CHAPTER 2
Flight
“I knew it,” Clara says. “All men are the same cheating motherfuckers.” There it is. The rage I can’t quite access yet. Delivered cleanly and without hesitation.
Silence stretches between us. “Back then,” she adds, “I’d tell you to go on that work trip and get yourself some one-night-stand dick.”
A pause.
“But we’re adults now, so technically I shouldn’t say that.”
She absolutely can. She just likes pretending she’s evolved. My sister has always been on the bright side of life. The glitter. The chaos. The one who can turn a funeral into a networking opportunity. I love her for it. I envy her for it.
I am… not that.
At parties, I’m the girl standing near the snack table pretending to be deeply invested in a bowl of chips so no one feels obligated to talk to me.
Conversations feel like interviews I didn’t prepare for and when I do try, when I force myself to be electric, to laugh a little louder, to lean in like I’m fascinated, it works. I can do it. I can perform.
But it drains me. Not physically, mentally. Like I’ve been holding a smile too long and my face starts to ache. By the end of the conversations, I’m exhausted from pretending to be someone who doesn’t need silence to recharge.
Balance, she calls it. Yin and yang.
“Clara… I don’t know what to do.” There. I said it. The sentence I hate more than I was wrong.
“Yes, you do,” she says immediately. No hesitation. “You always do.”
A small, humorless sound escapes my throat.
“Era,” she continues, and now her voice is softer, not kinder, just steadier. “When we were kids and everything went to shit, you were the one who said, ‘There’s always a way.’ Remember that?”
My stomach drops.
I do remember. Broken bikes. Missed rent. Mom crying in the kitchen when she thought we were asleep. There’s always a way, I’d say like I believed it.
“You don’t get to forget your own advice now,” Clara adds. “He’s done this before. You forgave him. He cried. He came back. And now? I’m not even surprised.”
The word surprised lands harder than cheating.
“I know he loves me,” I say. And I hate how small my voice sounds when it comes out.
Clara exhales. Not dramatic. Just tired. “Era. This is not love.”
My chest tightens like someone just pulled something sharp inside it.
Not love.
I look down at my watch. It is 8:06 p.m. Time keeps moving and it feels insulting.
“Call an Uber,” she says calmly. “You have time before boarding.”
Of course she knows what I’m thinking. My flight boards at 10 p.m. Five hours from San Diego to JFK. Five hours in the air with nothing but recycled oxygen and the truth.
There’s always a way. Always a way to forget. Always a way to leave. The question is, am I finally ready to take it?
It’s 8:42 p.m. when I’m hauling my suitcase out of the Uber’s trunk. The airport lights are too bright. Too sterile.
“Thank you. Hope you have a good trip, miss,” the driver says.
Me too, I whisper to myself.
Good trip. As if this is just a work conference. As if I’m not dragging the remains of my marriage behind me in a carry-on. I walk toward security, toward Gate 26. JFK. Boarding on time. 9:30 p.m. On time.
I sit in the closest seat to the tarmac I can find. If I’m close enough to the runway, maybe I’ll feel closer to escape. Closer to leaving all of this behind. The planes outside taxi in neat, obedient lines.
I stare at my phone. His text message sits there.
Miss you already.
He sent it the moment I got into the car. Was that a lie? Did he really miss me? Or was she on her way when he typed it? Something coils tight inside me. I must’ve been staring at those three words for thirty minutes because suddenly I hear it “Now boarding Zone 4.”
My zone. It’s already 9:30pm. Time keeps moving whether I fall apart or not. I board and find my seat.
28A.
Twenty-eight.
The day we said I do.
The day we promised forever.
The day he lied.
I sit down. “Ehem. Miss? You’re in my seat.” I blink and look down. 28B. Of course. I’m in the wrong seat. Like I don’t want to accept where I’m actually supposed to be. Like I didn’t want to accept what I saw tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
And I look up. He’s standing there, tall, broad-shouldered, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms. Navy trousers, effortless. The kind of man who looks like he belongs in first class.
Green eyes.
Sharp, clear, almost unfair. The kind of face that carries quiet confidence. Strong jaw. Controlled smile. A hint of something mischievous.
For a split second, I hear Clara’s voice in my head.
They’re all the same.
I look at him with mild annoyance, like he personally betrayed me. He doesn’t flinch. He just smiles. Soft. Easy.
“I mean,” he says calmly, “we can switch. It’s no problem.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Because he’s kind and I’m not ready for kind. I moved back to my assigned seat. 28A. The one printed clearly on my boarding pass. The one I was supposed to be in from the start. I had slipped into the wrong one earlier.
28B. Close, but not mine. For a moment I almost stayed there. Almost let someone else adjust. But I didn’t stay. I stood up. Apologized. Moved back to the seat with my name on it.
28A.
Serafina Vale.
Vale.
His last name.
The one I chose. The one I signed onto documents and Christmas cards and medical forms like it was permanent. I went back to where I was supposed to be. I’ve always been good at that. Shifting. Adjusting. Making myself smaller so things feel balanced again.
In my marriage, I did the same. After every disagreement, every crack, every almost-ending, I realigned myself. Smoothed it over. Slid back into place. Somewhere over the country, long after the cabin lights dim, I realize the man next to me hasn’t tried to sleep. Neither have I.
He’s reading something on his phone, elbow resting on the armrest between us. Calm. Annoyingly calm. Like red-eye flights and cramped seats don’t exist in his world. I shift slightly in my seat, adjusting my coat as a makeshift blanket. My eyes flick toward the window, then back to my phone.
Still nothing. No message. No apology. No “I fucked up.” Just the last thing Dominic sent hours ago. He misses me. I keep looking at it, like if I stare long enough, the words might change into something else.
Next to me, the man clears his throat lightly. “Rough night?” he asks.
His voice is low, careful. Not intrusive. Just curious. I don’t look at him right away.
“Red-eye flights usually are,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the corner of his mouth lift slightly. “That’s not what I meant.” He says.
I finally glance over. He’s unfairly composed for someone who hasn’t slept. He has the kind of face that probably makes people trust him faster than they should.
“Do you always analyze strangers on airplanes?” I ask.
“Only the ones who keep catching my attention.” He says. There’s no judgment in his voice. If anything, he sounds amused. “Let me guess,” he continues, leaning back in his seat. “Work trip you didn’t want to take.”
“Close enough.”
“Breakup?”
I turn my head slowly. “You’re very confident.”
He shrugs, that calm half-smile returning. “Educated guess.”
“Well,” I say, folding my arms lightly, “your guess is wrong.”
It isn’t. But he doesn’t need to know that. For a moment neither of us speaks. The quiet hum of the engines fills the space between us. For hours we sit in silence. Then, just before the wheels touch the ground, the pilot’s voice crackles overhead.
“We are now landing. Please fasten your seatbelts. Weather is gloomy today with a possible light chance of rain.”
Of course it is. Gray skies. Low clouds. A city welcoming me with a sigh. I didn’t sleep on the red-eye. Not even for a minute. Every time my eyes closed, it replayed.
His hands on her waist. Her back arching. His voice, low, familiar. Hers, replacing mine.
And the ring.
God.
He didn’t even take it off. The gold metal caught the light while he touched her. If you’re going to betray someone, at least remove the symbol first. That feels like basic decency. Apparently, it isn’t.
The plane hits the runway with a hard jolt.
My stomach drops, but it’s been dropping for five hours straight.
Turbulence feels honest compared to marriage.
The cabin lights snap back on. Too bright and unforgiving.
I grab my bag and step into the aisle. My body feels heavy, like it never actually landed.
When I reach the front of the plane, he’s there.
White sleeves still rolled neatly to his forearms. Navy trousers. Calm. Awake in a way I’m not. I look at him. Really look at him this time.
“Uhmn… have a good night,” he says.
I give him a small smile. No words come out. It’s 7 a.m., but good night feels more accurate. I don’t correct him. Because if I speak, I might acknowledge that he was kind. That he offered to switch seats. That he noticed I was somewhere I didn’t belong.
And I’m not ready for kindness from men. By the time I make it through the terminal and down the escalator, everything feels distant.
Suitcases roll. Announcements echo. People reunite in quiet hugs. I push through the sliding glass doors and step outside. The air is damp and metallic. Taxis idle in crooked lines. The city hums low and indifferent.
I slide into the back of an Uber and watch Manhattan smear past the window. Buildings rise through the mist like they’re trying not to be noticed. Everything looks dull and wet, like everything was awake, but nothing was alive.
We pull up to Aman New York Hotel. The entrance is understated and severe. Dark stone. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Inside, the lobby is all polished marble and muted tones. High ceilings. A chandelier suspended overhead like it’s been carefully measured for impact.
Nothing is accidental. Nothing is loud. If Clara were here, she’d whisper that it probably has its own insurance policy. I stand there with my carry-on, aware of how small I feel inside a space designed for people who never doubt where they belong.
I work as a secretary at a financial firm.
I file paperwork. I answer phones. I know everyone’s coffee order down to the exact level of dairy intolerance.
My most reliable talent is finding missing staplers during mild office emergencies.
And somehow, my boss Andrew insisted I come to headquarters instead of Ruby the intern.
Andrew is very nice. Almost suspiciously nice. He looks at me sometimes a second too long. Like he’s assessing something. It used to make me uncomfortable. Now I’m reconsidering everything. Because if Andrew hadn’t insisted, I would be home right now.
Home.
Probably folding laundry. Probably kissing him hello like nothing in the world was rotting beneath us. Probably never knowing that he keeps his wedding ring on while he’s inside someone else. The thought settles in my stomach like something metallic. So really, Andrew deserves a thank-you card.
“Thank you for the career opportunity and accidental emotional devastation.”
The automatic doors slide open. The lobby smells expensive. Polished. I square my shoulders and let out a deep breath.
New city. New hotel.
Same name. Same marriage. Same mess.
If my marriage is over, the least I can do is enjoy the minibar.