“She kept telling me all the ways planes could crash. Engine failure. Pilot error. Birds in the engines. Terrorists. Metal fatigue. Ice on the wings.” I laugh, but it comes out wrong. “Six years old and I’m learning about explosive decompression while other kids are watching cartoons on their iPads.”
“That’s abuse.”
The word hangs between us, stark and honest.
“That’s Victoria.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t still have nearly invisible crescent scars on my forearm from her manicured nails. “She was scared. She didn’t know what else to do.”
“She was the adult. You were six.”
“Yeah, well.” I pull the blanket tighter. “Therapy is for people with money and time. We’ve only ever had one or the other.”
Atticus is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice has lost that teasing edge. “My dad used to make me perform for his industry friends. Starting when I was four. Drag me out at parties, put a guitar in my hands, make me sing for a room full of drunk executives.”
I look at him, really look at him for maybe the first time. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” He meets my gaze steadily. “Using your kid as a prop? Making them perform for your benefit? Sounds pretty similar to me.”
“You had a choice.”
“Did I? Four years old and my dad’s telling me this is how I earn my place in the family?” He laughs, bitter and sharp. “At least your mom was scared. Mine just wanted to show off his latest acquisition.”
“His acquisition?”
“That’s what he called us. Me and my siblings. His acquisitions. Like we were stocks in his portfolio.”
The plane shudders again, but this time I barely notice. “That’s fucked up.”
“That’s dynasty money.” He echoes my earlier words back at me. “Everyone’s part of the machine.”
“Is that why you’re doing this?” I gesture between us. “The fake dating thing? To piss off daddy?”
“Maybe.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend time with the most interesting woman in Hollywood.”
“Now I know you’re full of shit.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not interesting. I’m a disaster with good cheekbones and a talent for self-destruction.”
“See?” He leans forward again. “That right there. That honesty. That’s interesting.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“That’s human.”
The plane drops again, violent enough that my stomach ends up somewhere around my throat. This time I actually scream, short and sharp, before I can stop myself.
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck?—”
“Hey.” Atticus’s voice cuts through my panic. “Look at me.”
“We’re going to die.”
“We’re not going to die.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Phoenix.” He says my name like it matters. “Look at me.”
