “She’sgorgeous!”
“Queen B?” I ask Silas, grinning as Andy disappears into a kitchenette. “Do you name all your jets after music icons?”
“If it helps the crew get us from point A to point B safe and sound, then I don’t care what they call them,” he says, smirking. “This flight is only around seven hours so we’re taking this one. We’ll take Queen B on anything over that.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling surprised. I didn’t picture Silas having jets named after female pop stars, but I’m not totally surprised. The Si I knew back in college was always up for a good time, which I suppose hasn’t changed. “Seven hours to Switzerland?” I frown.
“Long enough to take a shower and a long nap, if you’d like.”
“Why, you think I need a shower?” I ask, preparing to be insulted, before realizing that he’s actually offering me a showeron an airplane. “Wait, there’s a shower on this thing?” I dart my eyes around the jet, trying to picture it. Of course he would have a shower on a plane. “And you use it? Isn’t that dangerous? Like some mile-high shower club? That has to be slick.”
He laughs.
“Yes, I do use it, and you’re welcome to as well. There’s a full bathroom in the back. No tub, sorry. But I had it stocked with the same toiletries you’re used to, or at least . . .” He trails off, looking like he wants to kick himself for speaking out of turn. Then he clears his throat while I wait for him to finish explaining how he knows what type of shampoo I use. “Or at least the same brands you used a year ago, back when . . .” He gives me a sad sort of half-smile, balling his fists on his thighs before flattening his palms against them again.
“How would you know what type of toiletries I used a year ago?” I ask, feeling a bit unnerved. Sure, we were practically roommates when Grant and I were dating so he would have maybe seen what my toiletries were at one point, but not recently.
“Grant left quite a few notes on things like that for me while planning,” he says, quietly. “To make sure you’d be comfortable.”
I close my eyes when it sinks in.Grant.
“Never mind. Forget I asked. I showered this morning, thanks. I know it probably doesn’t look like it anymore, but I’m good.”
Andy returns down the aisle with a coffee mug and a mimosa balanced on a little tray. From how light in color it is, I can tell he filled the glass mostly with champagne, adding the tiniest little splash of orange juice, just to fulfill the promise of a mimosa.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he hands me the champagne flute. I’ve never even flown first class, let alone had a whole private jet and staff almost entirely to myself.
“You let me know if that needs more juice,” Andy says before handing the steaming mug to Silas next. “Though I basically only spritzed the fizz with OJ. You don’t really need it when you’re drinking Dom.”
I nearly spill my glass.
“This is Dom Pérignon?” I stutter, gaping at Andy. I hold my glass up to take a closer look — as if Dom Pérignon has a different look than regular old bottom-shelf André. “Oh shoot, I wish I hadn’t added any juice to it at all. I’ve always wondered what this tastes like. Though you really shouldn’t have opened a whole bottle for me. I honestly won’t even be able to taste the difference, I bet. I’m pretty low-maintenance, unlike Princess Silas over there.”
I eyeball Si, annoyed that he’s already waving his money around, stocking his plane with champagne that costs at least five hundred dollars a bottle. He just can’t help himself.
“I’ll get you a fresh glass to go with that one, then. Sans the juice,” Andy says with a sweet smile before making his way backup the aisle. “The bottle is already open, so don’t you dare say no or I’ll be forced to finish it all myself!”
“No!” I call after him. “That’s fine! I don’t need another! You feel free to have it!”
But Andy doesn’t turn around.
“It’s fine.” Silas holds a hand over the aisle, as if to reassure me, when all it does is annoy me. “There’s always a couple of bottles of that on the plane, and the crew will stock it back up after we land. You could drink every bottle on this flight and every one after that too if you want. It really wouldn’t matter to me.”
“Andy can have it,” I insist. “This is fine.” I take a sip of the mimosa, then stare at the delicate bubbles rising to the surface.
