Page 45 of Wished

A flight attendant named Francesca warmly welcomed us on board. There’s a bouquet of red roses on the varnished wood table next to the divan, and the floral scent fills the interior. Wine, cheese, crackers, and grapes are laid out. Francesca and both pilots recognized me, giving a cheery “hello” and “happy anniversary” and “how’s your family?”

Max lifted an eyebrow at their familiarity, and I knew he was thinking,This is mad.It’s the same thing he was thinking when Madame Blinken served us buckwheat crepes with cinnamon apples this morning and warned Max not to forget to take me by the flower market—the Marché aux Fleurs—to buy me freesias for our seventh anniversary.

He’s taking it in stride though. For as many times as his eyes widen, the corner of his mouth twitches, or I see him thinkinghow?he rolls with it. He’s a lot like this jet. Every time we hit a patch of turbulence it jostles, bumps, and then adjusts and smooths out. We’ve passed through a bit of weather, a few low-pressure areas, but all the same, the jet remains steady.

I’ve always admired that about Max. Over the years, when I’ve heard him on business calls, even in heated negotiations, he’s always remained steady and calm. When someone attacks him or goes in a direction meant to trip him up, he always responds with logic and reasoning. Sometimes, if the situation warrants it, he shuts the caller down, but that’s only after diplomacy fails.

Come to think of it, I’d never seen Max truly angry until he thought I was trying to steal the necklace. All in all, he’s steady and solid, not fire and passion. At least that’s what he strives for.

If what he says is true—that he doesn’t want passion or romance—I might be the only person he’s ever felt any passionate emotion for. Good or bad.

So I have a question for him.

“A question?” Max asks, and in his small smile I know he’s thinking of last night, when he told me he’d rather I didn’t ask him any questions at all. “Go ahead.”

I glance around the cabin. The pilots are behind a closed door. Francesca is in the galley putting together a dessert plate with fresh berries, chocolate mousse, and whipped cream. She has a coffee tray on the wood counter, with a steaming silver pot of fresh coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of raw sugar cubes.

The engine noise gives a low-level hum, and across from the cushioned divan the news plays at a low volume. We’re as private as can be expected. Still, I lean closer to Max, setting my hands on the smooth surface of the varnished wood table. The large round window lets in a spray of bright sunlight. This high in the sky, past the clouds, the sun is a brilliant white and the windows pull it in so that the light bounces off the white walls.

“This is personal,” I say, giving fair warning. I keep my voice low.

Max leans forward, meeting me over our glasses of wine and plates of half-eaten brie and red grapes. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I’m surprised at the teasing light in his eyes. I shift in my leather seat and clear my throat, giving myself a moment to tamp down the desire to clasp my hands to my chest and smile at him with hearts in my eyes.

“I was wondering, if you don’t want passion, why did you ask Fiona to marry you? You love her. Wouldn’t you have ...?” I trail off, not wanting to think about what they would have or wouldn’t have done.

Max makes a small noise in his throat and leans back again. He thinks for a moment, considering my question. That’s something I’ve noticed about him. He doesn’t always answer right away. He takes the time to think about a question and then gives his best answer.

When he looks back at me, he says, “We’re friends. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less. I knew there would never be a spark. I didn’t expect or want one.”

He didn’t want a spark? Didn’t want the heat of passion?

“Why not?”

He watches me, his eyes a cool, deep brown, as smooth and tranquil as Lake Geneva on a moonless, windless night. “I realized early on that what most people call ‘love’ is just the fire of passion. It burns, sometimes out of control. But the hotter it is, the more quickly it snuffs itself out. When it’s gone, the people are left with . . . ”

He pauses, considering his words. “If they’re lucky, they’re left with third-degree burns, pain, and bitterness. But they’ll have learned a valuable lesson, and hopefully they can move on a little wiser. If they aren’t lucky, they’re left with charred bones, ashes, and hatred for whoever they thought they loved. It’s a terrible thing when the heat of the fire is gone and all that’s left is cold, desolate reality. Passion isn’t love. The point of flames is that they need fuel to burn. Passionate love uses people as kindling, and it consumes them until they have nothing left to give. And then...”

I lean forward, waiting for him to continue. My hands are curled around my thighs, my fingers pressing into my skin.

He shrugs. “My parents had two years of passionate bliss. Which is quite something, considering. Two years of passion, twenty-eight years of loathing. Was it worth it? They shouldn’t ever have married. If my mother had stopped to consider that my father was a closet alcoholic with a penchant for violence, and if my father had stopped to consider that my mother was a raging narcissist with a penchant for lying, the mess of their lives would’ve been avoided.”

“But then you wouldn’t be here,” I say. “If they didn’t marry, you wouldn’t exist.”

He smiles, leaning forward again. “I suppose passion is good for something then.”

I’m caught by the sunlight from the window reflecting off the deep pools of his eyes, catching the sparks of gold. We’re close. Our hands rest on the table, inches apart. The cool, dry air from the overhead vent tickles my heated skin.

Beneath the table our legs are so close. All I’d have to do is move another few inches and I’d be able to run my calf along the line of his leg.

Max’s eyes darken as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Maybe he does. He has seven years of memories. Maybe I’ve done something like that to him before.

“Ready for dessert?”

I break away from Max’s gaze and give Francesca an overly bright smile. I make appreciative noises and thank her as she clears away the cheese and wine and then places the chocolate mousse and coffee in front of us.

Once she’s gone I pick up my spoon, aware that Max has been watching me the whole time. I glance back at him, and when I do, he smiles.

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