CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

When you grow up in the slums, you have some pretty vivid ideas of traveling. You imagine yourself walking in the cobbled streets of Italy, maybe running with the bulls in Spain. But nothing prepares you for the utter exhaustion of having to take two planes to get to a country, and an overlay that seems as if it will never end.

It's especially unpleasant if your companion barely speaks two words to you. Maybe if I was traveling with Phoebe or even Sammy, the time would have gone by faster.

On the last leg of the second flight, I go over to Thomas's cubicle, courtesy of first class and too much alcohol, and glare down at him where he's lying down with his head propped on his arms.

"Care to explain why you're in such a prissy mood." I say low enough so one of the flighty attendants can't overhear our conversation. "I'm insulted, I thought you would've missed me."

He doesn't bother opening his eyes, and when I get no reaction from him, I huff and turn around to go back to my own