1. Vera

Of course it's raining.

Not a light drizzle that sends a rainbow peeking out from behind the tops of the broad-leaved trees. Not the clap of a thunderstorm with fat, warm raindrops splashing down onto the tarmac. Rain that pushes sideways, slicing through the air like a steak knife as our wheels finally touch down on solid ground.

I grip the center armrest, my knuckles going white as the plane lurches sideways. Eighty tons of aluminum at the mercy of the wind. This is what I get for being a good daughter. I'm going to die in this Puddle Jumper of a tin can, an hour from my hometown.

Is it too late to contact my attorney and write a will? Probably. It's not like I can get anything notarized as we hurtle at alarming speed towards the tiny airport in the middle of nowhere. Airplanes need to invest in better brakes. I swear we're going faster now that we're on the ground.

Across the aisle, I make accidental eye contact with a tall, blond man and he smiles with all his teeth. He's been staring for most of the forty-minute flight from NYC, and I let myself give a faint smile back even as my hands protest my crushing grip on my seat. I can't tell if it's normal male interest, or if he recognizes me, but either way, I'd rather die here than let anyone uncover how overwhelmed I am at this exact moment.

It seems improbable for Vera Novak—face of Cooper Wells Designs and Immaculate Beauty, known as a familiar presence at fashion week, fashion and lifestyle influencer with over one hundred million followers—to be terrified of flying, and travel in general, but here we are.

It doesn't matter that I got on a bus at eighteen and moved to the city, that my first agency flew me to Japan to live in an eight-hundred square-foot apartment with three other models, that I traveled all over the island country for shoots and campaigns before being shipped off to Berlin. Then Toronto. Then LA. I never learned to love the journey so much as I learned to put on my game face and deal with the constant fear of death and dismemberment.

Travel has always been part of the job and no one wants to hear a model complain. Not about workouts, or food, or travel, or shoes two sizes too small, or the way the hairpins try to dig into my occipital lobe. Because according to the greater part of society, my job is supposed to be easy. And also coveted.

So I shut my mouth, and turn my gaze out the tiny oval window as the plane lurches to the left—leaving my stomach behind—and then slows to a stop.

The clapping sounds like rain too, and I watch the seatbelt sign flicker off as the grainy voice on the intercom announces our arrival in Eastbumfuck, New York. Population: more cows than people. I turn on my phone out of habit. I have zero missed calls and messages, but the pretense of scrolling through my email gives my heart rate time to level out and my breathing time to return to normal.

The hard part is over, Vera , I lie to myself. You're back on solid ground. Don't think about how you'll need to do this again in a week. Just don't.

I wait for the crush of passengers standing in the aisle to move before I stretch out my legs. I'm not in a rush, there's no point in shouldering my way through the crowd just to be stopped by the plane's closed door. My rowmate is already in the aisle, tapping a dark stiletto and sighing. She's wearing a navy suit set, her hair pulled back into a chic twist, and I catch myself wondering what business she has here among the pastures. It's mid-morning on a Monday so it could be a business meeting except I can't think of a single place she'd need a suit and heels for within a few hour radius.

I smooth my hands down the tops of my thighs, fingers slipping over the smooth texture of my leggings. I'm not dressed for the rain, not with my favorite, worn in, pair of sneakers and my new yoga set. Maybe that's why she's annoyed. Not at the crush of people, or the lack of forward movement, but at the open rural-ness of where we are and that she also forgot an umbrella.

If there is one thing LA is not, it's rural.

Or rainy.

My phone shakes in my lap, buzzing louder than it needs to against the metal of my seatbelt. I debate ignoring it, just for now, but Tandy will call back until I answer. She's persistent and annoying and dependable like that. I couldn't love her more.

I bring the phone to my ear and angle my body away from the aisle. Not a soul is paying attention to me, not even Blondie over there, but it still offers me the illusion of privacy.

"Hey T—"

I don't get to finish my greeting before my best friend is dragging my name out into the longest two syllables in existence.

" Darling, I was going to see if you wanted to grab brunch with Mal and I, but I noticed something strange when I went to pull up your number. Do you want to tell me why your location says Genosa, New York? "

Do I?

"Because I'm in Genosa."

" Well, obviously. " She laughs. " The only other explanation was that your phone was stolen, but I abandoned that one when you answered. Why are you all the way over there? "

"Um," I stall.

" Aren't your folks out that way? "

I rub a hand across my forehead, digging the pads of my fingers into the skin above my brows. The pressure is heavenly. Distracting.

" Is everything okay with your mama? Your daddy? "

This is why I stalled, because yes. Everything is okay with my parents for now. I talk to my dad at least once a week, Mom and I text and email almost daily, and I saw them at Christmas, but a few months ago everything wasn't fine with Tandy's dad. So now I'm sitting in a tiny vinyl plane seat, waiting for my blood pressure to return to normal—after what I'm sure was an objectively terrible landing—and I don't know how to explain the pull I felt to come home and see my folks without making the sister-of-my-soul relive a painful reminder that she can never do the same.

"They're great." I say, and it isn't a lie. They were great the last time I checked in a few days ago, but I wouldn't mind dropping this line of conversation. "My dad's birthday is this week. I thought I'd surprise them."

There's nothing like the unexpected death of a friend's father, to rearrange priorities. It doesn't matter that Tandy hadn't spoken to her dad since she left home at eighteen. Her loss is a reminder that time—and people—don't keep.

" Awe ." I can hear Tandy's smile and can almost see her silhouetted against the sliding balcony door in her SoCal apartment. " You could have told me. I'd have slid a Xanax into your morning coffee. "

"I didn't want the added pressure." I tell her, because Lord knows I've walked off flights before, and the best way to mitigate that humiliation is to not tell anyone it happened. "Besides. It was a last-minute decision."

" How last-minute? " I can hear Tandy's swallow and I picture her lips curling in a forced smile as her lashes blink and blink and blink.

"I'm on a commercial flight."

There's an audible gasp in my ear.

"In coach."

" Vera. No. You know Cooper would let you take the jet. His schedule's pretty open right now, but especially to see your family. I bet he'd tag along. You know how he loves field trips. "

"Environmental and ethical concerns I have around private flying aside,I repeat: last-minute decision."

" Yes, honey, eat the rich, but I promise traveling is a lot more comfortable in first class or without being surrounded by strangers who like to make inappropriate conversation with a famous model. Are you even safe? "

"That's happened—"

" At least six times I can think of, " Tandy says and I sigh. She's right. The curse of success in my line of work isn't just the travel. It's the lack of anonymity. Everyone who recognizes my face feels like they know me. That they have a right to my personal thoughts, feelings, anecdotes.

"Well, no one has bothered me today. This is going to be a low key visit. I'll celebrate with my parents and then," I take a breath, "catch a flight back home."

" Fine ," Tandy sighs. " But if you need a travel buddy, I can be to you in a day and we can fly back together. I'll book the tickets myself. "

I can't ask my grieving friend to come be a witness to a family—no matter how small—reunion. It doesn't matter how "fine" she pretends to be, it would be like pouring salt in a gaping wound. Messy, stinging, scarring.

"I'll be okay." I say, promising myself it will be true. "This is just the vacation I needed. I'm fine now that we've landed."

" You'll call— "

"I'll call you if that changes."

" Good ," Tandy says. " Now. Tell me what you got for your dad's birthday ."

"Um…" I hadn't thought that far in advance. Right now, I'm kicking myself for not packing a raincoat or boots. Rookie mistake. "I'm the gift?"

" Vera ." My name is a long-suffering sigh. " It is rudeto show up empty-handed ."

"Even to my—"

" Yes! It's still rude! " There's some muttering that sounds an awful lot like Tandy asking if she needs to do everything for everyone, and I feel myself smile. The first real one since I checked in at LAX.

"I'm going to miss you T. I'll only be gone a week, but I'm going to miss you."

It's true. As long as I've lived in California, Tandy Davis has been my family. She's Cooper Wells' personal assistant and I'm his most well-known face. We go to the same workout classes—yoga on Mondays, Pilates on Tuesday and Thursday, kick boxing on Friday. Grab lavender lattes and drink them on the Culver Steps, watching the locals walk their dogs and kids scurry off to dance class in frilly pink tutus.

She's the one I call when I see a cute puppy, or lose my mind and read the hate comments on any of my social media posts. She's the one who answers every phone call. The one who came and held my hand at the hospital when I got heat stroke after falling asleep on my beach towel in Santa Monica. She's set me up on dates—good ones—when I fall into the old hole of pining for my ex. If that isn't a true friend… a sister… I don't know what is.

" I know, darling. I'll miss you more. Now a quick google search told me there's a small bookstore in a tiny town called Gracious that has a special edition copy of that trilogy your dad collects. I'm putting the books on hold for you now and you can pick them up on your way home. There's a florist next door. Grab a bouquet for your mama, too. "

"Yes ma'am," I say, the last of my tension slipping away like the raindrops sliding down the plane windows. I glance at the aisle to discover it's mostly empty, which means it's time to grab my carryon and get the hell off this deathtrap. "You're the best friend ever, Tandy. I've got to go."

" Love you, darling. Have a wonderful week! "

"Love you more."

I end the call, slip the phone back into my purse, and stand. Planes are not built for height, and I have to hunch to avoid slamming my head into the flight attendant call button.

Blondie is still standing hunched in his own aisle. He let the horde pass too, and I sigh because I know what's coming next.

"Hey," he says as I step into the aisle and finally straighten my back.

I reach for my suitcase. Maybe if I look busy enough, he'll assume I didn't hear him.

"You're Vera, right? Vera Novak?"

I wonder how long I can pretend he doesn't exist. Cooper always tells me to travel with headphones jammed in my ears, even if I'm not listening to anything. Plausible deniability. I don't look up, keeping my eyes trained on the metal handle of my bag, fiddling with the zipper as I try to sidestep past the man.

He's not bad looking, or even unfriendly, but I am not interested in small talk with a complete stranger. Not while every atom in my being is straining to get off this damn airplane. I'm not interested in smiling and making eye contact and acting pleasant. I want an iced coffee, a bathroom, and to reapply my deodorant. Not necessarily in that order. The niceness could all be a trick, anyway.

Normally I'd be the first in line to tell anyone—especially women—that we do not owe men an ounce of anything more than basic courtesy. And even that is up for debate. Some men—some people—do not know how to take a hint. Or they're just assholes. Or both. But it's different when you're recognizable. Cooper put me on the map, but it was my Sports Unlimited edition that made me someone who got stopped in the street. Pose in a bikini once, and the world (read: men) thinks I owe them my time and energy.

"I'm Jack," the man says, and a giant hand appears under my nose. Close enough that a tiny voice in my brain tells me I could bite it. Or sneeze on it. I do neither.

I'd love to ignore every other person on this plane, or sail through a single day with relative anonymity. It's almost possible in LA, surrounded by people more famous than I am, but the unfortunate truth is if I don't turn on the charm for anyone and everyone who says hello, then I end up with a reputation for being cold. Aloof. Unapproachable. Three things that sound fantastic. Until I need to book another job and the photographer or designer has "reservations" about my personality.

"Hello," I say, looking up through my lashes. I was just under one-hundred-and-eighty centimeters last time my agency took my measurements. This man tops me by a few inches. His hands are enormous, sinewy, with short blunt nails. There are calluses wrapping around his thumb and the top of his pointer finger. When I slide my hand into his, I feel one along the base of his thumb too. "Nice to meet you."

"I hope you don't mind me saying hello," he says, and there's a hint of a blush dusting his rounded cheeks. Up close, he can't be much over eighteen, baby-face, patchy, attempted-beard and all. "I wasn't sure it was you, but I never forget…" he pauses. "A face." The grin he hits me with is complete with a dimple.

It's a fight not to roll my eyes.

I suppose he deserves an ounce of credit for keeping his gaze above my breasts. I'd bet my favorite pair of Louboutin heels it wasn't my face this kid stared at the first time he saw me, and I don't make jokes about my shoe collection.

I smile and step past him, tilting my head until my hair swings forward, brushing the top of my shoulder. It's a look I've practiced to make me look feminine, sweet, welcoming. It's meant to distract him while I walk away, and leave him with a fun memory of our very brief encounter. He can tell all his buddies that I was flirting with him. Once I'm ensconced in my hotel room.

"I'm Jack," he says again, stepping into the aisle behind me. He's not crowding into my personal space, but it's impossible not to know he's there. He's broader through the neck and shoulders than I realized.

"So you said." I keep my voice low, beating down my sarcasm with a stick. "I'm sorry, but I need to—"

"Jack Spaeglin," he says, as if the name will mean something to me. It almost does. A zap in my brain, neurons firing like I've heard it before and should recognize it. I don't. "I'm a hockey player."

He seems so proud of that fact, dimples spreading wide, blue eyes sparkling in the hazy light filtering in from the tiny, oval windows. I had guessed an athlete of some sort, but I should have known it was hockey. Once upon a time—in a life far, far away—my entire world revolved around hockey boys. Well, one in particular . I squash that thought before I can follow it like it's a carrot tied to a stick and dangling in front of my mouth. It took me the better part of the last sixteen years to leave the past in the past. I am not about to dredge it up here and now with a man I've never met.

"You must have worked very hard for that," I say, to soften the blow I'm about to send him, "but I'm sorry, I don't follow many sports."

"Oh."

I glance back at him, over my shoulder, and there's a tiny wrinkle between his brows.

"My bad," he shrugs, "I just thought you might follow my team."

I turn away to hide my eye roll, even as I wrack my brain. Does he play for Buffalo? They're the closest pro team. Or LA? It must have something to do with geography, which means he didn't just recognize me. He's also probably looked me up online.

"I play for the Arctic."

I almost stumble as the words stretch and condense in my brain. Because I'm a liar who tells big, whopping, fat lies to complete strangers. I do follow one sport. And one team. And it makes sense that I should have recognized him and his name because yes, the Arctic is the one team I follow. Except I don't pay attention for him. I pay attention—

"With Robbie Oakes," he says.

This time I do trip. Stumbling into the bank of seats to my left. My suitcase slams into my ankle bone, the ache radiating up my shin as I try to hide my wince.

Because that one hockey boy that used to be my universe? The one I've pretended that I don't still think about? He and boy wonder are teammates.

And the only reason this kid would be on a commercial flight to the-middle-of-nowhere, New York? During the off-season? Is probably to see the same man that I'm desperate to avoid.