Page 4 of Betting on You

“How much do you think she gets paid?”

“Shh.” I tried tuning out Mr. Nothing so I could hear the flight attendant’s emergency instructions.

“Oh, come on—you’re not actually listening to this, are you?”

I refused to look at him. “Please be quiet.”

“Everybody knows that if the shit goes down, we’re dead.” His voice was deep and rumbly as he murmured, “They go through these motions to give passengers a false sense of hope, but the reality is that if the plane crashes, our bodies are going to be splattered for miles.”

“Good Lord.” I did look at him then, because there was something seriously wrong with Mr. Nothing. “What is your problem?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a problem—I’m just a realist. I see things for what they really are. You, on the other hand—youprobably believe this shit. You probably think that if the plane hits the ocean at Mach five, that inflatable seat is going to save your ass, right?”

I pushed my glasses up my nose and wished he’d stop talking about crashing. I wasn’t scared, but it also didn’t make a bit of sense to me how an object as heavy as a plane could stay in the sky. “It could.”

He gave his head a slow shake, as if I were the world’s biggest fool. “Oh my God, you are precious. You’re like a sweet baby child who believes everything her mommy tells her.”

“I amnotprecious!”

“Are too.”

Why couldn’t I have been seated beside a mature businessman or Visor Man in front of me, who was already asleep? Hell, the screaming baby squalling somewhere in the back would’ve been a better choice.

“No, I’m not,” I said, irritated by how whiny I sounded but unable to stop myself. But this guy was really pissing me off. “And just because you say shocking things likeOh, this plane could crashdoesn’t make you edgy or any more of a realist than I am.”

“Oh yeah?” He turned a little in his seat, so he was facing me, and he pointed to my carry-on. “I bet you put all of your liquids in a baggie before you hit security, right?”

“Um, that’s actually the law,” I said, unwilling to let the guy think he was hot shit, “so that doesn’t mean a thing.”

“It’s not the law; it’s just a stupid rule that isn’t going to do dick to save us from a terrorist attack.”

“So you don’t follow the rule?”

“Nope.”

Bullshit,I thought. No way did this guy—a minor, like me—disregard the laws of the skies. He was full of crap for sure. I humored him, though, and asked, “Then how do you transport your liquids?”

“However I want.” He gave a half shrug and looked utterly relaxed as he lied, and I was jealous of his confidence. Even if the guy was a compulsive liar, I wished I were that comfortable in my skin. He said, “Sometimes I put a few in my carry-on if I have one, sometimes I pack the full-sized bottles in my checked bag, and today I even stuck a shampoo in my pocket just for fun.”

“You did not,” I said, unable to let that one go.

He pulled a trial-sized Suave from the pocket of his shorts. “Did too.”

“Noway.” To my horror, a laugh gurgled out of me. I raised my hand to my mouth, quick to cover any evidence that Mr. Nothing was the teensiest bit amusing. “Why do you do these things?”

Damn my curiosity.

“Because it feels good to know I’m besting them.”

“Whichthemare you besting, exactly?” I asked, absolutely torn between amusement and annoyance. “The security people? The terrorists? The Man?”

“Yes.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled my book out of my purse, desperately hoping he’d take the hint and do anything other than talk to me. It worked until takeoff, but once we were in the air, he turned toward me in his seat and said, “So.”

I flipped my book over onto my lap. “We don’t have to talk, y’know.”

“But I can’t turn on my phone yet, so I’m bored.”

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