Page 5 of Betting on You

“You could sleep.”

“I’d rather talk.” He gave me a closed-mouth smile that confirmed he wastryingto be irritating. “So how long have your parents been divorced?”

I almost gasped, but I caught myself.How does he know they’re separating?

And why did the finality of the word “divorced” still make my stomach hurt?

I looked down at the cut-up red heart on the cover of the book. “What makes you think my parents are divorced?”

“Come on, Glasses—it’s textbook,” he said, drumming his fingers on the armrest as he spoke. “The only kids who fly alone are custody kids. Fly to see the parent you don’t live with, fly back from a visit, fly to see the grandparents of the parent you no longer live with…”

I swallowed and rubbed my eyebrow, wanting to tell him to shut up because I didn’t like the picture he was painting.WouldI become some sort of “custody kid,” racking up frequent-flier miles while getting to know flight attendants on a first-name basis? It’d never occurred to me that I’d have to do this whole sad solo flight more than once after everything was finalized.

God, I still wasn’t ready to talk about it, to use the d-word in regards to my parents.

Especially not with Mr. Nothing. I asked, “Does that mean yours are? Divorced?”

He gave me meaningful eye contact then, a look that was almost conversational as our eyes held, and it made me think he might actually be something more than a jackass. But just like that, the look slammed shut and the smart-ass was back. “Oh yeah. They officially divorced six months ago, and this is the third time I’ve flown solo since then.”

I didn’t want to be part of the custody kids club; I didn’t even want to know it existed. I wanted my life to be normal again, not some surreal version that had me alone on a ten-hour flight, sitting next to a cynical teen divorce expert, when I should be at home in my childhood bedroom.

“Still in denial, huh?” He looked at me like I reallywasa precious gullible child, and he said, “I remember that. You think if you don’t identify with your new role, maybe it won’t stick. Like if you click your heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like home,’ you might somehow trick the universe into missing the change and resetting your life back to normal, right?”

I felt a hot burn in my stomach as he said that, a radiating heat as he perfectly described my emotions. I cleared my throat and said, “You don’t know anything about me. I’m sure it sucks being a ‘custody’ kid, and I’m truly sorry. Now can I please read my book?”

He shrugged and said, “I’m not stopping you.”

I started reading, but it wasn’t really the escape I was hoping for because I kept glancing over to make sure he wasn’t going to start talking again. I knew it was coming—I wasn’t lucky enough to be left alone—and that made it impossible to relax.

Especially when he was sitting ramrod-straight in his seat,looking ready to pounce, and his thumbs were tapping on the armrests like he couldn’t sit still.

My eyes ran over the words on the page, which were good but apparently not good enough for me to forget about Mr. Nothing and the “new” life that awaited me when we landed. I was working so hard at comprehending what I was reading that I gasped in surprise when the flight attendant stopped at my aisle to see if I wanted a drink.

“And for you, hon?”

“Oh. Could I please have half Coke, half Diet Coke, mixed together in a cup? With no ice, please?”

I could feel Mr. Nothing’s head swivel toward me.

The attendant looked irritated, like it was ridiculous that a kid was asking her for something. She said, “You have to pick one or the other. You can’t have both.”

“I, um, I don’t actually want both, really.” I gave her what I hoped was a polite smile. “See, since you’re pouring the sodas for the passengers instead of just handing out cans, the remaining halves won’t get wasted. So I’d like you to just pour a little of each into mine, instead of just one. It will still be the same amount of liquid, just comprising two components.”

I glanced at Mr. Nothing, and he was smiling, his attention fully on me. His eyes were twinkling, like he was watching his favorite TV show, and I could tell he was holding back a thousand sarcastic comments.

The attendant gave me my halfsy pop, and I thanked her. I could tell I wasn’t welcome. I took a sip and was swallowing whenhe said, “Now I see it. You’re a labor-intensive kind of girl.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Labor-intensive.” He looked like he had me entirely figured out, like he’d solved the puzzle. “A girl who requires a lot of work. You want a drink, but you want two different kinds mixed together. And no ice.”

“That’s just how I like it,” I said, trying to sound breezy andnotdefensive as he went into full-on know-it-all mode.

“Sure.” He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “But labor-intensive is your way.”

“No, it’s not,” I said, a little too loudly as I lost the battle with my patience.

“Sure it is. You have to stand in the front of the boarding line an hour before takeoff because you need a window seat. You excel at hall monitoring. I bet when they pass out dinner later, yours will be just a little bit different than everyone else’s, right?”

---