Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Even if it was a spectacular flight to Seattle, I’m betting that experience is nothing like this one, where we each get a small pod with a fully reclining seat and a TV screen that extends on a long, automated arm, controlled by a remote. I watch her push every button on her seat and giddily open every gift bag to reveal a sleeping mask, slippers, pajamas, and all manner of toiletries.
“Can we live here now?” she asks, tugging the sleeping mask on and letting it sit over her forehead. She pulls out a bottle of hand lotion and squirts a thin line down her forearm, happily rubbing it in. “This seat is better stocked than my bedroom and bathroom combined.”
“Trust me, you’ll be more than ready to get out of that seat when we land in Singapore.”
A female flight attendant comes around with a tray of bubbly wine. “Would you like some prosecco before takeoff?”
“How much is it?” Anna asks, and the woman laughs sweetly like Anna is joking.
“It’s free, Green,” I murmur, my stomach sinking with the realization that we should have been practicing for this charade for a lot longer than the thirty hours we have until we reach Pulau Jingga. Of course she wouldn’t be accustomed to any of this.
Anna’s face lights up. “Free? Oh, hell yes then!” She takes the flute and holds the bubbles to the light. “West, this is so fancy.” She sits back in her seat and looks around. “You’ve flown a lot, right?”
I decline a glass of prosecco and look back over at Anna. “A fair amount.”
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen someone do on the plane?”
“I sat next to someone who was giving themselves a pedicure.”
“That person deserves jail time.” She brings the glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip. “Mmmmm.” Anna turns to meet my eyes. “And by the way, it’s anything over ninety-nine.”
“What’s that?”
“A fever,” she says, taking another sip.
“Okay. Well. The island has a physician in residence so you should be fine. I’m sure your skills won’t be needed.”
“That’s good because I don’t really have any unless someone breaks a leg and wants me to paint them a new one.”
It’s quiet for a moment and I close my eyes, leaning my head back against my seat.
Her voice comes out echoing, as if she’s speaking the words directly into her prosecco: “I’ve never been a girl for hire before.”
I sit up again, feeling the need to address this misunderstanding. “Okay, I realize that’s not what you were asking for help with in the restroom, but you do know that I don’t… I’m not thinking we’re going to… you know.”
Anna smirks at me. “Are you trying to say the word sex aloud, Dr. Weston? You’re saying you’re not expecting sex?”
I feel the shifting of a few passengers around us as they turn our way. “Of course not,” I whisper.
“I appreciate that. And I’m not for sale in that way.” She pauses and then grins at me. “But for two hundred thousand—”
“Anna.”
“I’m kidding! God, lighten up.” Careful of her nails, she gingerly pulls out a pencil and a thick sketchbook. As she flips through it, I catch flashes of drawings, and a handful of vivid watercolors. Coming to a stop, she smooths a hand over the blank page and looks up at me expectantly. “I have thirty hours to learn everything I need to know about being a med student married to a bajillionaire. Let’s start with your family. Tell me about your mom.”
“Her name is Janet Weston. She’s been working for the company since she was fourteen. That’s how she met my father, Ray—they worked together at the flagship store in Harrisburg, where she started as a cashier. She comes from a middle-class family, but you would never know it now. She doesn’t have an official role at the company anymore, or if she does it’s, like, president of customer experience or something.”
Anna’s smiling at me like I amuse her. “I meant more as in, is she nice? Does she have hobbies or a favorite band?”
I close my eyes, thinking. I love my mother. I see her vulnerabilities, her strength. I see what she has to put up with every day. But I’m not sure I’d ever describe her as nice. “I suppose it depends who you are. She may be nice to you because you have something she wants.”
“I do? What’s that?”
“Access to me.”
“Oh. Power. I like it. I’m not sure how to wield it, but I like it. And you have three siblings, including Jake?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the second oldest?”
“Correct. Alex is the oldest. He’s married to Blaire. They have four children—Reagan, Lincoln, Nixon, and GW.”
Anna smacks my shoulder. “Look at you! Did you just make your first joke?”
“I wish.”
I give her a second to absorb this. “How old are these kids?” she asks.