Prologue

“ F light 877 to Denver is boarding now. All passengers on Flight 877, please proceed to gate sixty-five for boarding,” a woman's voice announces over the intercom.

Finally. As little as I want to be here at all, we’ve been delayed twice. Which puts me two and a half hours behind schedule. I stand and grab my carry-on bag before getting in the A line. First class would have been much more enjoyable, but apparently, I’m on a “budget” until I learn to “make it on my own.” What Sullivan Rutherford, dear old dad, fails to acknowledge is that I’ve been on my own from the time I could walk. Probably before then, but that’s a story for another time, preferably in therapy, and I have a plane to catch.

I say a quick hello to the neatly dressed attendant behind the desk, swipe my phone over the red scanner, and hear it beep.

“Have a nice flight,” she tells me with a smile.

“Thank you,” I reply. She doesn’t need to know this flight was not my idea, and as much as it looks like I’m willingly getting on this plane, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. No, telling her that would probably lead to either a very uncomfortable silence or a call to Airport Security. Neither sounds like something I want to deal with at the moment. I’ll keep all that frustration inside until it gets to be too much, and I end up making an impulsive decision. No, Ivy. We aren’t doing that anymore. I scold myself silently and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry?” The woman in front of me turns and looks at me. Okay, not so silently.

“I didn’t say anything,” I tell her with a polite smile, gaslighting the shit out of her. She gives me a confused look before turning to face the front of the line again. I really need to work on keeping those inside thoughts— inside .

“ Speaking to yourself out loud is a completely normal reaction to trauma. About 25 percent of adults participate in it.”

At least that’s what my therapist said when I told her I was alone a lot growing up and then again during my failed marriage. So here we have it—a trauma response? Check. A failed marriage at twenty-seven and enough baggage from it to last a lifetime? Check, check. Enough room in this overhead compartment to fit my bag? Probably not, and I doubt all my emotional baggage would fit either.

“Hello, welcome aboard flight 877. We’re so sorry for the delay, everyone,” one of the flight attendants greets us as passengers step onto the plane.

“Hello,” I tell them with a small wave and try my best to smile. I know it’s not their fault we’ve been delayed or that I’m here in the first place. I am practicing being patient. I make the long journey back to my seat. My seat must be in the last row of the Pacific Ocean instead of the LAX tarmac because I stand in the aisle with my ass in everyone's faces for what feels like forever. As I inch my way through the cabin, I search until I find my assigned seat. Right next to the bathroom. Great. I roll my eyes and barely fit my bag in the overhead compartment. I double-check my ticket, and dear lord help me, I’m in the middle seat. Sighing, I address the man in the aisle.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m right in the middle there,” I say, pointing at my seat. “Would you mind if I squeezed past you?” I pour the last bit of patience into my tone. He looks up at me from the TV show he’s already playing on his phone, removes his headphones, and takes a little too long raking his beady eyes up the rest of me before reaching my face.

“Not at all,” he tells me, leaning back in his seat and spreading his legs further apart. “Go ahead,” he encourages with a condescending smile, and I swear he fucking winks at me. Gross. I stare at him. I may not personally know this man, but I know him. The men who get handsy when their flirting attempts fail, with their heads so far up their asses that they think there must be something wrong with me if I’m not ready to jump into bed with them. His mother probably told him he was such a handsome boy one too many times in his formative years. Unfortunately for him, he’s about to find out that even on a good day, this isn’t behavior I tolerate, and the patience I have worked so hard to maintain throughout today has run out.