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"I went to Vegas once with Penelope and Cammy. We hit turbulence over Nevada and Cammy threw up in a barf bag while telling a man in first class that his vibes were evil."

That gets an actual laugh out of him.

Low. Brief. Real.

It hits me square in the chest.

"I'm sorry," he says, and I can hear the smile still threaded through the words. "Did you just say evil vibes?"

"She was not herself."

"I'd hope not."

The plane turns, pauses, then surges forward.

My stomach drops.

Without looking away from the window, I say, "If I die on this plane before I see the French Riviera, I will haunt you specifically."

"You're not going to die."

"How do you know?"

"Because I own the jet, and I don't make bad investments."

I look over at him then. "That might be the least comforting thing anyone has ever said to me."

His mouth shifts again.

God, I hate how much I like making him almost smile.

The jet lifts.

Seattle drops away beneath us in a blur of gray water and glass towers and life that already feels farther away than it should.

I exhale slowly once we level out.

"See?" Everett says. "Still alive."

"For now."

The flight attendant returns with coffee.

Before Everett can say anything, she turns to him and asks, "How do you take it, sir?"

I open my mouth at the same time he does.

"One and a half sugars, and a splash of cream," I say.

Everett's gaze cuts to mine.

The flight attendant smiles, amused by something in the air I'm trying not to examine too closely, and fixes it exactly that way.

He takes a sip.

No grimace.

Just that look.