Page 72 of The Fake Out

Mama tugged on my hand until I half stood, half leaned over the table, so I was eye level with her. Using that super X-ray vision that only mothers have, she stared into my eyes for a long moment before nodding with a smile. I wondered what she’d seen there.

“Alright, Maebe, we have a wedding to plan, don’t we? Come give me a hug.” I let myself linger in her arms, breathing in all the things that made her my mama—the lemon lotion she loved, her strawberry shampoo, and plain old comfort. The backs of my eyes began to sting, and I willed myself not to cry.

Everything was fine.

Everything. Was. Fine.

THIRTY

Did you sit in powdered sugar? ’Cause you’ve got a sweet bum.

—CHELSEA C.

“Are you sure this pilot is licensed?” I asked. “Like, you’ve seen his credentials?”

“Sure. He graduated top of his class from Acme Pilot and Cosmetology School. After we get to cruising altitude, he’ll come back and give you a blowout.”

“Funny.” Glaring at Chris, I yanked on my seatbelt for the twenty-third time. I’d never been on a plane before. Or out of the state of Texas. It was natural I’d be a little cautious.

We sat facing one another at the middle back of the plane (according to my research, the safest place to sit on a plane when you’re plunging to your death and want any chance of survival). Piper and Doug were on the plane too, but Piper had work to do, and Doug grumbled about needing a nap.

Chris leaned forward and covered my hands with his. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

I blew out a deep breath. “Okay.”

The flight attendant, a slender blond man with pink highlights, stopped at our seats. His nametag read Elvis. “Y’all get buckled up. Pilot says we have about five minutes until takeoff.”

My stomach roiled as panic shot through me. “Not okay, not okay.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” Elvis asked, crouching by my seat.

Chris unbuckled his seatbelt and switched seats, so he was sitting right next to me. “Just a nervous flyer. We have it under control.”

“Alright then.” Elvis stood and smiled. “You let me know if I can help.”

“Elvis,” I called when he was about five feet away.

He turned. “Yes?”

“When our plane crashes to the earth somewhere over East Texas, will you try and save me first? Before him?” I shoved a thumb in Chris’s direction.

He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

Chris buckled up and pulled up the armrest between us. He scooted a little closer, so we were hip to hip. While that probably should have annoyed me, instead I felt a bit of tension drain off me.

“Why are you over here?” I asked.

“I’m going to distract you.”

“How?”

“The usual ways.”

“Which are?”

“First, I’ll share one of my most excellent pickup lines with you and you’ll say something sarcastic about it. If that doesn’t work, I’ll tell you about the time I got stuck in a tree in my neighbor’s yard naked and had to be rescued by firemen. To be fair, I was six and it was a dare.”

I snorted.