Page 27 of In Flight

We’ve been walking as we talk, and the airline attendant says it’s good to see us again and she hopes we had a great weekend as she scans us in.

I wait until we’re seated and have all our stuff in place before I ask the most pressing question. “So did you do it?”

“I did,” he says. “I broke up with her Friday night.”

A force of relief lifts a weight inside me, almost entirely empathy for him. I imagine it’s exactly how I’ll feel when I finally pull the trigger with Cash. “How did it go?”

“It wasn’t fun. She wasn’t expecting it and didn’t understand.”

“How did you explain it?” I’ve placed my sketchbook and a couple of pencils on my lap, but I haven’t opened it yet. No sense in starting until after takeoff.

“I told her that we wanted different things from the relationship and out of life. She didn’t believe me, and I honestly can’t blame her.” He slouches back and tilts his head in my direction with a rueful expression. “Because I used to think we did want the same things, and I’ve been acting that way the whole time.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds like it must have been hard. For both of you.”

“It was. She’s a good person, and she was hurt. She didn’t deserve that.”

“No. But she also doesn’t deserve to be tied for life to someone who’s pretending to be someone he’s not.”

“That’s true. I still feel kind of bad when I think about it, but mostly I’m relieved. You must be too.”

I stiffen slightly, suddenly scared that he’s seen so far into me that he can spot the little, possessive part of me that’s relieved he’s no longer attached to another woman. “Why would I be relieved?”

He frowns, pulling his eyebrows together. “Because you’ve ended a relationship that wasn’t right for you. Aren’t you relieved?”

“I haven’t broken up with Cash!”

He’s gotten stiff and unhappy again—the way he was on Friday after we got off the plane. “Why not?”

“For one, you have absolutely no reason to assume I was going to do such a thing. And two, I’ve been several states away from Cash this weekend. Surely you can’t imagine I would have broken up with him by text?”

“Ah. Well, no. I guess not. I thought you might have called.”

“I didn’t. And yet again, I’m asking why you assume I’m planning to do it.”

“Because we had an understanding.”

“Youhad an understanding, but you came to that understanding in your own head without waiting for my participation.” I don’t know why I feel tart and defensive, but I do. He does this to me all the time. Riles me up in a way I almost never am. “Do we really have to have this argument again?”

“I didn’t think so. I assumed you would have realized what the right decision was over the weekend so we can put this whole issue behind us.”

“It’s only an issue for you. Not for me.”

He shoots me a sideways glare. A very effective one. I wish I could manage a similar expression, but it’s entirely beyond me.

While the plane takes off, we don’t talk. Just give each other speaking looks that prove we’re displeased with each other.

I want to continue the conversation when we reach cruising altitude, but he’s gotten out his laptop and started to work, studiously avoiding acknowledging I exist.

Which is fine.

I can do the same.

After all, having repetitive, tedious arguments isn’t how I’d prefer to spend my flight.

I’m in a prickly mood now—very unusual for me—as I try to sketch. When I can’t focus, I give up and put my pad away and pull out my knitting instead.

He’s still not looking at me. Pretending to be completely untouched by the conflict but privately stewing. I can sense it even though there’s no direct evidence I can pinpoint in his face or body.

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