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His words snap me out of my spiral. He’s staring at me, now—his hard eyes holding a question. Suddenly, I’m aware of my heartbeat, of how my skin is hot even though the cabin is cold, of the vice-grip he has on my wrist.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
Alexander replies immediately. “What’s the truth?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Youknowthe truth. My mother died giving birth to me and I don’t know what my father does.” My voice trails off.
The last time we spoke about this, I didn’t know what my father did. I know now, though. But to change my story would mean telling Alexander that I spoke to my father recently.
It would mean admitting that I planned to run away and break his heart.
I can’t let Alexander discover that.
He would never take that lightly, and there’s too much on the line right now. My fingers twitch, and almost instinctively my hand moves to rest on my belly.
Alex doesn’t notice.
“Okay,” he says. “We can start somewhere else. What’s your father’s name, then?”
My throat closes up.
Why is that so important?
When this whole thing started between us, Alex didn’t seem to care about my family–about where I came from. But this is the second time he’s brought it up with so much urgency.
The look in his eye, the venom in his expression.
It feels like there’s more at play here than I know. If my time at Saint Frederic University has taught me anything, it’s that things are never what they seem. I can’t tell him the truth, not until I figure out what the fuck is going on.
“Louis,” I say. “Louis Moreau.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
My father’s middle nameisLouis. I’m exactly sure why, but Alexander’s demeanor makes me feel like I need to keep a bit to myself until things become a little clearer. There’s too much on my plate—and adding the complication of my homicidal, fuck-up of a father is only going to make things worse.
My answer stuns him for some reason, and for a beat I wonder if he knows I’m not exactly telling the truth. “Louis?”
I nod. “Louis.”
His grip on my hand loosens, and he leans back in his seat, resting his head against the supple leather headrest. The knot in my throat tightens. He picks up my untouched glass of champagne and downs it in a long gulp.
Alex doesn’t say anything else.
He doesn’t even look at me. Not even when the pilot’s announcement sounds over the speakers to prepare for takeoff. So I take one last sip of my orange juice and strap myself into my seat.
This definitely isn’t the right time to talk.
I look out the window, taking my last look at the green hills shimmering in Switzerland’s frosty sunshine. Alex’s words from earlier echo through my thoughts.
Whatever happens on this trip will change us forever.
FOUR
ALEXANDER
I’ve never slept wellon flights.
For some reason, falling asleep while I’m on a hunk of metal hurtling through the atmosphere at thousands of miles per hour never really appealed to me. So I’m surprised when Alize’s lips on mine pull me back to reality.
