Читать книгу Fat Girl On A Plane - Kelly deVos - Страница 15
ОглавлениеGareth Miller continues to stare. I consider throwing something in the aisle so he’ll have to turn in that direction.
“You know an awful lot about airline safety for someone so young,” he says.
Yuck. What a cheesy way to ask someone’s age. “I can use Wikipedia, and I’m nineteen.” This is a mistake.
I don’t know why I give him that detail.
He smiles again. “Ah, I remember nineteen. Where’d your boyfriend take you for your birthday?”
I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I don’t want to tell the King of Fashion I spent the evening crying into a diet soda while Tommy was probably somewhere making out with my nemesis.
“What did you do on your nineteenth birthday?” I hedge.
He laughs, revealing a smile that would shame a toothpaste ad. “Ever been to Flathead County, Montana?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you can have dinner at the Sizzler. Or a kegger down at the lake. My pop settled on the latter.”
“Weren’t you already at Parsons by then?” I ask.
He pauses, regards me a bit differently. “We have met before. I knew it. Do a fella a favor and give me a hint where it was.” He turns a bit red. “We haven’t ever...”
At the front of the plane, the flight attendant is buckling herself into her seat. A few seconds later, the 757 races down the runway.
I glare at Gareth Miller. “You have that much trouble keeping track of the women you sleep with?” I let him squirm in his seat, facing the real possibility that he’ll have to spend four hours next to a stranger with whom he’d shared forgettable sex. He’s making a big show of watching the plane lift off the runway.
“We’ve never met,” I say. “But I get the ParDonna.com newsletter.”
He leans away from the window, breathing more comfortably. “Well, yeah, I had already moved to New York by then. But my dad always insists I come home for my birthday. It’s during the summer, so the timing isn’t too bad. The weather is nice.”
“It’s freezing in Montana in the winter.” I tuck my fingers into the ends of my sweater.
“You’ve been there? In the winter?”
I sigh. He’s still got that pensive expression on his face. Like he won’t quit until he figures out who I am. And it’s possible, given enough time, he might be able to guess. I decide to get out in front of it and tell him.
“Yeah. I went with my mother. She did a photoshoot there a few years ago. Leslie Vonn Tate. That’s probably why I seem familiar. People say we look alike.”
He’s impressed. His eyes widen. “Leslie Vonn Tate. Sure, I remember. The Atelier Fur thing. Bruce Richardson shot it in Whitefish, right?”
The Atelier Fur thing.
A totally avoidable clusterfuck. If only Grandma’s hairdresser had used one more roller.
