“Yeah, no shit,” he snarls, slamming his hand on thecall servicebutton built into the arm of his seat. An attendant scurries over, and he forces himself to smile at her. “Whiskey on the rocks, please.”
She nods and disappears, and he straightens his chair so it’s upright again, wiping a hand through his hair.
“Is this happening every night?” I ask, shutting down my laptop.
“And half the Goddamn day, too,” he mutters.
I nod. That explains why he’s being so snappy. “Do you know why?”
He shakes his head jerkily, rubbing the back of his neck.
“When did it start?”
“A week ago.”
“Let me guess: after the charity gala?”
He shrugs. “I guess.” He sounds exhausted.
“I know a trauma therapist in LA. If you want, I could—”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t,” he bites out. It’s probably meant to sound like a warning, but he just sounds empty. The flight attendant bustles up with his drink, and he smiles tightly at her, taking the glass and swigging deeply.
“What an excellent coping mechanism,” I say drily. “I’m sure this could never go wrong.”
He flips me off, and I stand, stretching out my back. He could probably use some space, and it’s been a few hours since anyone checked on Briar.
I’m expecting her to be asleep, but when I pull aside the privacy curtain, I see that she’s still awake, sitting curled up in her seat. There’s a box of Greek salad on her lap, and she’s picking at it dispiritedly, pulling out the olives and ignoring everything else.
She looks very beautiful, and very, very tired.
“Briar?” She glances up, and I gesture to the seat opposite hers. “Can I sit?”She nods, and I sit down. “I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”
Her lips twist. “I’m not going to break down and scream at the pilot. I promise.”
“Wow. The therapy must be working.”
She smiles slightly, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. “You look—subdued.”
“Have you ever eaten vegan feta?”
“No.”
“It’s pretty subduing.”
I lean forward. “Go on, then.” I open my mouth. Her smile gets a bit wider as she stabs a beige cube and pops it between my lips. I grimace, swallowing the lump of soggy tofu. “Christ.”
“How do you feel?”
“Marginally depressed.”
She rolls aside some cucumber and unearths another olive. “I’m still waiting for vegan scientists to work out cheese,” she says glumly. “They’ve got meat and milk in the bag. But cheese needs some work.”
I watch as she eats another olive. I’m pretty sure it’s not her dinner that has her looking so upset. I try a new tack. “I was thinking: do you have any family in America? Matt won’t like it, but we can find a way for you to arrange visits, if you like. Maybe on your birthday?” According to our files, Briar turns twenty-nine the day before the premiere. “It’s important to have a strong support network.”
She snorts. “That’s a pity, then. I don’t have any family.”
