“I’m sorry.”
More than the words, it’s the anguish nestled in them that shocks me so much it gives me whiplash. She’s eerily focused on the walnut table in front of us, nodding to herself like she just came to an inescapable conclusion.
“I fucked up.” Her swallow is audible. “I don’t know if it matters to you one way or another, but you were right. I’m the one who broke us.”
My ears ring. I’m staring at her profile, waiting for an explanation.
She sniffles softly, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the tremble in her lips.
The steady, low-pressure hum of the engines drones on in the rest of the cabin while we sit in this suspended moment.
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Jackie croaks.
My mind is blank. The apology I fantasized about a thousand different ways suddenly feels like a punch in the ribs. I thought I wanted this. That it would vindicate me. Instead, the sadness and regret in her gaze tilt everything inside me sideways.
I realize this woman could have shot me and left me for dead, and I would still be defending her.
She starts to ramble, but I’m too stunned to stop her. “I couldn’t trust myself. I had to be smart. If I’d heard your side, I would’ve believed you. What if I believed you and it turned out to be true? I couldn’t afford to be stupid. To have people laugh because I’m a naive, spoiled rich girl. Nobody would’ve trusted me to make decisions. So I ran.”
She spills it all, running out of air, and my mind is running a thousand miles a minute to make sense of her reasoning.
“Why tell me this now…?”
She turns toward the oval window, throat tensing around a hard swallow.
“Jackie.” It comes out as a warning. And a plea.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to fight my fears,” she says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry I let you down. That it made you feel your love wasn’t enough.”
She didn’t trust me enough not to ruin her future. Did I not show her? Did I not make it plain I was gone for her?
Before I have time to think of an answer, she shoots to her feet. Jackie looks at me with a flat, fragile smile, like it’s the first time in years she’s really seen me. Her lips press further, head bobbing to the rhythm of the thoughts swirling in her head.
And then she’s gone, shoulders a touch slumped, but as always, her chin held high, even in the face of a colossal mistake. The bathroom door clicks shut behind her and doesn’t open for a long time.
I’m left reeling, incapable of not replaying everything from the moment we met till it all went to shit. What’s changed? Why now, all of a sudden?
I don’t know what to do with this apology. A part of me wants her enough to ache. The other part of me is still grappling with her utter lack of faith in me. Because it’s not only about wounded pride, but what that doubt says about how she sees me, her disregard for who I am as a person. My core principles.
I would’ve never done that to her. She should have known that.
When she finally emerges, she sinks into one of the single seats in the back, pulls a blanket from the side pocket, and leans her head on the rest, lids closed. The deep line carved between her brows tells me she’s hiding from everybody.
It’s an internal battle not to unbuckle and run to her.
For the next seven hours of the flight, I don’t move.
Back then, denial clung to me the longest. I couldn’t believe it was actually true. That she’d leave like that.
A short burst of anger flared and burned out, then gave way to unrealistic bargaining.
What if she was forced? Maybe something happened to her, and she was afraid to tell me. If she’d just call. If she’d just answer once.
But she didn’t. And I found comfort in the hollow despair.
I never accepted it. That we were done. That there was nothing I could do. There was no forgiveness without closure. Only a wound I kept worrying at.
She’s just handed me the key to moving on, but it feels more like a poisoned gift. It carries with it the weight of a decision.
