Page 72 of Playing Her Game

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Excellent. I was hoping for a little entertainment.” She glances at the flight attendant. “Champagne, please, if that’s what she’s having, unless she’s made some terrible life choice and ordered water.”

“I haven't ordered anything yet,” I tell her.

“Then there's still hope for you.”

The flight attendant hides a smile as she pours our glasses. Bernie waits until she moves on, then reaches for the control on her side of the divider. The partition lowers smoothly, opening the space between our seats.

“There,” she says, lifting her glass. “Now we can properly ignore the rest of the world.”

I laugh, and the sound surprises me. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself together until something finally loosens.

“To terrible life choices,” I say, raising my champagne.

“To the interesting ones.” She clinks her glass against mine. “The terrible ones usually don't come with complimentary drinks.”

I take a sip. The champagne is cold, crisp, and exactly what I need.

For a few minutes, we talk about nothing consequential. The flight, the weather, the absurdity of spending half a day in the air only to arrive somewhere with an entirely different clock. Bernie tells me she intends to sleep for at least part of the journey, though she has already admitted that she packed a book, downloaded three films, and brought enough snacks to survive a minor aviation emergency.

“You're very prepared.”

“I've met myself before.”

“Fair point.”

She studies me over the rim of her glass.

“So, are we going to talk about why you look like someone took your favorite dog away, or are you going to make me guess?”

I groan. “Is it that obvious?”

“Anna, darling, I spent enough time with you at Lenzin and Hildy’s to know what you look like in your own element.”

I look down at my champagne. Of course she does. The hours at Lenzin's had made us more familiar than a handful of polite introductions ever could. Hildy had a way of pulling people into the orbit of her home until you stopped feeling like a guest. Hank and Lucy had added their own particular brand of chaos. Bernie and I had found an easy rhythm.

I'm not sure whether I like or hate the fact that she knows enough about me, even after spending that little amount of time, that she recognizes when I'm hiding something.

“It's been a long morning,” I say.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And an even longer week.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And if you keep making that face, I'm going to throw this champagne at you.”

“Now we're getting somewhere.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself.

Bernie settles back against her seat. “For the record, I'm not asking because I want the gossip.”

“You're absolutely asking because you want the gossip.”