Page 31 of Revelry

Coop:You know if you can’t take a picture and send them, I can just come over. It’s probably better that I see them in person. I mean a picture is nice and all, but nothing beats the real thing up close and personal.

Coop:Ali?

Coop:Okay, clearly you’re ignoring me.

Coop:Will you show me on the plane? Just to keep me from thinking about us plunging to our deaths.

Coop:If we were on a deserted island, would you show me your tits then?

Coop:What about if we were the only survivors? I’d totally get an all-access pass, right? I mean we wouldn’t want to be the only people on that island forever. Eventually we’d need to repopulate, build our own little colony while we waited for rescue, like in the blue lagoon.

Me:First of all, we can’t build a colony. Our children can’t fuck one another. That’s called incest, you dumb fuck. Secondly, I was considering showing you my tits on a plane, but really now it just sounds like a bad porn version of that Samuel L. Jackson film. Thirdly, it’s the worst idea ever for you to be seeing my tits again. I’m not going to sleep with you, or Levi. No one is winning that bet. Now, it’s late. We have a plane to catch and I need to sleep.

Coop:We can sleep on the plane. I’ll hold your tits for you.

Me:There is something really wrong with you.

Coop:Yes, you’re right, there is something wrong with me. It’s called lack of boob-it-is. I need a doctor, or at the very least a sexy redheaded nurse.

I type “call your ex” into the message box, but then I think about his face when Levi had mentioned her the other day outside the studio and I feel guilty for even entertaining the idea. Promptly deleting the message before I can accidently hit send, I turn off my phone. I cover my head with the pillow in an attempt to block out the noise from Zed’s room and I try not to think about what was in that picture he sent me.

“So I have you sitting economy, Miss Jones.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Cooper says, clasping a hand on my shoulder and frowning apologetically. “I didn’t want to give you any special treatment, like you said.”

“So you’re all sitting business class, and I’m in economy?”

“Yep. If I recall you didn’t even really want to be here, did you?”

“Is there a problem? We still have a few seats left in business class. If you’d like, we can easily upgrade you for an extra fee.”

“No, she’s good in economy,” Coop says, eyeing the attendant’s name badge. “Thank you so much for your help, Carly.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr Ryan. Can I just say how much of a big fan I am?”

“Really?”

“I loved your first album, and I’ve pre-ordered the next through my local record store. I wish I’d known I’d be seeing you today. I would have brought something in for you to sign.”

“I wish you had too, though I’m happy to get creative if there’s a bathroom nearby?” Cooper says, and my mouth drops open as I glare at him and shake my head.

The attendant, Carly, actually just squeaks. It’s like any common sense she has just flies out the window and her snatch takes over doing the thinking for her. Yeah, okay, I can’t say I really blame her. The man who has been eyeing her suspiciously from behind the counter—probably her supervisor—leans into her space and asks, “Do we have a problem, Carly?”

“No, sir, everything is fine.”

Cooper appears to take pity on the girl and he reaches over the desk, grabbing a piece of paper and signing his name along with an impersonal “thanks for your support”.

I grab my ticket from the desk and take my bag through to security while the rest of the band talk to over-eager fans. We clear customs, and once we’re seated at the gate I pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen. I’m hit with a wave of sadness as I realise I don’t have anyone to text. I think of Grams, and how proud she would be of me seizing this opportunity, and I think of Brad and send out a little triumphantfuck youto wherever he is. The truth is I don’t miss him. In a sense, I feel like it was a wonder I hadn’t caught him cheating sooner. The last time we’d had sex was three months before our friendly neighbourhood stripper moved in. What man doesn’t want sex in three months? And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d tried repeatedly to get him to face our intimacy issues, but he was always too tired, or he just didn’t feel like it.

I’d felt like it a lot in those first weeks when he’d begun turning me down, but there’s only so much rejection a girl can take before she turns to her hand and then implements of vaginal destruction in the form of silicon penises. After a while, it just became the norm. I didn’t ask for sex, he didn’t offer it, and instead I found my solace in a vibrating nine-inch replica of porn star James Deen’s dick, who never left the seat up, never complained about how many orgasms I was having, and who was ridiculously girthy.

I don’t notice how lost I am in my thoughts until someone sits down beside me.Cooper.I don’t have to glance at him because I’d know his scent anywhere. It’s the smell of entitled arsehole, with a little bit of sexy-as-fuck thrown in.

“Who you calling?”

“Isn’t that the million dollar question?”

“Can I see that?” he asks, holding out his hand for my phone.

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