Chapter Ten #2
I checked my boarding pass: Seat 14A.
Window seat.
Good.
I could stare out the window for six hours and pretend I was anywhere else.
Anywhere at all.
“What seat are you?” I asked, not because I cared, but because I needed to know how far away from me she’d be sitting.
She checked her phone. “14B.”
Of course.
Of course she was in 14B.
Right next to me.
Because the universe had a sense of humor and hated me personally.
“Great,” I said.
“I know, right? The universe made sure we’d be together. I didn’t even request it. I just booked the flight this morning, and it put me right next to you. That’s not a coincidence. That’s destiny.”
“That’s alphabetical seating.”
“Destiny,” she repeated firmly.
I sat down in the waiting area and pulled out my phone.
Three missed calls from Fitz.
Two texts from my sister.
One email from Gabriel asking how the TED talk went.
I put my phone away.
I’d deal with all of that later.
Right now, I just needed to get through this flight without having a complete breakdown.
How hard could that be?
Very hard, as it turned out.
The plane was small. A regional jet, with two seats on each side, which meant there was no escape.
No aisle between us.
No buffer.
Just me, Athena, and five hours of whatever cosmic nonsense she decided to share.
We boarded.
She took the middle seat, 14B, and immediately started arranging things.
Her crystals went in the seat pocket. Her tarot cards went on her lap. Her hemp bag went under the seat in front of her.
“Do you want the window?” she asked.
“I have the window.”
“Oh, right. Good. You can look out and see the Earth from above. It’s very grounding, actually. Seeing how small everything is. It puts things in perspective. The universe is so vast, and we’re just these tiny little beings trying to make sense of it all and—”
I put in my earbuds.
She kept talking.
I turned on music.
She kept talking.
I closed my eyes.
She tapped my shoulder.
I opened my eyes.
“Yes?”
“I was just saying that I think it’s beautiful how the universe brought us together at exactly the right time. Like, you were giving your presentation—which was very impressive, by the way; I didn’t get to tell you that earlier—and I walked in, and it was like the cosmos just... aligned. You know?”
“I know you think that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Because you believe it’s true.”
“Same thing.”
It was absolutely not the same thing.
The plane started taxiing.
Athena pressed her face to the window. My window, technically, but she was leaning over me, watching the ground move beneath us.
“This is so exciting,” she said. “I’ve never been to Connecticut. What’s it like? Is it cold? I bet it’s cold. I should probably get a warmer jacket. Do you have an extra jacket? I could borrow one of yours. We’re married, so that’s allowed, right? Sharing clothes?”
“We’re getting an annulment.”
“The universe will decide that.”
“The lawyer will decide that.”
“Same thing.”
I was starting to understand why people drank on airplanes.
The plane took off.
Athena grabbed my hand.
I froze.
“Sorry,” she said, not letting go. “I get a little nervous during takeoff. The whole defying-gravity thing. It’s very unnatural. The universe didn’t design us to fly.”
“Then why are you holding my hand?”
“Because you’re my husband. And physical touch helps ground the nervous system. It’s science.”
It was absolutely not science.
But her hand was warm and her grip was tight, and I was too tired to argue, so I just sat there, staring out the window, trying not to think about the fact that I was holding hands with a woman I’d met yesterday.
A woman I’d married.
A woman who thought the universe had personally arranged our meeting.
The plane leveled off.
She let go.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.”
I didn’t respond.
I just turned back to the window and watched the clouds.
The flight was exactly as terrible as I had anticipated.
Athena talked.
And talked.
And talked.
About the view from above: “You can really see the Earth’s energy from up here; it’s like the whole planet is breathing.”
About the clouds: “They’re made of water vapor, but they’re also made of possibility, don’t you think?”
About the other passengers: “That man in 12C has very anxious energy; I hope he’s okay.”
About our future: “I think we should get a dog. Or maybe a cat. What do you think? Are you a dog person or a cat person?”
I tried to ignore her.
I tried to focus on my book, a neurology textbook I’d brought specifically for this purpose, but I couldn’t concentrate because she kept leaning over to see what I was reading.
“Is that about brains?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s so interesting. Do you think the brain is where the soul lives? Or is it separate? I’ve always wondered about that. Like, if you operate on someone’s brain, are you touching their consciousness? Their essence? Or is that somewhere else entirely?”
I closed the book.
“The brain is an organ,” I said. “It processes information, regulates bodily functions, and generates consciousness through electrical and chemical signals. There’s no soul. There’s no essence. There are just neurons and synapses and neurotransmitters.”
She considered this.
“But how do you know?”
“Because I’m a neurosurgeon. I’ve literally seen inside people’s brains.”
“But have you seen their souls?”
“There are no souls.”
“The universe would disagree.”
“The universe doesn’t have an opinion because the universe isn’t sentient.”
“That’s what you think.”
I opened my book again.
She went back to looking out the window.
Five minutes of blessed silence.
Then: “Do you think we’ll have kids?”
I choked on nothing.
“What?”
“Kids. Do you want them? I think I do. Maybe two. Or three. The universe will decide. But I think it would be nice. Little versions of us running around, learning about the cosmos and neuroscience and—”
“We’re getting an annulment.”
“—how to balance logic and intuition and—”
“Athena.”
“—trust the universe while also understanding the physical world and—”
“We are not having children.”
She turned to look at me, her expression genuinely confused.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not staying married.”
“The universe—”
“The universe,” I said, very carefully, very slowly, “is not in charge of my life. I am. And I am choosing to get an annulment. Which means no kids. No shared dog or cat. No future together. Just a legal dissolution of a mistake we made in Las Vegas.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she smiled.
That same bright, unbothered smile.
“We’ll see,” she said.
And went back to looking out the window.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to open the emergency exit and jump out.
I wanted to go back in time and punch my past self for even agreeing to go to Las Vegas.
But I couldn’t do any of those things.
So I just sat there, wedding ring stuck on my finger, marriage certificate in her bag, legally bound to a woman who thought the universe had personally arranged our meeting.
And tried not to think about what came next.
We landed in Hartford at 6:47 PM.
Seventeen minutes ahead of schedule, which should have made me happy—I loved it when things ran ahead of schedule—but instead just filled me with dread.
Because now I was home.
And I had to face everyone.
Fitz, who would laugh until he cried.
Gabriel, who would be concerned and professional and somehow make me feel worse.
Hayden, who would probably high-five me and then immediately regret it.
My sister, who would kill me.
Actually kill me.
And Athena would be there for all of it.
Explaining to everyone how the universe had brought us together.
How we were soulmates.
How this was destiny.
I unbuckled my seatbelt.
She did the same, gathering her crystals and tarot cards and hemp bag.
“This is so exciting,” she said. “I can’t wait to see where you live. Where we live. Is it a house? An apartment? Does it have good energy? I bet it has good energy. You seem like someone who would choose a place with good energy, even if you don’t realize that’s what you’re doing.”
“It’s an apartment,” I said. “And you’re not staying there.”
“Where am I staying?”
Good question.
I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“A hotel,” I said.
“That seems wasteful. We’re married. We should probably stay together. It’s more practical.”
“We’re getting an annulment.”
“The universe will—”
“If you say ‘the universe will decide’ one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”
She smiled. “Okay. I won’t say it.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s still true.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
It didn’t help.
We deplaned.
Walked through the terminal.
Collected our bags; hers was a duffel bag covered in patches that said things like “TRUST THE JOURNEY” and “COSMIC VIBES ONLY.”
And then we were outside.
In Hartford.
Forty minutes from home.
Forty minutes from my carefully controlled, perfectly ordered city.
With my wife.
My wife.
Who was currently looking around with wide eyes and saying something about the energy of the East Coast being different from the West Coast, more historical, more grounded, more—
“Julien?”
I turned.
And there, standing by the pickup area, was my sister.
Vivian.