I wait for it. For the teasing. For the playful, sarcastic remarks. But they never come.
Instead, I sense his eyes on my face again as he says in that same surprisingly gentle voice, “You don’t have to be. It’s forgotten.”
We’re both quiet for the remainder of the brief drive to the airport, and I know from the second we arrive that this is going to be unlike any other flight I’ve ever been on. Not that I’ve been on many—just the flight to Santa Cruz and the flight back, but still. The fact that Damian drives right up to the freaking plane is indication enough.
Airport staff are waiting for us outside the car, even going so far as to open our doors and retrieve our bags from the trunk as soon as we’re parked. I glance at Damian, but he doesn’t notice my questioning gaze as he climbs out and tosses his keys to ayoung man standing nearby, who now slides into the vacated driver’s seat. Once we’re clear of the car, the valet speeds off to park the assholemobile somewhere secure until we’re back tomorrow.
My jaw drops as my focus drifts from the two staff members escorting our bags to Damian, who strolls toward the lowered stairs leading up into the jet as if this is the most normal thing in the world. I suppose, to someone accustomed to his family’s caliber of wealth, it is. I stumble after him, climbing the steps with wobbly legs, my hands fidgeting with my glasses. I wonder if I should ask about security and whether we need boarding passes (though, I suspect the rules are different for rich folks with private jets), but all attempts to organize my thoughts are forgotten the moment we step inside the plane.
If I looked surprised before, I must be the spitting image of a cartoon character now, mouth hanging comically wide, eyes bugging out of my skull.
The jet itself is, obviously, much smaller than a commercial airliner, but the interior is a thousand times more luxurious. Shining wooden panels accent the white walls and ceiling, and five pairs of cream-colored seats that resemble recliners await us on the beige carpet—four positioned toward the front of the plane and one at the back opposite a long sofa, complete with cup holders, throw pillows, and blankets.
It’s from one of these seats that a woman exuding the elegance of old Hollywood jumps up to greet us.
“Ah, there he is,” she says, reaching over a small wooden table to the man sitting across from her, gently patting his arm to get his attention. His back is to us, but he turns at her words as he folds and places down the newspaper he was reading.
Damian grabs my hand, tugging me forward from where we entered at the rear of the plane, and I promptly snap my mouth shut when the woman’s eyes flit to mine, taking me in, her smilekind enough but reserved. Behind her, the man looks like he’d rather be just about anywhere else at this specific point in time, a feeling I can relate to.
“Mom. Dad,” Damian says, looking at each of his parents in turn. I can feel the rigidity of his entire body in the way his hand tightens around mine—can hear the careful distance in his voice when he speaks. Most of all, I see it in his face when he peers down at me. “This is Lexi. Lexi, these are my parents, Lenore and Hector.”
My heart races, pounding against the cage of my ribs, and I wonder if his parents can sense the anxiety bubbling under my skin. If they can see the sweat beginning to bead along my hairline.
It was one thing posing for pictures and letting Damian spin the lies about our relationship across his social media—I was never actively participating, but rather…omitting the truth through a lack of denial. But now? Now, I’ll have to quite literally put his money where my mouth is and lie my ass off like our lives depend on it.
Like Mom’s life depends on it.
That thought is all the encouragement I need to slide my game face on.
I plaster on a pleasant smile, and curl the fingers of my free hand into a tight ball at my side so I don’t touch my glasses. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
His mother—Lenore—offers me her hand, and I shake it. “Likewise. Though, to be honest, Damian hasn’t actually told us anything about you.”
I let out a quaint, tinkling laugh and shrug. “Well, this is still pretty new, so…” I purposely trail off, leaving his parents to fill in the blanks. Damian doesn’t meet my gaze, but he squeezes my hand, and that’s when I feel it—the ever so slight trembling of his fingers.
“Why don’t you take your seat,” his father says in a gruff, unfriendly voice. “We’ll be departing soon now that you’ve arrived.”
His parents return to the seats closest to the front of the jet, but this time, they sit in two adjacent chairs on either side of the narrow aisle, gesturing for us to take the other pair opposite them so we’re all sitting across from each other. A handful of strained minutes pass as the boarding crew prepares for take-off, doing the necessary safety procedures. During this time, a flight attendant takes our drink order, returning with a steaming cup of tea for Damian’s mother and three cups of coffee for Damian, his father, and me.
It’s uncomfortable—the silence that follows as we quietly sip from our mugs, like we’re all waiting for someone to speak, but none of us wants to be the first to do it. The tension persists after take-off, and before we’re even in the air, I sense the interrogation coming.
“So, Alexandria, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” Lenore suggests, that kind smile unnervingly tight around the edges of her lips.
Alarm bells ring in my head at the use of my full name. Damian called me Lexi when he introduced me—notAlexandria. I suppose it’s possible his mom made a wild guess, or assumed, though something tells me that’s not the case here. Maybe Damian mentioned it to them, and his mother was just exaggerating when she said he hasn’t told them anything about me. He did say they specifically requested I come today, which means they must know about me to some extent, full name possibly included.
Or more likely, they’ve seen what’s been posted online,a wary voice mutters in the back of my head.
Damian is sitting too far away for me to risk a casual glance at him—to try to read his face—the aisle between us suddenly as expansive and broad as an ocean.
You’re on your own. Just stay calm.
Straightening my back, I swallow my rather unladylike gulp of coffee and set down my mug. “Well, I was born and raised in Newport. I live with my mom and my aunt. And I go to Conwick with Damian, though we don’t have any classes together. I’m a sophomore.”
See? No need to be nervous,I assure myself.Nothing you just said is a lie.
“And how did you meet?” she presses.
I return her careful smile with one of my own. “In the library.” It’s still the truth—no need to panic so long as I leave out the part about her son fucking me against the stacks in the mathematics section to win a bet. Given what’s been said in the media lately, she already knows. Generally speaking, that is.
