Page 24 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
He blinks at me like I’ve suggested we power the jet with hummus.
“I recycle,” he deadpans.
I glare.“You fly in a private jet, Thorn.Separating your trash isn’t enough.”
“I own an electric car.”
“Congratulations.Your carbon neutrality is officially canceled out by your fuck-you-fuel attitude.”
He gestures to a seat like he’s done with this line of questioning and maybe life in general.“Sit.Buckle up.Channel your rage into a travel outfit selfie.I’ll have the flight attendant bring tea and chocolate.Then you can do whatever it is you do when you’re spiraling.”
Rude.
Accurate.
But so rude.
I sit.Buckle up.And yes, I take the damn selfie because the lighting is suspiciously good, and I need content for the soft-launch grid.
Still, my brain is chewing on this like a stress toy.
“I can’t go in blind,” I say after a moment.“This falls apart the second your mom asks me what your favorite color is.”
His face does that infuriating flat thing.“Like, what do you need to know?”
“What do you do for a living, for starters.”I look at him like, ‘Isn’t that obvious?’“Your favorite food—other than my baked goods.Where you went to college.Why you moved to Colorado instead of going back to the Northeast like everyone else we know?Whether you believe in horoscopes or if you’re the kind of man who has opinions about pillows.You know—foundational stuff.”
“You’ve known me for three years.”He shrugs.“Since you moved next door.”
I glare at him.“Seven, Soren.It’s been seven years.”I shake my head.“I’ve known of you since ...who knows?We grew up in the same small town.Still, there’s a difference between tolerating the curmudgeonly man who lives next door and actually knowing what your middle name is or why you don’t believe in throw pillows.”
He gives me a look.Somewhere between bemused and begrudgingly charmed.Not helpful.
Soren groans—one of those low, exhausted, resigned groans that say, ‘Why did I think I could pull this off without getting emotionally interrogated mid-flight?’“Fine.What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” I repeat.“And I mean everything.What makes you tick, what makes you twitch, and how you take your coffee.”
“You already know that one.”
“Black.Because, and I quote, ‘any crap will dilute the bean.’”
“That sounds like me.”
“It is you.You said it when I offered to make you a mocha once, and you looked at my milk frother like I’d handed you a weaponized teddy bear.”
He shrugs again, unapologetic.“Still true.”
“See?”I point at him like I’ve won something.“These are the moments that make fake love real.Because if your mom asks how we reconnected and I don’t even know your enneagram, we’re toast.”
Then I pause.Because there’s still something off.Something big.
“What is it now?”he asks, already annoyed.
And just like that—I know this trip is going to be either the best idea we’ve ever had or the world’s most sexually confusing crime documentary.
ChapterTen
Soren
