THIRTY-SIX
LIV
I flew to Denver alone in the early afternoon on the twenty-third of November, the day of Thanksgiving. Warin had informed me he’d fly by himself the previous night, and as much as I loved flying with him, a nearly three hours spent shivering on Warin’s back wasn’t nearly as attractive as the first-class ticket he’d bought me.
I arrived not too long after sunset, and found a chauffeur waiting for me with a cardboard sign at the airport.
He turned out to be driving a limo.
Warin was certainly going all-out in trying to make up. As I leaned back and sipped a glass of champagne, I couldn’t deny it was pretty nice that he tried this hard. I was already grateful that I didn’t have to dip into my savings for the flight and hotel room, but this—this was above and beyond.
The
