“Fine,” I say, waving to the driver as I climb in, “but don’t tell on me. Someone bought us a pitcher of shots last night, which led to Brian coming over, and he thought it would be funny if he hid my passport.”
“Ugh,” she groans.
Her disdain is less about the drunkenness and passporthiding than it is about Brian, who is the kind of guy High-Functioning Bronwyn wouldneverbring home. She dates lawyers and surgeons twice her age, while I date guys like Brian who are young and hot but otherwise entirely useless.
The Bexes and Brians of the world were doomed to failure from the start. We will marry drunkenly in Vegas because we deserve nothing more than someone just like ourselves, and then stay married because neither of us can summon the energy to research annulments. Together, we will produce two children who are good at sports but aren’t especially smart, accrue so much credit card debt that we need to declare bankruptcy to get out from under it, and then one of us will leave the other and begin the process anew.
“This trip already feels doomed,” she says. “Did you hear about Theo?”
Ugh. Theo.
“The Henchman?” I ask. “What’s he done now?” Theo owns the UK half of Families Travel, and though we’ve never met, he’s constantly advising my father to come down harder on me—Jessie makes sure to let me know—and he was an absolute dick during our one and only phone call last spring.
Though, to be fair, this conversation did occur right after he helped Dad get me out of jail.
“He’s my future husband, so at some point, you’ve got to stop calling him that,” she replies. “Anyway, he’s not going to be in London when we get there. He’s going to beherefor the holidays—well not here, but Puerto Rico—with some woman. My plans to woo him are ruined.”
Yet another way Bronwyn and I could not be more different: our capacity for planning, in that she is capable of it, and I am not. She’s already determined that she will join the company after law school and marry the Henchman, who—according to my dad—never stays with any woman for long, though she’sconvinced he’ll change for her. She’s chosen upper-crust names and private schools for their incredibly entitled future children. As far-fetched as it sounds, Bronwyn gets the things she wants from life. I have no doubt she’ll get these things too.
“Do you need me to pull a Bex?” I ask.
She laughs. “I’m not seeing how it would help, since that usually involves you using your looks to get a man to do something he shouldn’t.”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf, for your information.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, her doubt clear. “How many of those shots did you pay for last night?”
“Irrelevant,” I reply. “Anyhow, I could probably find a way to frame him for murder. That would keep him around until we get back.”
This may have less to do with helping Bronwyn than it does my desire to see Theo spend some time behind bars.
The driver, who’s apparently been listening, scowls at me in the rearview mirror.
“Framing him for murder would cause more problems than it would solve. Also, I’m not sure internet crime is really your strong suit.”
“Nothing is my strong suit. That’s what frees me up to pursue this life of being bad at everything. I’ll see you in the morning.Cheerio,as the British say.”
“I don’t think they actually say that.”
“I’ll say it frequently over the next week to be sure,” I reply. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” she says as she hangsup.
And those words don’t feel the least bit final.
• • •
A day later, I’m texting Bronwyn from JFK. I tell her I’ve done some research and it’s harder to frame someone than I thought.She responds that she doesn’t want Theo in any legal trouble whatsoever, then just stops texting me though I’ve made several very valid supporting arguments.
I don’t think much of this because Bronwyn is the responsible type who puts her phone away when her mother suggests it’s rude, unlike myself, and they were running late because of filming so I’m sure things are hectic.
I still don’t think much of it when a crowd forms near the gate. They aren’t responding to my texts, but shit happens. Cell signals are bad. They’re probably panicking as they try to get through security to make our flight. Jessie will eventually find a way to make all of this my fault, then conclude that she’s going to “let this go,” as if she’s the bigger person. That’s how this usually unfolds.
But when first class boards, then groups two and three, and there’s still no word…I start to worry. “I’m not sure what to do,” I tell the gate agent. “My family was taking the train in, but they’re not here and they’re not answering. Should I get on board or wait?”
Her face falls and she and the guy beside her exchange a look. “You heard about the crash, right?”
Bex
