Bertram raised his head and stared at me, his face a mask of utter confusion.
"Son, what are you talking about?"
"When did I ever compliment your girlfriend? I've never even laid eyes on her." He gestured at the empty seat beside me. "From the moment I boarded this plane, you've been sitting here by yourself. That seat has been empty the entire time. Nobody has sat there."
His tone was calm. Matter-of-fact. As though every word out of his mouth were the plain, simple truth.
And the more natural he sounded, the more wrong it all felt.
"That's impossible," I said. "You said it to her face. You praised her, right in front of me. She's been with me this whole flight. There's no way you didn't see her."
The moment the words left my mouth, passengers across the cabin turned to stare. Their eyes carried something between pity and suspicion.
"Kid, I remember you boarding alone."
"That seat next to you has been empty since takeoff. What girlfriend?"
"Maybe the turbulence rattled you. You're not thinking straight. Could be your mind playing tricks on you."
I looked from face to face, searching for a single crack in their certainty, a flicker of recognition, anything.