George gives me one searing kiss full of promise, then we part, butonly our mouths. He continues to hold me close, and I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as he guides me around the dance floor. For multiple songs, I imagine it’s just the two of us here. And when I realize George is quietly humming along to the band’s rendition of “Come Fly with Me,” I smile against his neck and wonder if I’ve ever been so happy.
Chapter
32
Eventually, we leavethe dance floor, mainly because I feel guilty abandoning Darla to a potential encounter with corporate vipers. I’m not sure Shawn—kind as he is—can see their poison-dripping fangs.
We find the two of them standing close to the bar with a group of young professional-looking types. Darla cradles her drink and stares toward the windows, seeming bored with whatever the guy across from her is prattling on about. As we approach, I watch my brother respond with smiles and nods even as his eyes stay on my friend.
“Beth! George! There you are.” Shawn grins eagerly at our approach, cutting off the tall blond guy who was speaking. “Join us. Everyone, this is my sister, Beth. George has flown most of you, I’m sure. This is Jonathan, Felicity, Monica, Harry, and Cal.” He points them out as he lists them off. I probably won’t bother to remember. Not with the general air of disdain I pick up from the group.
Still, I raise my hand in a small wave. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
I get nothing more than a nod back. Maybe a little hum of recognition.
George, though, he earns some actual words.
“Bunsen!” The blond guy—Jonathan, I think—crows with a smirk. “When are you finally going to stop playing with those planes and put on a suit?”
“You sound like my father.” George reaches out to a passing waiter to snag two champagne glasses, thanking the server before they step away. He hands a flute to me, and I enjoy a deep sip.
“Thank you.” Jonathan chuckles and straightens his cuffs. “He’s a great man. Hope to be like him one day.”
Darla sighs, though the exhale sounds suspiciously like “kiss-ass.” I bite my bottom lip hard to keep from laughing and swear I spy George tightening his mouth to force away a smile.
Jonathan’s mouth thins, and he flicks his eyes between Darla and me. “And what companies are you two with?”
My friend sips what looks like a margarita, in no hurry to answer, so I speak up.
“We both work at Cornfield’s Diner. Darla’s moms own it.” Not that I expect that last detail would make the job any more respectable to this Ivy League windbag. Still, even though diner waitress is not the career I want for the rest of my life, I refuse to be ashamed of the people who have supported my mom and me since before I was born.
Jonathan’s eyes go wide, and I can actually see the superiority complex solidify in his brain. “Diner waitresses?”
“Yes, Jonathan.” Shawn’s reply comes in a cheery voice. “My date and my sister are diner waitresses. At Cornfield’s Diner. Home of the best burger in the northeast.” He turns his attention to Darla.
She rolls her eyes. “We’re not naming it after you.” Then, instead of clawing out Jonathan’s eyes for the implied insult to her mothers’establishment, Darla turns to the group and does what she always does with new people.
“No,” she says, pointing to Jonathan first. Then she moves around the circle. “No. No. No. Definitely no.” She reaches George. “Yes.” Me. “Of course.” Then she pauses on Shawn and contemplates him for a moment before offering a half-hearted, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” he chokes. “Maybe what? Why isGeorgea yes? Yes to what?”
Darla doesn’t explain, instead concentrating on licking salt off the rim of her glass.
My brother turns to me, only a little frantic. “Do you know?”
“I do,” I admit.
“Care to share with the group?” Jonathan intones, his voice snide. But I also detect an air of frustration. Darla’s inability to be impressed or cowed by him is probably twisting his designer briefs.
I glance at Darla, and she shrugs, which is her version ofGo for it. I don’t care.
“She’s identifying who would be an asset in the event of a zombie apocalypse.” It’s a game she’ll play at the diner when she’s bored, and I always enjoy hearing her explanations for postapocalyptic approval.
The group is silent for one breath. Two. Then…
“And I’m amaybe?” Shawn yelps. “If George is a yes, then I should be, too.”
This time she explains. “He can fly a plane. Can you fly a plane?”
