The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

The flight attendant smiles, her white teeth shining through a pink-lipped smile, and I don’t know what it is about the poised, calm manner of her expression, but it sets me off like a firecracker.

“You know what, make that a vodka with cranberry. And…well, and the water too.”

The old man to my right glances toward me briefly before going back to his book. The flight attendant makes my drink after going back and forth to the front for the nip of liquor, and I fidget in my seat so much that the old man leans away from me slightly.

My knee bounces, and my hand thrums out a rhythm on the newly abandoned armrest.

Okay. Okay. Everything is fine. Totally and completely fine, but like, better. Because my problems are solved, I’ve officially cleaned out the cobwebs from the inside of my vagina, and I’ll have a story to tell my future grandkids one day that will officially make me the favorite grandma. All is well.

I try to smile as the flight attendant hands me two plastic cups, one with booze and one with water, but I’m pretty sure it comes off a little psycho for her taste, because she quickly kicks the release at the bottom of the cart and moves on—all the way to the back of the plane after flagging the other attendant behind her to pick up where she left off.

“Great,” I murmur to myself before turning to the old man next to me. “I’m running people off now. I bet I’d run you off too if there were any empty seats on this plane.”

“What was that, dear?” he asks, placing his bookmark in his paperback and glancing toward me.

I shake my head as the heat of my embarrassment rushes my cheeks. Jesus, Daisy. What are you doing? Running your mouth to strangers now?

“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry for bugging you,” I apologize. “Just ignore me.”

“Oh dear. You were the victim of a mugging?” he asks, horrified understanding seeping into his eyes as he takes a look at my stiff drink with sympathy.

A mugging? What?

“No, no,” I emphasize with a shake of my head, realizing he must have misheard me. Safe to say, my cheeks have stoked a permanent flame at this point. “Not a mugging. Just…well…just a little issue with work that led to me marrying a stranger.”

“A strangler?” he asks, aghast.

“No! No strangler!” I rush to explain. “Lucky I did not come in contact with a strangler. Although, I guess, I probably could have in my mental state last night. But Flynn’s not that. He’s actually a good guy. At least…I think. I mean, he’s pretty dirty in bed, as it turns out, but that’s neither here nor there. He was nothing but nice to me from the moment I met him. He’s just…a stranger.”

Mr. Old Man looks perplexed, and I can only fucking imagine what he’s doing with that overshare of information. Christ, what’s wrong with me? Even with the awareness of that little self-reflection, for some reason, I keep going. I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t feel like I can tell anyone I actually know because of all the shame and humiliation and legalities, but venting to this guy feels like a much-needed exercise in emotional expulsion.

“It’s a little weird that we got married by a drag queen Marilyn Monroe, but I have the marriage certificate and I’m pretty sure it’s legal, so that’s all that matters, right?”

“I can’t say that I know a whole lot about Justin Trudeau. I’ve never had a chance to get to Canada.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Of all the things for him to mishear in the midst of my immigration mess, it’s about my home country of Canada. I laugh. “I’m from there.”

“Yes, I have been to Delaware. My wife June and I vacationed there once in 1970. The Bridge Swallow Resort,” he remarks, his face transforming at the fond memory. “I’ve no idea if it’s still there or not, but you should go. But not with the strangler, dear, I beg of you. Find a nice boy.”

My man, we are having two very different conversations here.

I look back out the window to swallow my laugh and, inevitably, think of Flynn. The idea of him as some sort of psycho serial killer is…well, it’s comical. I’m not even sure why, what with the completely limited amount of information I actually have about him, but he just doesn’t even remotely strike me as the type.

He’s quiet. Calm. Assured. His character actually speaks of the kind of inner peace I’ve never known. It’s settled. It’s confident. He doesn’t need all the flashy recognition from being a public figure. He doesn’t need the spotlight. He’s content to just be.

I mean, I’ve never met a man so willing to let me spew my word vomit all over him for hour after hour without losing his cool or begging off or talking over me so he can take control of the conversation. Flynn listened—and not just in a superficial way in an effort to be polite. He paid attention to every word I said, I could tell.