I wake up when there’s turbulence and I hear the captain ordering the flight attendants to take their seats for safety.

Suddenly, I’m in a full sweat, eyes going directly to the flat screen TV / computer / tablet thing in front of me as though it’s going to have some answers about why the plane is bouncing all around. Sadly the thing only makes me more stressed by blipping out to a black screen then back on while hi-lighting how we’re over water with no land in sight.

I make eye contact with this random lady who’s walking briskly past me holding her iPhone while pointed at me, all while the stewardess says to her, “Ma’am. Ma’am. Please take your seat. Now.” After she escorts the woman past the curtain, she apologizes to me. “So sorry. It keeps happening.”

WTF. Were people walking up the aisle and taking photos of us this whole time? So. Weird.

I glance at my watch and realize that I must have fallen asleep for an hour or so, but according to the darn map, it appears we’ve hardly made progress toward the final destination goal of London’s Heathrow Airport.

When there’s more turbulence I start breathing all funny, and I think I’m having a panic attack, because suddenly I want to ask Vere, who’s reading a book on her Kindle, if she’s ever afraid of flying over oceans. I also want to whisper how I hate that we are forced to stare at this fancy flat screen map showing our tiny plane above the planet because it makes me realize how I’m inside that plane. If the plane looks small above the earth, then the part that makes up me inside of that plane is smaller than half of a half of a corner of dust!

I start sweating a little more. The clouds outside no longer fascinate me because they look dark and freaky and—is that lightning? I’m about to beg her to trade seats, because obviously asking for the window seat was a bad-bad idea. I want to shake Jennie awake and beg her for one of her sleeping pills. Maybe get myself one of those black-out eye masks, too. Because… because what if the worst happens right now, and we start crashing, and I’ve got a perfect view of the ocean below, and I die and I’m not with Sage? What will he do without me?

I swallow, dragging my gaze away from the window. I work hard to shove this irrational panic away, then manage to tamp it all down only because Clara and Jennie are moving around like the turbulence has made them wake up, too.

Maybe, eventually I’m going to have a nervous breakdown because of all of these life changes happening so fast, but I’m sure not going to have it in front of Clara and a whole bunch of strangers wielding cell phones. Not so they can film the whole thing and somehow share it on social media as well as the news and hold it against me forever.

I conjure up an image of Royce and his kind, ‘you’ve-got-this-Robin’ expression, while I force myself to contemplate things that are less scary than this plane falling out of the sky right now.

Will it be strange to see him? Will all of our walls be built up again? Will he and I be able to be genuine and easy with each other? Will there be mobs of press waiting at the London airport? Will he joke with me and call me ‘wife’ and hold my hand, or will the two weeks apart have made him realize this is madness and that he wants to cry off and start the divorce? What if someone finds out this is fake, and the courts realize they’ve been set up and change their mind about giving me, Mrs. Felix and Gregory legal custody of Sage?

As the turbulence settles, I’m able to calm down and make myself believe that everything, and every situation and even the plane is all fine.

Trying not to distract myself more, I pull out this fancy, lace edged pillow and a nice beige blanket all packaged up in a cute triangle that has been stowed in a little mesh basket under the window this whole time. I stuff the pillow behind my head trying not to feel guilty that I know the entire economy class behind the blue curtain, only has little square sized pillows and thin blue blankets, and that neither one of them came in pretty packages like mine did.

Vere curls onto her side and leans on her elbow and sits up eyeing my face. “You still awake? All okay?”

“Sort of, and sort of,” I whisper. “I guess I’m nervous. About…everything.”

“Don’t be. I know it’s strange for you. I’ve been in your shoes. You’re in for a wild ride, but it’s going to be so great.” She reaches over and places her pillow against my shoulder. “I’m so happy I get to be part of your London debut. We will shop, and see all the museums, maybe there will be time for a show. London is amazing.”

I toss her a grateful smile, snuggling closer to her. “Vere. I’m so happy you’re here with me right now. That we’re friends.”

Vere quickly puts her hand over my mouth, and shakes her head. “Aww. Back at you.”

Clara grumbles, “Can you two please be quiet? I had to pack all of Robin’s junk late into the night, so you should feel sorry for me and let me sleep through this flight before I’m forced to unpack it all. This is the only first class moment your servant will be allowed on this entire tour.”

Vere rolls her eyes. “I thought it was a paid internship? You also didn’t pack her stuff, you packed the stylists supplies, which is what you hope to do as a career?” She throws a crumpled up napkin over at Clara as Clara pulls off her sleeping mask. “I heard you’re getting something insane, like twenty-five dollars an hour? And doesn’t this internship include a free summer in Europe with the world’s coolest rock band? Clara. Please. You have to stop the pouting bit. It’s getting so annoying.”

“Fine. All that you said is true.” She puts her own fancy-pillow over her head, speaking through it. “But it still sucks that I’m a lower tier staff member when I should have been dating Royce or Adam by now. From where I sit, with Adam and Royce married, and Hunter permanently taken by you, I feel like I’m Cinderella and there’s no princes left. I won’t even get to go to the ball.”

“Yes you do. You get to sit at the music awards table with all of us.” Vere giggles. “You’re also in first class and you get to see every concert side-stage. Your VIP pass looks exactly like mine does which proves we’re the same status level. Clara, are you really asking us to feel sorry for you, really? Because I think you also get school credits for this summer.”

“I don’t care.” She whines out. “Please. Feel sorry for me, this all hurts where Band-Aids can’t touch.” Clara huffs again from under the pillow. “Robin stole my almost boyfriend and Adam had a baby with a girl called Eve and they named her Apple, which is so ridiculously adorable that you couldn’t even make it up if you tried. And I will never get over either scenario. Never. I am seriously traumatized and still endlessly single, because no guys will measure up to the guys in Guarderobe and you both know it. Feel. Sorry. For. Me.”

Vere shakes her head and we both laugh. “Clara you’re killing us. I’m going to sleep.” She pushes the reclining button in her seat, and because I didn’t know where the button was until I saw Vere doing hers, I find mine and recline along with her, watching with amazement as the mahogany arm rest miraculously comes back into place between us.

“Don’t mind her overmuch—she’s just slow at accepting change,” Vere says loud enough for Clara to hear. “Did you know she also goes to my college?”

“I think you mentioned it.”

“She will fall in love with a new boy, probably the day we arrive in London, and she will calm down and stop acting psycho.”

“Vere.” Clara’s voice comes out clipped and prissy. “You do not need to tell her my whole life story.”

“Yes I do. I want Robin to know that as you travel on to Paris, where I won’t be able to come along, that you are always more bark than bite. You know it’s true.”

“Wrong.” Clara snorts. “In this horrible situation, I’m all bite.”

Vere rolls her eyes. “She’ll take great care of you in my absence.”

“Not. I’m going to throw her into the Seine as soon as you leave for the airport.”

I raise my brows and make the crazy sign with my finger next to my temple, mouthing the word: wow.

“You’ll get used to her. I swear,” Vere giggle-whispers, then laughs at the doubting face I’m making, adding, “She’s funny after a while. Maybe she will even go shopping with us.”

“Nope again.” Clara grumbles. “Not funny. Not shopping. No. Count me out. I’m here to work not to make any new friends.”

I shake my head, praying that Clara doesn’t go shopping with us while biting back how I don’t want to be friends with her anyhow, because I don’t hang out with mean girls. But, instead, I hold my tongue and snuggle in again, closing my eyes to think, because Vere looks really tired. I think if it looks like I’ve nodded off, she will relax and stop mothering me how she does and get some rest too.

* * *

While listening to Vere’s steady sleep-breathing, I keep my eyes closed and ponder the shopping idea, because I’ve been encouraged more than once, to go shopping since I’ve married Royce, but I just haven’t had the heart to do it.

Mrs. Felix, Gregory and Royce even gave me my own bank account along with some credit and debit cards to go with it. It’s an account that they set up using the thousand dollars they’d owed me in nanny fees, so it’s not like I’m broke or anything because that 10k is money that I’d made while working for them. When the paperwork settles I will also be getting my dad’s ARMY support paycheck auto deposited into that same account. That will come in once a month, but that hasn’t started up yet as it needs to be changed from our past guardian’s account back in North Carolina.

Only, my account has way more than my earned ten thousand dollars in it. It’s now holding forty thousand dollars.

Forty. Thousand.

Mrs. Felix put it there last week, explaining that the extra amount was normal rock-star-wife expenditures that will crop up for me.

Whatever-the-heck those might be, I’m not bold enough to ask. I’ve also realized that I’ve had no need for anything since our wedding day. That’s because everything, down to the soft travel-slippers on my feet, has been hand delivered to me before I even know I might need it.

Before I left on this trip, Mrs. Felix had noticed I hadn’t been spending my money, and she encouraged me to go ahead and use it how I saw fit. She also said that I could shop as much as I wanted to when I was out with Royce while on my travels around the world. That it was expected, and not to worry that there would be ‘more to come’, I was only to ask if I wanted more.

Only when she’d said that, I didn’t feel excited. I felt nervous. Guilty. Overwhelmed.

Maybe I felt—still feel—like a fraud. But who, in my situation wouldn’t feel that?

Touching that money would mean touching the credit cards that are typed up with a name that doesn’t belong to me, but that people call me now.

I’m Mrs. Devlin. Robin Devlin. Mostly, people just call me Royce Devlin’s wife.

Gregory even took me out to get a NYC driver’s license with my new name printed on it. My Passport has been changed, too. It’s been hard enough to flash the license and the passport to airport security today, because each time I see that fake name, I think to myself…I’m Robin. Robin Love, and I keep waiting for everyone to point a finger at me and call me out about this whole farce.

As for spending that money? Heck no. That is not ever going to happen. I feel like I should be paying them back for all that they’ve done for me, not spending more.

I know the legal costs of just one, so-so lawyer is about $150.00 per hour. Mrs. Felix’s team of attorneys is top notch, and they’ve spent hours—days even—drafting up paperwork and appearing in court again and again with me or on my behalf. They explained what was going on, using smaller vocabulary words so even Sage could understand which took forever for them. The part where we finally did win custody of Sage was awesome. Mrs. Felix and Gregory are staying behind this week, to sign on as legal family guardians for Sage. They’re drawing up special documents stating they will step in and support Sage until he’s a full adult, including his university fees, should I accidentally pass away somehow. They even made me something called a living will where I stated all of my wishes for Sage, should that happen. Which took even more legal papers and time.

I know, by this point, Sage and I have cost them thousands of dollars. They’ve also hired a special private investigation company that is currently working on locating information about whether my father is dead or alive. It’s a company that has brought back hostages and found ‘missing people’ who weren’t really missing rather taken, and they’ve had successful extractions (that’s what they call it) all over the world.

Attorney fees I can guess at, but there’s no way I can guess at how much this private mercenary company costs to hire. I creeped on their website and it was slick, and swanky. All silver with grey and serious sans-serif fonts. The site listed what the company does, but said only that fee structures were to be individualized per case requirements.

So…yeah. More and more thousands must be flying around to that company, all because of me again. Mrs. Felix and Gregory have assured me that none of this, or the fees, are any sort of hardship for them. That they’re happy to help us. That it makes them happy.

Mrs. Felix even tried to flip my worries by telling me that Guarderobe has sold more albums and individual song tracks on iTunes than they’ve ever sold before. She, like Royce, has also hinted that it started the day Royce and I got married. She assured me that the band is making tons of money off of the publicity our situation is creating. She even told me the Orb Hotel NYC, as well as the world-wide bookings of her chain are way up because people have this idea they might see me and Royce staying in one of them. Now that the world now knows it’s the preferred and obvious residences for the band, they’re nearly sold out all of the time.

I think she just told me all of that to be nice, to make me feel better after I’d asked her to keep track of the spending on my behalf so later she could present me with a smaller bill that I would work hard to pay back. But…I’m keeping track, with or without her.

I also told her I wasn’t going to buy any of her invented stories about how Sage and I are creating money out of thin air. I know that after living in two ORB hotels, I argued that bookings are up because the Orb chain offers the best luxury hotels in the world.

I also asserted that if Guarderobe is selling more and more albums and tracks, it’s because Guarderobe is talented and awesome and has worked long and hard for their fame and that their successes have nothing to do with Royce marrying me.

* * *

Vere jostles me out my thoughts by accidentally whacking me with her backpack while stuffing all of her clutter back inside. I take it from her and do up the top zipper while she makes this hilarious show of making her cheeks go red and her eyes bug out while forcing air into this giant, bright red, soft coated, plastic neck pillow. She throws it around her neck and flutters her eyelashes. “Sexy, isn’t it? But I can’t sleep on a plane without this baby.”

I laugh, raising my brows at her. “If you say so.” We stow her backpack again and nestle back down facing each other. “I’m so excited about London,” I whisper. “But I’m also really scared. London is so sophisticated. What if I mess up and wear my clothes backwards again.”

I grab the Entertainment News magazine and point to the photo of me and Royce laughing at a Hot Dog stand. “What if all the things I’m expecting to eat taste like the hot dog I spit out here? Thankfully, no one took a photo of me dumping it in the trash.”

Vere blinks. “All of New York City knows some of the stands don’t have good dogs, and some do. You got a bad dog and threw it away. So what? People overreacted.”

“Clara told me that the whole world is watching. That a whole city would have had its feelings hurt if I’d have been caught making a bad face or spitting that hot dog out, or trashing it. She says there’s always big organizations watching us, like…she said I could get the band in serious trouble for dumping that hot dog in the trash.”

Vere’s brows shoot up. “What? With who? Like…who is she talking about?”

I shrug. “Maybe something like… the Hot-Dog-Collation-Union of America would post on their website that all hot dog lovers are never to buy Royce’s albums again. All because my actions were a direct rejection of the entire hot dog industry? Or…hog farmers could be angry? Or people who track food waste? I don’t know. It’s a lot of stress to think about this extra stuff. Clara just told me that I need to be really conscious about every move I make from now on.”

Vere laughs, then whispers, “It’s possibly true, but Clara shouldn’t have you worrying about this kind of stuff.”

I press on, “It’s such pressure being in the public eye, isn’t it? I’m serious Vere. What will happen if I mess up again and accidentally insult entire countries because I have a weak stomach and a strong sense of smell? I’m terrified.”

She laughs again. “You’re bound to mess up. You’re only human. But look, right now the world seems to like how you goof up. You’re so real about all that you do.” Vere pulls out her phone again, then searches something. “Look.” She puts the phone between us so we can both see, pausing on photo after photo of girls dressed in too-short shorts wearing the same Challa shirt I wore to that first honeymoon interview. And the shirt is being worn backwards and tied at the waist, exactly how I did it. “When you mess up, you set trends. You’re the new ‘it’ girl. You and Royce are America’s real live fairytale couple. Just be you, because I’ve learned in this life, that’s the only thing you can be.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I drop my voice to the quietest whisper so I’m sure only she can hear my deepest fear. “But what if me being all real and awkward isn’t ever good enough to be standing next to a guy like Royce? I really could mess up the career he’s worked so long to grow.”

“Please. Robin. Listen to this.” She rolls her eyes. “When I first started dating Hunter and these photos broke of him kissing me. It was the day he asked me to officially go out with him. It happened in front of a whole suburban neighborhood while the local news stations had cameras pointed at me. I’d just been crying, and I was all blotchy, and everyone on the planet was literally, overnight, asking: What the heck! Hunter Kennedy is dating some hot mess from Colorado.”

She widens her eyes and points to her chopstick-crazy-bun. “In addition to this untamable mess of hair, I had zero fashion sense. I wore baggy hoodies I’d stolen from my brother, as well as my dad’s old jeans that I’d hacked off and made them into tattered shorts. I wore them nearly every day. Like a bad uniform made out of WTF.”

Her scrunched up face makes me crack up.

She goes on, “I would belt them to be all tight around my waist and they were beyond monster huge on me with the cut-off strings going all around my legs. It was the worst look possible for anyone to copy and suddenly half of the planet stole their father’s jeans, chopped them up and started walking around in them. Stores started selling shorts that looked like they were made from my father’s old jeans!”

“Wait. You’re taking credit for that entire trend. Come on. You sound insane.”

“Yes. It’s true. It’s because those shorts landed in in every magazine just how you have landed in every magazine. I was always listed under new trends.” She blinks her eyes wide, twice. “And this messy clump of hair kind of bun also went from everyone’s couch onto runways! There were whole magazine articles and YouTube videos on how to perfect it.”

I shake my head, thinking about what she’d said, as Vere presses on, “It wasn’t me that started this hairstyle or cut of shorts, but it was the photos of me kissing Hunter while sporting these looks that made it go viral. All of the girls thought messy buns and bad shorts were what rockstars and cool guys were looking for in a girl. And so, I was like their tipping point. I accidentally led innocent girls into my bad fashion choices.”

We both crack up again. “I’ve copied stars, too. Or wanted to, anyhow,” she says. “Remember when Fault in Our Stars and then, Divergent came out? The movies?” She blinks her eyes wider. “I wanted to cut all my hair off super short. I was obsessed with the word dauntless and I was sure short hair would make me look, strong and get me to that moon and back feeling. Admit it. You know you wanted to chop your hair, too.”

I snuggle down closer to her, nodding. “I did. Okay. I did. To act all ‘Dauntless’ was my life goal because obviously I seem to lack that capacity. I also dreamed about cutting my hair like that non-stop. I almost went for it, too, after I found out Veronica Roth, the author who wrote the Divergent series? She also had awesome short hair at the time.”

Vere sighs. “Yes. I knew that. I love those books so much. And this is why we were such fast friends. You and I have similar hearts and minds.” Vere lies back adjusting her crazy neck pillow. “Clara is right, people are watching us, and maybe it’s millions of people. But for the most part, I think they’re simply watching because they’re looking for inspiration.”

“That’s for sure. But what if I influence someone badly? How do you deal with the pressure of it all?” I fix my own pillow under my neck.

“I just try to think that everyone who’s watching wants a catalyst. Something that helps them dream big. That little push to be courageous enough to try something different so they can tear off the mask and show the world who they really are without being afraid.”

She turns over on her side, the expression in her eyes going all dreamy. “I think we all carry this hope that these little changes, like hair…or new shorts, or wearing clothes backwards, will give us an added layer of armor against the world. They’re not really looking at us. It’s not personal. You know? Like, you and I weren’t really looking at the actress from the Divergent movies or trying to be her exactly by wanting to cut our hair. It was more about emulating the ‘cool-dauntless’ she invoked in both of those movies. We were hoping to feel a little bit braver in a world that seems so scary and out of control. That’s what I think, anyhow.” She shrugs. “I like to think that maybe somewhere if I just stay real—do me as hard as I can without doubting myself, then I’m helping someone out there feel brave and stronger, too. As much as it’s scary, if you can think of it like that then you don’t have to worry so much?”

“Maybe, but it’s really hard to squelch the feeling that I’m lacking something,” I sigh out, as new doubts crowd in. “For example… I never cut my hair off, because I wasn’t brave enough to actually do it. I’m also the last person anyone should be looking at for inspiration, because despite the part where I say everything is going to be fine all the time, I’m sort of endlessly feeling like all is crumbling around me.”

Vere smiles. “Don’t you get it, Robin? We’re all walking around with scotch-tape holding our lives together. We’re wondering what the hell we are going to do to keep it together tomorrow and I don’t think anyone our age ever feels like they’re standing on solid ground. All of us. And in this rockstar world it’s so much worse. None of us know what we’re doing, all while we have this anvil over our heads, because we’re waiting for the ride to end like everyone says it will.”

When I answer, “Okay. Well that’s sad.”

She smiles at me like she’s a teacher who’s breaking through to a new student. “Whatever happens, Royce is going to be there for you how Hunter was for me when I was new to all of it. He’s such a solid friend. He won’t let you slip up. No way. That guy is so into protecting you that when you’re in the room his eyes hardly leave off tracking you. Together you and he have got this.”

“Yeah. That’s the exact line he and I keep saying to each other, actually.” I answer, mostly for show because the stewardess was passing by, and because Vere and I both know Royce is sweet to me, yes. But her words so-into me are not sitting quite right.

I’m unable to meet her gaze any longer. I can tell from the look on her face she’s just caught up to my line of thinking. The crease going across her brow deepens and it now tells me she’s reached the same conclusion, and that she might feel sorry for me. She drops her voice to a super quiet whisper how I did. “Well…you’re friends. Good friends, right?”

“It’s fine.” I answer with a small shrug. “Better than fine. And I’ve got you, too now, right?” I wink at her answering nod, then I fake a yawn and roll over to my other side, busying myself opening the sealed packaging on my blanket while reading the words: 100% Real Cashmere, with our compliments, that’s printed on the bag.

When I shake it out and pull it up to my chin, I almost sigh out loud, because I’ve heard about cashmere sweaters before, but I’ve never actually touched one. This blanket is like getting a hug from about two thousand baby rabbits.

My throat tightens as another random panic attack surfaces, this time about the blanket, because… maybe it’s not made from rabbits. Maybe it’s from baby lambs? Baby camels? Maybe Cashmere is the name for some cool synthetic fabric?

A lump forms in my throat, because despite what I’ve said to Vere, even here with no cameras pointed at me, I’ve failed. If I don’t know what this blanket is made out of here in my fancy first class seat. I’m not going to know 95% of what’s thrown at me in London, despite all of the table-manners training that Mrs. Felix gave me. And when I get to Paris, a country where I don’t even speak the language? I’m dead.

Thankfully, this fancy seat comes with free internet on the touch screens so, I sit up a little so I can Google the word cashmere.

Before I can type anything though, Clara sits up and rips off her mask. “What are you doing? Stop fidgeting around. Between you and Vere I’m getting no sleep on this flight.” And then, as though she just read my mind and wants to rub salt into my wounds, she starts cursing me out in French! And it sounds legit and perfectly fluent. She’s also got that model-perfect, sophisticated glare-pout on her face while she’s talking, and suddenly I’m imagining her saying: Robin, when I was born I was wrapped in a cashmere blanket. My first word was Cashmere. My Christmas stocking is Cashmere. My cat’s name is Cashmere. But you’re 100% cotton all the time.

Quickly, I work to force any doubts and my insane worries out of my expression and pout-glare back at her like she and cashmere-whatever-it-might-be hasn’t just shaken me down. “I was going to watch a movie. I’ll use my headphones,” I bluff.

“You better.” She rolls her eyes and flops back down, still watching me like I’m some sort of bug in a jar she can’t figure out.

Maybe she’s all-bark-no-bite. And maybe like Vere says, I’ll get used to her funny sense of humor; but after one month of trying hard to make this girl like me every time we interact, I suddenly decide I don’t care if she does anymore.

So, for the first time since meeting Clara, I decide to do a little barking-back for myself. I pull the blanket up around my chin saying, “Don’t you just love these cashmere blankets, Clara? Royce has these adorable pajama pants made of this stuff. I love them.” I add in another lie, then sigh while I fake-smile dreamily at the ceiling. “It’s so great for cuddling up to, right? I cannot wait to see him.” When she doesn’t answer, and rolls back over, shoving her mask back onto her face I add, “Oh…sorry. Right. You wanted to sleep. Sorry.”

Clara doesn’t answer again, just rolls over further, covering her face up with her blanket. It feels like a small victory, because now, I don’t have to see her sneering under that mask anymore. Thankfully, she doesn’t move again until we begin our descent into London.

By then, I haven’t slept a wink. But I’ve done my research and then some.

Cashmere is a wool. Made from fancy goats—but only the neck fur of fancy goats. And even though it’s a goat, people still call it a lamb, so we can also call cashmere lambs-wool. Yep.

I’ve totally got this.