Chapter 9 - Thirty Thousand Feet Again
I did not realize our honeymoon flight would follow almost the same route until we were at the gate.
New York to San Francisco first.
Then Hawaii.
When I saw SFO on the boarding pass, my stomach tightened.
Nathan noticed.
“We can change it.”
“No.”
“We have time.”
“I don’t want to change it.”
He studied me.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
This mattered.
Maybe irrationally.
But it mattered.
On the plane, I took the window.
Nathan sat beside me.
As we climbed through the clouds, I watched the city disappear.
For several minutes, my body remembered before my mind did.
The vibration beneath my feet.
The overhead lights.
The crackle of plastic wrappers.
A flight attendant asking about drinks.
I was back in 14C.
Grant three rows ahead.
Lauren touching his wrist.
Nathan’s hand rested on the armrest.
Not touching mine.
Waiting.
I turned my palm upward.
He took it.
“Bad?”
“A little.”
“We can talk.”
“I know.”
“We can not talk.”
“I know.”
I smiled.
“That’s why I married you.”
“You married me because of my exceptional legal mind.”
“I married you despite your exceptional legal mind.”
He looked wounded.
I laughed.
And the memory loosened.
Halfway across the country, Nathan fell asleep.
His mouth opened slightly.
I took a photograph for future blackmail.
Then I looked down at my wedding ring.
The first time I flew this route, I watched a man turn his ring while preparing to betray me.
Now I turned mine.
Not because rings guaranteed anything.
They didn’t.
Promises were only as valuable as the behavior beneath them.
I understood that now.
My phone connected to Wi-Fi.
A message appeared from my mother.
Did you land?
I replied:
We’re still in the air.
Then:
Stop tracking me like federal law enforcement.
She responded with three heart emojis and a threat to call Nathan.
I smiled.
Another email appeared.
The sender made me sit upright.
Lauren Hayes.
I had not heard from her in years.
The subject read:
Something I should have sent a long time ago.
I opened it.
Lauren wrote that she had recently found an old photograph while clearing cloud storage.
It was from Thanksgiving.
My house.
The year before the affair.
In the picture, I stood at the kitchen counter laughing.
Grant was behind me.
His eyes were on me.
Not Lauren.
Me.
Lauren wrote:
I spent years telling myself your marriage must already have been broken because that made what I did easier to live with. This photograph reminded me that I knew better. I am sorry. Not because I want forgiveness. Because you deserved the truth without qualifications.
Attached was the photograph.
I stared at it.
There I was.
Happy.
Grant looked happy too.
For years, one question had haunted me.
Had any of it been real?
The answer was inconvenient.
Yes.
It had been real.
Then it changed.
Love did not become imaginary simply because somebody later failed it.
I closed the email.
I did not answer immediately.
Nathan woke.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere over Utah.”
“Did I snore?”
“Catastrophically.”
“You took a picture.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“Prove it.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Then smiled.
I looked toward the aisle.
Three rows ahead, an elderly couple shared headphones while watching a movie.
The woman rested her head against the man.
For once, the sight did not hurt.
When we landed in San Francisco, Nathan reached for our bags.
I stopped him.
“What?”
“I can carry mine.”
“I know.”
He handed it over without argument.
We walked through the terminal together.
Near the gate where my old flight had arrived years earlier, I stopped.
Nathan followed my gaze.
“Here?”
“I think so.”
He waited.
I remembered Grant’s frightened face.
Lauren’s confession.
Daniel’s call.
The first crack in a life I thought was permanent.
If I could speak to the woman sitting in 14C, I knew what I would tell her.
Not to confront Grant faster.
Not to save the marriage.
Not to destroy him.
I would tell her:
Pay attention to yourself.
You are about to lose the life you recognize.
That does not mean you are losing your life.
Nathan squeezed my hand.
“Ready?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
We continued walking.
My phone buzzed.
Lauren again.
No need to respond. I just wanted you to have it.
I stopped.
Then typed:
Thank you for telling the truth. I hope you and your family are well.
I hesitated.
Then sent it.
Nathan did not ask who I was texting.
He trusted me.
And perhaps more importantly, I trusted myself.
At the next gate, we boarded our flight to Hawaii.
May you like
This time, when the plane lifted into the sky, I did not look three rows ahead.
I looked out the window.
