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—you probably 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 am not precious!”

“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 like Oh, this plane could crash doesn’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.”

“No way.” 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.”

“Which them are 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.”

“You could sleep.”

“I’d rather talk.” He gave me a closed-mouth smile that confirmed he was trying to 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. Would I 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 really was a 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 when he 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 and not defensive as he went into full-on know-it-all mode.Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

“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?”

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 and not engage 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 course you’re a vegetarian.”

“I’m not a vegetarian,” I said, absolutely thrilled by 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 read this?”

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.”

I waited for a snarky comment from the seat to my left, and when it didn’t come, I took a bite of the lasagna and looked at him. He was texting, his attention hyperfocused on his phone, and I could see from the contact picture that it was his girlfriend.

I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to date him. Even though he was relatively attractive, he dripped with cynical sarcasm. Which made me curious about her. What was the girl like who loved Mr. Nothing? She was pretty—what I’d seen of her—but her taste was obviously questionable.

Before I could stop myself, I asked him, “Does she live in Alaska?”

He looked up from his phone, and a wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “Who?”

I pointed my fork at the screen. “Your girlfriend.”

He gave me side-eye and set his phone next to the food on his tray. “If you must know, Miss Nosy, she does. She’s a Fairbanks girl.”

“Oh.” I felt bad for him—a little—because leaving someone you love behind felt like utter shit.

“But she’s not my girlfriend.” He cut into his chicken, took a bite, and moaned—while staring directly into my eyes like a sociopath—“Oh my God, this questionable meat is so delicious!”

I just sighed.

He grinned, pleased with himself, and said, “I live in Nebraska and spent the summer in Alaska with my cousins. I hung out with her a lot, but I’m not really into the long-distance thing.”

I swallowed and pictured him kissing the face off Fairbanks Girl. “Does she know that?”

He shrugged and said, “She will.”

What a jerk. The poor girl had probably cried all the way home, devastated to see him go, while he shrugged and said, She will. I took another bite and couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Are you at least going to tell her?”

That made one of his dark eyebrows go up. “What are you—worried about her or something?”

It was my turn to shrug, even though I kind of wanted to rage in Fairbank Girl’s stead. “I just think leaving her hanging is a garbage thing to do.”

“Really.” He picked up his soda and took a long drink before asking, “What would you do?”

I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Well, um, I’d be forthright, for starters. I’d tell her—”

“Did you just say ‘forthright’?” He grinned like I was hilarious as he set his plastic cup on the tray. “Who says that? I mean, my grandma probably does, but no one under the age of—”

“Forget it,” I interrupted, amazed that the annoyance I felt for this boy kept cranking up to newer and more intense levels.

“Oh, come on. Please continue.” He reined in his smile, but his eyes were still twinkling. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, I swear. Please—tell me what you’d do. I really want to know.”

“Nope.”

“Pleeeease?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Fine. I would tell her what you said about not wanting to do the long-distance thing, but I’d say it nicely enough where we could still be friends. After all, you’ll probably go back to your cousins’ house again someday, right?”

“Sure,” he said, leaning back so he could reach into the pocket of his jeans and pull out a… TUM?

Is that a TUM? What was he, a sixty-year-old grandfather of five? And he was making fun of me for seeming “old.”

He popped it into his mouth while I asked him, “So wouldn’t it be nice if you could be her friend when you fly into Fairbanks, instead of the jerk who broke her heart?”

His mouth went up a little—only on one side—and his eyes narrowed. He stared at me for a long moment, chewing the antacid tablet, and then he said, “Guys and girls can’t be friends.”

And he said it as if it was a definitive, indisputable fact.

Which it wasn’t. I had guy friends (sort of), and I knew plenty of other girls who did too. I wondered if he was just one of those guys who liked having controversial opinions.

“Yes, they can,” I said, narrowing my eyes and waiting for him to argue.

“Nope,” he said. Like it was scientific data instead of his own antiquated opinion.

“Yep, actually,” I said, setting my napkin on top of the piece of flavorless lasagna, unwilling to let his ludicrous statement stand. “I have guy friends.”

He gave his head a shake. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, defensively and through gritted teeth, because who was he to act like he knew what kind of friends I had? I cleared my throat and added, “A lot of them, actually.”

“You do not.” He took another bite of his chicken, and took the time to chew and swallow before calmly adding, “You have guys that you know. They’re probably nice to you. But they will never be legitimate friends to you—period. That’s impossible.”

I thought about this for a half second before saying, “Okay—I don’t for a millisecond agree or even consider the non-merits of what you’re saying, but why on earth do you believe this utter nonsense?”

“I heard it first in a movie. Ever seen When Harry Met Sally?”

“No,” I said, but I had a vivid memory of my parents watching it on DVD. My dad loved it, but I remembered my mom saying it was boring and a little too “talkie,” whatever that meant.

“It’s this movie that my mom loved,” he said, looking like he, too, was in the middle of a memory. “So I was forced as a kid to watch it with her like a hundred times. The dude in the movie—Harry—says men and women can’t be friends, and it’s always stuck with me because he’s totally right.”

“No, he’s—”

“Take you, for example,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re a relatively attractive human female, so biologically, the human males want to score with you. If they’re single and hanging out with you, they actually want to be getting down with you.”

“Oh my God!” I said, half-surprised he’d called me “relatively attractive” when he seemed irritated by my existence, and half-outraged by the absurdity of his words. “You are so wrong. Not all guys are Neanderthals.”

“No, I’m a guy—trust me on this.” He lowered his voice and said, “I mean, I’ve already pictured every relatively attractive human female on this flight naked two or three times, and we aren’t even close to landing.”

“Oh.My.God.” My mouth dropped open and I couldn’t bring myself to close it. Was he seriously that big a pervert? Also—did guys really do that?

“And before you say, But my friend Jeff is in a happy relationship and we hang all the time,” he said, plucking the straw wrapper from his tray and folding it into tiny triangles, “know that little Jeffy will slowly unfriend you because his girlfriend will be pissed if he doesn’t. She’ll wonder why he needs you when he’s got her. And truthfully, part of him probably does want you too, so he’ll either make a move on you and totally screw the pooch, or he’ll save you for his spank bank and remain true to his girl. Either way it will always be there, making friendship a complete impossibility.”

My mouth was still hanging wide open, the same as if he’d just confessed to murdering his parents. I stared at his self-satisfied grin and couldn’t believe he’d ever had a girlfriend.

“And the bottom line is that none of it really matters anyway.” His voice was sure as he dropped the paper and said, “Relationships are doomed to fail. The odds are greater that you’ll be diagnosed with a deadly illness than live happily ever after with the love of your life.”

“You might be the biggest cynic I’ve ever met,” I said, hating that a tiny part of me worried he was right about relationships being doomed to fail.

“I’m a realist.” He looked very matter-of-fact as he pointed to my tray and said, “Are you going to eat your garlic bread?”

“Take it,” I muttered, praying a good tailwind would push us toward Nebraska a little faster.

I couldn’t wait for the flight to be over so I would never have to see Mr. Nothing again.