“This feels…surreal,” she murmurs. “I don’t feel like myself.”

“You’re going to enjoy the ride,” I remind her.

She nods. “Where’s Cheryl?”

“Taking a flight tomorrow. She wanted to finalize tax stuff for our accountant before leaving.”

“This is the way to fly,” Amy gushes as she videos our surroundings.

“You a member of the Mile High Club?” JD asks her as he props his feet up on a footstool.

She giggles. “No. Airplane bathrooms are gross.”

JD grins. “Then you get to join the club in style today. Though it might by kinky fun to slum it in a lavatory in coach.”

Amy wrinkles her nose. “They’re so small. And they smell.”

Lim returns to offer a copy of every newspaper they have onboard, such as the Wall Street Journal or New York Times.

JD waves him away and turns back to Amy, “So what’s the worse place you’ve ever had sex?”

Amy thinks. “I don’t know. In high school, my senior year, my ex and I did it in his bedroom one day, but his younger sister’s bedroom was right next to his. She was fourteen, but it was still kind of awkward thinking she might have heard us.”

I look at Bridget. “What about you?”

“I briefly dated a guy who roomed with two other guys in a dorm. They had beer cans, junk food and their underwear all over the place.”

“Your turn,” JD says to me.

“Outdoor bathroom at a gas station off Highway 5,” I answer.

“Ewww,” Amy groans. “That’s worse than an airplane lavatory.”

I look at JD and wonder if he’s going to tell the truth about the worse place he had sex: a brothel in Vietnam where stray dogs wandered in and out of the room.

“A garden bench,” JD says. “The thing was old and made of wood. I must’ve ended up with a dozen splinters in my ass.”

Amy giggles. “So where’s the best place you ever had sex?”

“Wherever you are, babe.”

Amy looks like she’s going to melt.

After the plane has taken off and reached cruising altitude, Lim offers us another drink and takes our meal orders. Bridget looks over the menu and asks about a tea, which Lim describes in detail about cherry blossoms and red fruits wrapped in hand-sewn teabags.

“Five courses!” Bridget exclaims as she looks over course selections. “We just ate back at the lounge. I don’t even know what some of this stuff is.”

“I can order for you,” I offer, curious how much control she’d cede.

“I’ll figure it out,” she replies, eventually choosing the fennel salad with mizuna, chicken and mutton satay, a noodle soup, Boston lobster, and a peach cake inspired by Chanel. “I’m going to feel guilty eating all this.”

“You want us to move down to coach so you can feel less guilty?” I ask.

“No. I wouldn’t make you do that. Besides, I don’t know that you’d survive fifteen plus hours in coach.”

“Cute.”

“I mean it. You ever flown coach before?”