Page 4 of A Perfect Fit

One hour and eleven minutes. That’s the time remaining until we land in New York. It’s funny I’m seeing angel numbers, considering I might as well be sitting next to the Devil.

“Didn’t say you were.”

I continue staring at the flight map as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“Sleep well, bedhead?” Jackson asks.

“Very. I had a dream you were tossed into a pool of electric eels.”

That’s a lie.

Jackson types something on his laptop. “It must be because you always have such a macabre imagination.”

I plaster on a fake, sugary-sweet smile. “Only when it comes to you.”

Jackson rests his chin in his hands and tilts his head to face me. “So, let me get this straight. First, you have a punching bag with my face on it, and now you’re having dreams about me, too. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were secretly obsessed with me.”

My teeth clench, and I feel my body temperature rise. God, how big is this guy’s ego?

“Aw, what a cute little hypothesis,” I say. “Though the probability of that happening is about as nonexistent as your love life.”

“Does my love life intrigue you?”

“I’d rather watch paint dry than hear about it.”

Jackson snorts. “How original.”

“Why are you moving back to New York?” I ask, leaning back against my seat.

I’ll admit, I’ve been curious throughout the flight, but I’ve resisted the temptation to ask him until now.

Jackson hesitates. “For business. Why were you in London?”

“For pleasure. Some of us actually like to relax and go on vacation every now and then. You should try it sometime.”

“I have my own ways of relaxing,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Like what?” I snicker. “Memorizing every word in Merriam-Webster?”

“And the Oxford Dictionary, too.”

My lips twitch. “Overachiever.”

Jackson smirks and returns his attention to his laptop screen. “Always.”

I don’t bother with a reply.

Surprisingly, the remainder of the flight passes by with no more talking or bickering between us. Maybe this is the part where the initial reaction of seeing your high school rival wears off and you decide it’s time to move on and act like a mature adult.

We land at JFK at eleven twenty a.m., New York time, the sounds of unclipping seat belts, distinct chatter, and opening of overhead compartments around me a stark reminder that it’s back to reality.

I stand and head for the aisle, grabbing my carry-on luggage. When Jackson does the same, I sneak a glance at him, realizing he’s at least six feet tall. He was already tall when I knew him at school, but he must’ve had another growth spurt when he moved overseas.

Why is puberty kind to the most obnoxious people? It’s unfair.

As we wait to exit the plane, a middle-aged woman, who was sitting behind us, makes small talk with Jackson in a posh British accent. I ignore the conversation, scrolling through my London vacation photos on my phone.

Finally, the line of passengers starts moving, and I lose sight of Jackson—which I have no complaints about—when we part ways.