Page 25 of Love Lessons
Now I regret all my life choices.
“All of ’em?” Ian asks, so I must have said that out loud. “Mile-high club offer is still open in case you have a few last wishes. Be a shame to die without experiencing all that life has to offer—like the ride of a lifetime on the Crikey express.”
“Oh my God, that ego.” I feel a flash of anger, because arguing with him is not how I want to spend my last moments. “You’re insufferable.”
“Does that mean awesome? That’s usually how people refer to me.”
“No!” I gasp. “It means irritating.”
“Are you sure? If I’minsufferableit sounds like you’d suffer without me. We can’t have that.”
“Jesus, read a dictionary. It means…” I glance up at his face. He’s smirking. “Wait, you’re joking right now.”
He laughs. “You sweet, little, gullible thing. Even this big, dumb jock knows that word. Every teacher I ever had used it on me, so…” He shrugs, and his smile turns smug.
“Figures,” I mutter.
“Come on, I’m still awesome, right? You’re not putting claw marks into my wrist anymore.”
I look down at our joined hands, and I yank mine away. Although, he’s right—for a minute there, I forgot to picture my own death. “Maybe I should take a Xanax now.”
He grabs his knees and laughs. “You’ve got Xanax? And you didn’t take one yet? Why the hell not?”
“It makes me sleepy.”
He roars.
“I know, I know.” Gingerly, I lean forward and retrieve my bag from the floor. I’m overly aware of the engine noise and any subtle shifts of the plane. I uncap the bottle of low-dose pills and try to decide between one or two. I’ve never taken two at once, but my prescription says,One or two tablets.
“Do you always need those?” my seatmate asks.
“I just don’t know,” I murmur. “This is only my second time flying.”
“To Italy?”
“No, ever.” I tap two little tablets into my palm.
“Ever?” he demands. “Are you really that afraid of flying?”
“I guess.” I toss the first tablet into my mouth and dry-swallow it with some difficulty. The real reason I never flew as a child is that I grew up poor. There was no money for trips. Ian wouldn’t understand.
He gets up—just rises out of his seat, as if that’s not horribly dangerous—and steps past me. In the aisle, he ducks into what must be the galley at the back of the plane and returns with a bottle of water, which he thrusts into my hand.
“Thank you,” I gasp. I twist off the cap and drink a third of it in as many gulps. Then I take the second pill.
“So tell me,” he says as I finish the water. “What are you going to do first in Italy? And keep in mind that I’m still an option.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m going shopping.”
“Shopping?” he gasps. “Are any of your suitcases empty? Because how are you going to bring anything home?”
“I might have to buy another suitcase,” I admit. He laughs. “But Milan is the fashion capital of Europe, and the lake house is a short train ride from Milan.
“What does that even mean? The fashion capital? Sounds boring as fuck if you ask me.”
Later, I’ll realize he was just baiting me so I’d stop thinking about death long enough for the Xanax to kick in.
But I’m in no mood to pick up on subtleties. “The nameMilancomes from the word for milliner, which refers to the creation of fabric and hats. Luxury goods have been made in Milan since the Middle Ages. Armani, Canali, Missoni, Valentino, Versace… so many modern houses of design are headquartered in Milan.”
