“Should we tell my wife about all the fun we’ve had together? How I inducted you into the Mile-High Club? Maybe we should let her in on some of the things two people can actually do in a tiny airplane bathroom.”
Candy looks up at me, her eyes roving up and down my body. “We could always show her…” she says, and then she directs her next words to me. “Do you like to watch?”
I cross my arms tightly over my chest to hold back the rush of emotion that suddenly overtakes me. I haven’t let myself cry in days. Not when Luka went out that night in Paris. Not after he rejected me repeatedly on our honeymoon. Not when I fake smiled in all of our vacation photos. But now it’s like I can’t hold it back anymore. He wants to flaunt his sex-toy flight attendant in my face, well, there’s nothing I can do about that.
But I’ll be damned if he’s going to see me crack.
I turn away without another word, grab my bag, and slip into the back bedroom where I shut and lock the door.
Then I drop down onto the bed, and cry.
Brooklyn
Chapter 6
Ibarely remember getting off the plane in Chicago and into the back of the limo. After crying myself into a state of hollowed-out exhaustion in the airplane’s back bedroom, I had washed my face and curled up on top of the covers, somehow finally falling asleep despite wondering what Luka and Candy were doing together out in the flight cabin.
No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t stop imagining her on her knees, sucking him off the way I’d planned to do. She’d definitely stolen my moment and ruined all my plans. To be fair, Luka may well have derailed me himself by not cooperating—but I’ll never know for sure. And now, as I stare out the window at the view of the city passing by, my mind has even more horrible mental imagery to play over and over. Candy giving my husband a blow job in the middle of the aisle. His hand cupping her ass. Her, riding his lap in the seat, head thrown back.
The weirdest part was that when I actually fell asleep, I dreamed that Luka and I had forgiven each other. He’d come home from a long day at work with a bundle in his arms, and when I ran to meet him I realized he was smiling and holding something out toward me…
“Is that…a puppy?” I’d asked.
“What do you think?” he’d responded with a grin.
The man who despises pets had a little gray terrier in his arms. It had the cutest wiggly stub of a tail, a bow around its neck, and a spot of white fur under its chin.
“I think I love him!” I said.
Luka and I laughed and embraced each other, the dog squirming between us, wagging that stubby tail like mad and licking my face.
I woke with a start, my face still wet, and was completely disoriented—until I realized it was because my pillow was still damp with tears from earlier.
Homewrecker Candy was nowhere to be found when I exited the aircraft, Luka practically dragging me to the waiting limousine. Had he actually cheated on me with the flight attendant, or was it all a big show to hurt me? I had no idea, and I was afraid to ask when I knew the answer could potentially tear me apart.
Thinking back over our vacation, I was filled with bitterness. The most romantic city in the world, and I spent the entire time enduring Luka’s cold shoulder and monosyllabic responses to every question I had, every conversation I tried to start.
We took a day trip to Versailles that my parents had booked for us as a wedding gift, and when I saw Marie Antoinette’s retreat in the Trianon gardens, my chest tightened with empathy. Here was a girl who should have had it all—married to the king, ruler of France, wealthy beyond belief with every luxury at her fingertips. And yet she’d built herself tiny palaces to get away from it all. From the weight of the impossible expectations placed upon her, the difficult marriage to someone she hardly knew…a marriage agreed to for purely political reasons.
Part of me was convinced that I knew exactly how Marie had felt.
And then at the Orsay Museum, where all I wanted was to see Degas’ bronze ballerina in person. There was such a huge crowd around the diminutive, lifelike sculpture that Luka tried to pull me away from the gallery, insisting there were plenty of other artworks to see.
“I want to see her,” I had said. “I want to see the real satin ribbon in her hair, and the tulle of her tutu. I want to see the sculpture that caused such a scandal in the 1800s.”
“I’ve seen it a million times,” Luka said. “It’s overrated. It’s barely three feet tall.”
Smiling sweetly, I informed him in a harsh whisper that I did not fly four thousand fucking miles to get within ten feet ofLittle Dancer Aged 14and then walk away without admiring it simply because I had to wait my turn.
Without another word, Luka had spun on his heel and left me there. Refusing to chase after him, I’d stood in the back of the crowd, slowly moving toward the bronze, one agonizing inch at a time. When the person in front of me finally stepped away, I gasped with delight at the ballerina. She was perfectly formed and shabby and even more beautiful than I’d imagined. But in that moment I was alone, with no one at my side to share my joy with.
After that day, I stopped trying to chase the magic by myself. I settled into the routine Luka had laid out for us, barely leaving the hotel and pasting a fake smile on my face during our few mandatory excursions. It had been painful to live through, but at least it was over now.
Closing my eyes against the memories of our disastrous trip, I start to drift off on the ride home. The next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“Are we home?” I mumbled, my voice husky with sleep. I don’t get an answer.
Opening my eyes, I take in Luka’s face and his very, very displeased expression.
