Free The Year of the Crocodile by Courtney Milan

1
    TINA
    February, eleven months later
    I feel like a walnut rattling around in a mason jar up here in the expensive part of the plane. The seats are a little too wide and the flight attendant a little too helpful. He took my coat when I got on board. He’s offered me champagne and refilled my iced tea three times in the last hour. All this subtle attention isn’t unpleasant, but it leaves me on edge. I’m used to being anonymous and unseen. Now, I feel like everyone is looking at me.
    This is what happens when I let my boyfriend buy me plane tickets.
    Truth is, even flying home seems like an unspeakable luxury. Every time I’ve made the trip down to Southern California from Berkeley, it was by car—either my parents’ aging Volvo or a ride that I picked up on a ride share forum. More recently, I’ve traded shifts driving with my boyfriend.
    But here’s the thing. My boyfriend is Blake Reynolds.
    I sneak a glance over at him. He’s tall and thin, but over the eleven months of our relationship, his thin has fleshed out into a mere lanky. He’s still scruffy—our flight left early enough that he skipped shaving—and his stubble is a shade darker than the messy blond hair he’s sporting.
    He’s concentrating on his laptop.
    It isn’t school stuff. If Blake spends more than an hour or two on his college coursework a week, I haven’t noticed. He’s doing Cyclone work. Of late, he’s been tinkering with things for his dad’s company more and more. And no surprise; Cyclone is a huge part of his life. It’s the source of the wealth that had him buying these plane tickets without so much as a blink of an eye.
    Blake has lost himself in whatever he’s working on. When he’s intent on a problem, he gets this look of intense concentration in his eyes—this steel-blue well of determination that reminds me of his father. Blake frowns at the screen and taps his fingers against the armrest, as if he could vanquish whatever problem he’s been presented with by means of a single, well-placed curse word.
    The flight attendant brings warmed mixed nuts.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Blake says absently.
    â€œBlake.” Just one word. A light touch of my hand against his wrist.
    He blinks. He comes back to himself from behind his laptop screen, inhaling, looking around his surroundings almost blearily, like a zombie brought back to consciousness. He glances at me, then focuses on the ceramic container that the attendant holds out.
    â€œUh, right. I changed my mind.” He gives the attendant a bright smile. “Thanks.”
    He shuts his laptop, slides it into the seat pocket in front of him, and picks up the nuts. He’s not really a picky eater, but he does take his time about things. He examines an almond, as if selecting precisely the right nut is a matter of grave importance, and pops it in his mouth.
    â€œHabit,” he tells me.
    Habit indeed. I can measure his changing habits by his wrists.
    â€œYou doing okay? I didn’t mean to ignore you. There was just a little fire to put out, and I got sidetracked into…” He trails off and frowns. “Son of a bitch. That’s what my dad would do. Am I turning into my dad?”
    I hold out a hand. “Definitely not. See? No shaking. I’m not scared witless. So you’re not your dad.”
    God, his smile rocks me back. His smile broke me first, that bright splash of warmth that thawed all my secret fears. When he smiles, I can’t help but smile in return.
    â€œBesides,” I continue, “I’ve ignored you for work, before, too.”
    â€œTrue.” He shrugs. “And it’s just a flight.”
    Just a flight. “To you. I’ve never flown first class before.”
    He shrugs. “You still haven’t. This is business, and it’s basically business lite. Domestic business is sketchy as hell.”
    My eyebrows