Page 27 of Things I Overshared

“It fills you up with fairy dust to help the plane fly!” I say with awe in my voice.

“Wow. Fairies,” the girl twin whispers.

“I know, right?” I whisper back, enjoying seeing the world from her little eyes for a moment. Crazy as my tactics may be, both of them finally still in the line and start to focus on the scanner ahead.

I help the mother again on the other side, and she hugs me like I’m a fairy myself. I am actually grateful for the distraction, since I’m starting to feel the panic build in my bones. By the time we’ve got her kids loaded up and bags ready to roll away, I’m a bit sad to see them go, especially as Sir Grumps A Lot catches up to me.

“Thanks for all the help, Mr. Clark,” I sneer. He barely looks at me as he hands me my bags. I huff at him and stalk off, not concerned if he’s following behind me or not.

We get to our gate and onto the plane with absolutely zero conversation. My hands shake as I get my backpack pushed under the seat in front of me. I flex my fingers as I look out the window. I can hear my breathing growing louder and more erratic.

Emerson leans toward me slightly in his chair to my right. He’s still within his own bubble of personal space, though, since we are in first-class. “Miss Canton?”

“Huh?” I turn to see a very concerned-looking pair of striking eyes trained on me.

He clears his throat. “Afraid of flying?” he asks me softly.

“Not flying, specifically, no.” He stares, so I continue. “Um, I just have a thing about freak accidents.” Realization and understanding smooth out his furrowed brow. I give a slight nod. “The odds of being hit by a car if you’re out walking are one in forty-three thousand. Did you know that? Probably not, nobody knows that, but I do. And like, that accounts for walking cities like New York, right? So, when you think of the odds of being hit by a drunk driver while you’re out for an early morning jog in Tulsa, Oklahoma, those are some really slim odds,” I say, tightening my grip on my armrests.

“I’m sorry . . . about your mother,” he says softly.

I nod and carry on. “I know it’s irrational, but I think about it when I cross the street. My sisters do too, every time, I know they do. And on the subway, the odds of dying are one in five hundred thousand, and, like, in New York, that is kind of a small number, isn’t it? The odds of dying in a plane crash are way better, one in eleven million, but uh, I kinda feel like that exactonemight have the last name Canton.” I let out a crazy-sounding chuckle. “Sorry, everyone, sucks for you that you’re on this flight with me!”

Emerson’s beautiful eyes go wide, and I realize I’ve ventured past the socially acceptable volume level for plane conversation. “Sorry!” I whisper, and I can’t stop. “Listen, I realize this is like your worst nightmare to be next to me on a flight, but I took two Benadryl and I’m going to have a glass of wine, and then I will beout. No chatting at all. But until that happens, maybe we could talk so I can take my mind off things? That would probably be good, that’d probably help.”

“Talk.” The word comes out slowly, as if he’s never heard of the concept.

I snicker. “Your favorite pastime, right?” He huffs at me. I think he’s going to flash a grin, but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. Ever the statue.

I sigh. “I’ll make it really easy for you. One-word answers—it’ll be fun.” I see him tense in his chair. “Mr. Clark, do you want to be myfriendand help me get over my fear of dying an odds-defying fluke death or not?”

He glares at me as if to say he hasn’t said no, which he hasn’t. I think of where to start.

“Are you excited about this trip?” I say with a little too much cheer. I realize it’s not like he can say no, since I planned the whole thing.

“Yes.”

“Are you looking forward to seeing your family?”

He thinks about it. “Yes.”

“Wellllll, that pause was so long, I almost nodded off. You don’t get along with your family?” He cocks his head to the side with a shrug, as if to say it’s complicated. I sigh. “Okay, don’t want to talk about your family. Got it.”

Just then, the flight attendant comes by and takes our drink orders.

“So,” I restart, “I know you’ve been to London, obviously. Have you been to Paris before?”

“Yes.”

“Even all the sightseeing stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Well, crap! This is all old news to you then. Not me. Thank the good Lord Darrin knocked up his little wife, because after all the crap upon crap since we were outed months ago, I needed this trip like I’ve never needed anything in my life, Mr. Clark,in my life!”

He looks confused, which I take as a cue to explain further. “Outed in the press. You know? Skye and Sally and I weren’t in any official Canton family photos or articles—it was just Grandpa, Dad, Susan, and Sadie. But then someone leaked that photo and our names and personal information to theTulsa World, and then it was tweeted everywhere? Surely you know about all this?”

“Not fully,” he says slowly.