“You going to call her?” He rubs his hand along his jaw and shakes his head. “Not my type.” “Jessica’s not your type?” I ask, flabbergasted. “I feel like she’s everyone’s type.” “Not mine,” he says. “Is that so? Then what is your type?” I ask. He stands and sticks his hands in his pockets. He looks down at me and says, “I’m staring at it.” With that, he heads back toward the middle of the plane, leaving me in utter disarray. Because who says that and walks away? Levi Posey, that’s who.
