"Monsters," I agree solemnly. "Absolute monsters."
The plane levels off, and she pulls out her phone, probably checking emails. I used to be the same; never able to switch off.
"So what's the deal with butterflies?" I ask, genuinely curious. "That’s such a weird phobia."
She makes a face. "I was five, at my cousin's wedding. They released monarch butterflies during the ceremony—it was supposed to be this beautiful, romantic moment, but I panicked when a few decided to land on my face and in my hair. I completely lost it. Screamed and cried in front of two hundred guests. Even to this day I get an intense physical reaction when I'm near butterflies."
"Hence your preference for planned events with no winged surprises."
"Maybe." She tucks her phone away and turns to face me. "What about you? Any weird phobias I should know about? You didn't mention any in your file."
"Needles," I say. "Can't stand them. Had to get stitches after falling off my bike last year. I may have screamed. And jellyfish," I add. "There’s something sinister about them."
Liv laughs. "Good to know. Well, you're in luck—Crayfield, Maryland isn't exactly known for its jellyfish population. And I promise not to schedule any surprise medical procedures this weekend."
"Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, I need to know more about this color-coding obsession you mentioned on page fifty-four, section five," I say. "Do you really organize your closet by season and color?"
"Obviously." She doesn't even look embarrassed. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Normal people just shove everything in their wardrobe."
"I guess that explains a lot about the state of the world," Liv says dryly. "What about your living situation? Please tell me it’s tidy."
I think about my actual apartment—the minimalist penthouse where everything has its place because I pay someone to organize it. Blair Miller would live very differently.
"Two women, one bathroom, zero organizational skills," I say. "My friend and I have an unspoken agreement that whoever runs out of clean clothes first has to do laundry for both of us."
Liv looks genuinely horrified. "That's not a system, that's anarchy."
"It works. Usually. Sometimes we both run out of clothes at the same time and have to go shopping. The same rules apply to the dishes. The first person to use the last clean plate has to do all the dishes."
"Oh my God. The mental image of your apartment is making my eye twitch," she mutters.
"It's not that bad," I protest. "We've developed a system. There are designated piles for everything—clean clothes pile, questionably clean clothes pile, definitely dirty clothes pile. Rei’s Xbox controllers live on the kitchen counter, my protein powder lives in the bathroom. We generally pretend the dishes will wash themselves if we ignore them long enough and both avoid using the last plate by buying paper plates we can dispose of."
"That's horrifying."
"It works."
"So what happens when you bring a date home?" she asks.
"What about it? Rei and I share an apartment, not a bed."
Liv chuckles. "I mean the mess. Don't you tidy up before you bring someone home?"
"No. Why would I?" I know this is killing her. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the slight twitch at the corner of her eye.It's like watching someone with perfect pitch listen to off-key singing.
"Because... because normal people don't want their dates to think they live like college freshmen?"
"If someone's going to judge me based on whether my couch cushions are fluffed, they're probably not the right person for me anyway."
She shakes her head in disbelief. "You're either very confident or completely delusional."
"I prefer authentically low-maintenance." I grin. "What can I say? I'm a simple woman with simple needs."
She hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Do you ever... date clients?"
"I have in the past, but I don't make a habit of it. Mixing business with pleasure gets complicated." I shoot her a humorous look. "Do you ever dateyourclients?"
