Page 22 of The Marriage Blunder

“Now you do,” he said.

The logic of it was undeniable, even if the sentiment was not something I was ready to deal with.

I changed the subject. “The last time I flew in a private jet, I spent the entire flight calculating the odds of catastrophic engine failure. I had a spreadsheet and everything.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Not as well as you’d think. The numbers were all fine. It’s the variables you can’t control that’ll get you every time.”

He watched me, the blue of his eyes more intense in the flat light. “You think you’re a variable I can’t control?”

“I know I am,” I said, and grinned because it felt safer than anything else.

He laughed, genuinely. “You’re wrong, but I’m not going to argue.”

I sipped the coffee, hands steady now. He put his cup down and leaned forward.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nodded, bracing.

“Did you mean it?” he asked. “Last night. The marriage, and the rest.”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say it with a confidence that I didn’t feel. Instead, I looked down at my ring, at the gold reflecting in the cabin lights, and let myself answer.

“Yes,” I finally said because I had no other answer.

He didn’t blink. “Good.”

“What do you want to happen when we land?” I asked, the question eating away at my composure. Hell, it was eating away at my ability to think clearly.

Kenneth didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang in the space between us, like a string of unsent emails. Finally, he said, “I want you to stay.”

“With you?”

He nodded. “With me. In New York. In my apartment, if you’ll have it. And not as a guest.”

I swallowed. “You know this is going to make things complicated.”

“They’re already complicated,” he said, and I believed him.

I looked down at my wedding ring. It was not the ring I would have chosen, but it fit. I wondered how many of my choices had been like that. I said, “You’re going to need a better proposal.”

He looked at me, amused. “Is this a negotiation?”

“Everything is a negotiation,” I said, and this time he did laugh.

He reached across the table, not for my hand, but for the laptop. He closed it with deliberate care, then set his own hand palm-up on the table. Not a demand, just an offer.

I watched my own hand move to cover it. I felt the texture of his skin, the warmth of it, the steadiness.

I did not look away.

We drank the rest of our coffee in silence. The clouds outside thinned, and the sun found a way in through the haze. The jet started to descend, and the city below became visible: blocks, then buildings, then the line of the river threading through it all.

At some point, I felt the exhaustion catch up to me. It was like the crash after a long sprint, the collapse that happens when you’re finally allowed to stop running. My head tipped back, my eyes drifted shut, and I let myself rest. Just for a minute.

I woke to the sound of landing gear locking into place—a kind of mechanical exhale that vibrated up through the seat into my spine. The private jet’s interior was exactly as I remembered: cream leather, table cleared, window shades half-open, the sun now gray and filtered by the possibility of rain.