All mistakes are mine, folks!


"This is just great," I mutter as the flight attendant leaves with her cart.

I stare at the lukewarm, dry as fuck chicken breast that tastes as bland as it looks. I shuffle around the side salad with a cardboard fork. It's drenched in olive oil dressing, the diced tomatoes drowning.

"You do know your ticket cost me over two grand, right?" Gianna asks me. I turn my head, my legs cramped into this three-seat row, my back stiff even after only three hours in this godforsaken plane.

This feels like I'm sixteen again, taking the Jitney to the Hamptons because Dad took the keys to my car after a spat. This feels ridiculously alike. Except I was drunk for most of the ride and there isn't even complimentary champagne on this flight.

"I'll reimburse you. No worries," I mutter, shoveling down the food.

Fucking munchies.

"Sorry, sir…" she sighs and turns discreetly in her seat. Damn Gianna for being the size of a large child. She's not even using up all the leg room. "But with what money? After all I've read I'm not su—"

I cut her off right then and there.

"You know what," I strain in my seat, digging into my back pocket, my wallet pressed uncomfortably into my backside. "Here," I throw the rolled-up bills onto the tray in front of her, the Middle-Eastern man next to me gaping at us with wide eyes. "That should cover it," I say, toxicity lacing my voice.

Gianna takes the bills without hesitation and shoves them into the purse by her feet.

"Not to be crass, but are you sure you can afford that?" Her voice is timid, but all sorts of smiles are hiding in her eyes.

"I'm Edward Cullen. I can afford anything I want."