“I’m sure I’ll think better with an espresso with two sugars,” I offer.
We duck into the shop, order, then hunt for a last-minute deal.
“Ooh!” Emerson thrusts her hand in the air. “Found one.”
“What’s the damage?”
“Sixty-nine dollars round trip.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “My inner twelve-year-old can’t resist commenting.”
“Find the will, Nolan.”
“C’mon! I can’t. You said sixty-nine. It’s a sign. I have to mention the sixty-nine.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are we doing this?”
“Sixty-nining?” I ask innocently. Because what choice do I have?
But the way her face flashes pink like she’s having heatstroke makes me wonder all sorts of things. Like, did I just embarrass the woman who jokes about her big mouth and how much she can take? Like, is she thinking about sex too?
But I promised myself one night in Vegas a few years ago that I’d do my damnedest to stop thinking about Emerson naked.
I haven’t entirely kept that promise, though I try. I try as hard as I can.
Her chestnut hair falls in a curtain around her face as she taps away on the screen. “Okay. There are two seats left on Bacon Grease Airlines.”
“Bacon Grease?” I ask with an eyebrow arch, zooming in on the to-do list, not my to-entertain-dirty-thoughts-of list.
“I figure that’s what they serve on this airline. Bacon grease and cigarette butts for breakfast.”
“Sounds upscale to serve anything at all these days,” I quip as she swipes the screen.
“At this price, we’ll have to stand the whole flight. You don’t mind, do you?”
“It’s gonna be like one of those old-school amusement park rides where you press your back against a wall panel.”
“The Gravitron. It’s Gravitron Airlines, and they serve you bacon grease,” she says.
“Wow. I can’t wait,” I deadpan.
“Me neither,” she says.
But the thing is, I’m not lying. I can’t freaking wait. Call me crazy, call me Mister Hustle, call me A Hopeful Guy, but this chance with Dot and Bette feels like it could lead to me saying sayonara to the cusp in the nick of time.
And doing it all with my best-friend-turned-business-partner?
That’s no problem whatsoever.
The next day, we board our flight, like a couple of eager, first-time travelers.
“Vegas, baby, Vegas,” I say, channeling Vince Vaughn as we grab our seats. It’s hammy even for me, but I want to make Vegas feel like just any party destination, not the place where Emerson and I shared that kiss.
Okay, fine. Maybe I just want to pretend I don’t still wish for one more.
4
The Punchline Parrots
Emerson
We hurtle toward the sky in the world’s noisiest plane, sandwiched in our seats like rolled-up T-shirts in a how-to-pack-a-suitcase video. My right thigh is wedged come-up-and-see-me-sometime style against Nolan’s. My left thigh is smushed against the window seat man, who apparently bathed in Drakkar Noir this morning.
But it’s a short flight. We’ll be there in a jiffy, the cheery flight attendant has informed us.
Too bad I’m as jittery as if I’ve been mainlining coffee.
Only, I didn’t have any.
And I’m not usually a nervous flier.
So, what’s the deal?
Maybe it’s the tin-can feel of this plane. I consider reading a book to blot out this new noise in my head. Or I could watch that how to make your own jam series I downloaded last week or rewatch all the Dot and Bette videos in their library. I’ve seen a bunch of their episodes, and I watched all of them last night, but I’m a prepper and it wouldn’t hurt to have them fresh in my mind.
Trouble is, any of those options would require contorting my body like a cartoon character to grab my phone from my backpack. There’s maybe six inches of legroom, so that seems risky. Best just to chat with my traveling companion, even though he’s enrapt with a fierce game of solitaire.
“Question,” I say as he swipes a card on a stack. “What are the chances the plane will tilt if I grab my phone? How precariously do you think this contraption is balanced?”
Nolan slides a six of clubs onto the seven of diamonds, not looking up from the screen. “Chances are high. Best to stay still the entire flight.”
“Cool, cool. It’s like an MRI tube, then,” I say.
“That’s dark.” He chuckles as he adds a five to the stack, then the four.
“We’re on the world’s cheapest airline for humans. We’re well past dark. Did you read the fine print on the tickets?”
“Who reads the fine print?” He snags the three now, then the two.
I stick my thumb against my chest; I can just move it that far. “Me.”
“Of course you do.”
“What does that mean?”
Finally, something that warrants a look—he lifts his eyes from the screen, his expression amused. “Em, you are such a fine-print person.”
“Life is all about the fine print,” I say.
“Life is about the why not,” he counters, but the twitch in his lips says he might be egging me on.