“I should try to sleep.”
“Of course.” She tucks a magazine into the seatback pocket. “My husband and I almost divorced fifteen years ago. Statistics said it was over. Now we’ve got three kids and have just taken our third honeymoon. I’m glad we didn’t listen. So don’t beat yourself up over a client rekindling their love. Maybe not making partner will open your eyes to the fact that divorce law isn’t the only path.”
Her assumption stings. I stare at her, momentarily speechless. How dare she judge my career—and my life—from one brief chat?
“You don’t know anything about me.”
She holds up her hands in a gesture of peace. “You’re right. I don’t. Just an observation from someone who’s lived a bit longer.”
I turn back to the window, ending the conversation. She flips open her magazine, unbothered by my rudeness. But as the plane begins its descent into New York, her words keep bouncing around in my head. Isn’t the only path. I try to shake it off, but it lingers.
New York appears below us—home, my real life. The landing is smooth, and when the seatbelt sign turns off, I gather my things. Phones light up, seats snap upright, and everyone gets ready to leave. I put my laptop in my bag, trying to shake off my tiredness and the effects of the drinks. My seatmate, who turned out to be an accidental therapist, gives me a kind, knowing smile, like someone who’s spent years conducting exit interviews.
“Good luck,” she says, gathering her own things with quick movements. Her scarf is already knotted, her heels buckled, and everything locked in place like armor. “But a word of advice before you go, don’t let failures define you. They’re just detours, not destinations.”
Her advice should roll off me, but instead it sticks. My smile feels forced. “Thanks. Have a good trip.” With a nod, she merges into the river of passengers.
I join the sea of people flowing through JFK, past overpriced neck pillows and gourmet cupcakes. A toddler’s wail ricochets off the walls, and I’m oddly grateful for the chaos. Classic New York: someone else’s meltdown means you’re doing okay by comparison.
My phone vibrates.
Demi
Outside… you said terminal 4, right? You here? You gotta grab a checked bag?
Her name on my screen washes over me with a wave of relief.
Me
Just landed. Yes, Terminal 4. Carry-on only.
Outside, New York’s thick humidity slaps me after California’s gentle chill. Demi’s car is easy to spot—double-parked, hazards blinking, a traffic attendant gesturing wildly at her window. Through the glass, I catch her animatedly arguing, all big gestures and dramatic mouth shapes.
“Enfin! Ma chérie!” she shouts when she spots me, her accent atrocious. The attendant throws up her hands. Classic Demi, pretending not to speak or understand English, so she doesn’t have to ride around.
I toss my bag in the back and sink into the passenger seat. “Let me guess—you’ve forgotten how to speak English again?”
“Mais oui,” she says, cutting off a taxi as we merge into traffic. “So, talk to me. How was San Fran?”
I lean back against the headrest. “It was amazing.”
“Right? It’s so beautiful.”
“Yeah, and honestly, I didn’t want to leave.” Now, all I want is to go back—especially after Evelyn’s news. I can already picture the whispers at the firm, the partners’ raised eyebrows.
Demi lets out a long, satisfied “Hmmmm,” as if she’s enjoying a rich dessert. “Being in the honeymoon phase feels amazing, right? Great sex, good conversation, and just being happy.”
“I wish every day with him would be the honeymoon phase, but that would only be wishful thinking. Statistically?—”
Demi takes her eyes off the road just long enough to fix me with a flat, ‘I’m about to pull this car over and strangle you,’ look. “Please stop with the statistics for one second, Minji. Before I reach over there and throat punch you.” She’s half-grinning, half-exasperated, the way she gets when she’s sure she knows better than me. And if I’m honest, that’s roughly eighty percent of the time we’re together.
“I’m just saying,” I start, defensive, but she cuts me off with a sharp flick of her hand, nearly swiping a cyclist in the process.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she demands, “or did you wince every time he said something cheesy? I know how much you dislike it when guys whisper those sweet little nothings. Or do you like it when he does it?”
For a moment, I do think about lying. But the weekend’s memories crowd in—dawn light on tangled sheets, Aaron’s hand drawing lazy circles on my back, the way he watched me when he thought I was asleep. The truth tumbles out before I can stop it. “I think I’m a sucker for sweet nothings when they come from him.”
Demi lets out a long, low whistle. “There it is. Progress. My girl’s about to fall in love.” She sings the words, then swerves into the fast lane so suddenly that I almost hit my head on the window. “But why do you look so glum? Cold feet? Did he get weird? Do I need to go beat his ass?”
