Page 6 of Betting on You

I blinked and didn’t want to respond.

He grinned. “I’m right—I see it on your face. Vegetarian?”

I sighed and wished for a time machine so I could go back andnotengage with Mr. Nothing in the security line. “I requested a vegetarian meal, yes.”

He looked genuinely happy for the first time since we’d met, and said, “Of courseyou’re a vegetarian.”

“I’m not a vegetarian,” I said, absolutelythrilledby his wrongness.

He lowered his dark brows. “Then why did you order the vegetarian meal?”

I tucked my hair behind my ears, raised my chin, and said, “Because I find airline meat to be questionable.”

That earned me another arrogant half smile. He said, “See? Labor-intensive.”

“Shh.”

I lifted my book and tried reading, but I took in only two sentences before Mr. Nothing said, “Want to know how it ends?”

“What?”

“Your book.”

I glanced at him over my glasses. “You’ve readthis?”

He shrugged. “Basically.”

I wanted to call bullshit, but instead I just said, “How is that an answer?”

He swirled the soda around in his glass. “I read the summary and then I read the last three chapters.”

Of course you did.Annoyance slid through me as I said, “Why would you do that?”

He lifted the cup to his mouth. “I wanted to know if the alcoholic guy dies at the end, and once I knew the answer, I didn’t want to read any more.”

“Oh my God.” I seriously didn’t know where Mr. Nothing got all that nerve, but it was irritating as hell. He was like the polar opposite of the “manic pixie dream girl” in a movie. Instead of being used by writers to bring a character out of their comfort zone, Mr. Nothing was being used by the universe to piss me off and make me grumpier than I already was. “Why would you ruin it for me? Who does that?”

“What? I didn’t tell you anything.”

“Yes, you did.” I took another sip of my soda, annoyed by his spoiler, and said, “If he didn’t die, you would’ve kept reading.”

“How do you know? Maybe I like death and didn’t want to read a book with a happy ending.”

“That actually wouldn’t surprise me,” I said, absolutely meaning it. If anyone were to find enjoyment in a death book with an unhappy ending, it’d be Mr. Nothing. He seemed to get off on going against the grain.

“So read on,” he said, giving a chin nod to my book.

I bristled. “I will.”

I pretended to read for a few minutes while my brain had a tiny freak-out over Mr. Nothing. He was like the cherry on top of my dumpster-life sundae, and it was absurdly on-brand that I would be subjected to him on the very flight that was taking me to my unwanted new life.

I was thrilled when he got up to go to the restroom. I put on headphones so that when he came back, I couldn’t hear his ridiculous observations anymore.

It was brilliant.

He seemed to be immersed in his phone once he got back, and I managed a few hours of silent reading before the attendants brought out dinner and the words “Your vegetable lasagna is here” punched me in the earholes.

I yanked my headphones off and away from him, looked up, and grabbed the tray from the attendant. “Thank you.”

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