Captain Fiancé Cheated With His First Officer, I Left

That night I sat on the living room carpet and opened the old journal. The pages had yellowed, and my mother's boarding pass from her last trip was tucked in the middle, Boston to Paris, transatlantic. Her health had been bad then, but she'd smiled and told me that above the clouds, everything felt light.

The study door opened. Ethan came out carrying a coffee mug, fresh from a shower, hair still wet, in a white shirt, with that cool, put-together air unique to pilots.

"Why's the coffee machine out of water?" His voice was low, tired from the long-haul flight, with that same old sense of entitlement.

"I didn't fill it." I closed the journal.

He glanced at the book in my hands. "You still keeping that thing?"

"Mm."

"Emma, you have to move forward." He took a sip of cold water, his tone as flat as if he were reading off a flight parameter. "Stop burying yourself in these sentimental keepsakes."

I looked up at him. "Ethan."

He stopped.

"Last Valentine's Day, were you really prepping for a flight?"

Something in his eyes hitched. A very short pause, so short that if I hadn't known him so well, I'd never have caught it.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." I set the journal back on the coffee table. "Just asking."

He put down his glass, his brow furrowing. "I've only got ten days of leave this time, and after that there's recurrent training and a line check. Emma, if you want to dig up old grievances, can you pick another time?"

"I'm not digging up old grievances. I'm just wondering how long it takes to put together a full set of simulator debrief materials, a recommendation letter, and a defense video."

The living room went quiet. Ethan's face finally changed. "You went through my flight case?"

"I was packing your luggage. The waterproof pouch fell out on its own."

"That's training material." The words came fast but steady, like he'd had an explanation ready all along. "Claire's the first officer I'm mentoring. She's pushing for international route certification. Simulator debriefs, recommendation letters, defense videos, that's all normal mentor duty."

"Normal mentor duty?" I repeated. "You edited her promotion video too. Is that mentor duty?"

"Her simulator evaluation is important. It decides whether she makes the transoceanic crew this coming year."

"So you spent Valentine's Day pulling an all-nighter fixing her materials."

"Emma, you're making a professional matter personal." He looked at me like I was an outsider who didn't understand how the industry worked. "Flight training isn't the cozy chitchat you're imagining. What she needs is professional support, not your emotional interpretation of things."

Emotional. He'd used that word for five years.

I once ran a fever of 102 and called to ask if he could take me to the hospital. He said he'd just landed and needed sleep to recover, that he couldn't deal with my "emotional dependence."

On my birthday I asked if he could come back early. He said flight schedules weren't personal calendars, and not to "make his work personal."

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I wanted him to come with me to the cemetery. He said he had a pre-flight meeting and that a safety briefing couldn't be delayed for my emotions.

I believed it for five years. Until I saw that recommendation letter, saw that defense video edited so every single second landed just right. It wasn't that he couldn't handle other people's needs. He just didn't think mine were worth it.

"My mother's flight journal. You never opened it once in five years." My voice was soft.

"Claire's materials? You marked them up page by page."

A flash of irritation crossed Ethan's eyes. "The two things aren't comparable."

"How are they not?"

"One's a private keepsake, the other's a career promotion."

"So my mother, my keepsake, the one page I waited five years for, none of it matters."

"I didn't say that."

"But you've been doing it all along."

Ethan was silent for two seconds, unwilling to go on. His phone rang right then, Claire's name flashing on the screen. He glanced at it and picked up.

"Claire." His voice dropped, not tender, but patient enough. "During tomorrow's simulator eval, don't rush to explain your mistakes. Lay out your decision process first, then what you corrected."

She said something on the other end. Ethan walked over to the balcony. "Right, if the examiner asks about the approach deviation, just answer with the second version I gave you. Don't be nervous. You've prepared enough. See you at the reception tonight."

He hung up and came back into the living room. "Tonight you're coming with me to the pilots' foundation reception."

"I'm not going."

He frowned. "Emma, don't be like this."

"Like what?"

"They all know me, know I have a fiancée." He slipped his phone into his pocket, his tone returning to that calm, commanding register. "If you don't show up, it'll look strange."

"How other people see you matters more than how I feel?"

Ethan wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've been flying for over ten hours. I don't want to deal with this pointless bickering." He walked into the bedroom and pulled a dark suit jacket from the closet. "Seven tonight. Sophie will be there too. Get yourself ready."

He didn't wait for my answer. He went into the bathroom. The water started running.

I sat in the living room, looking at the uniform jacket on the couch. Half a boarding pass stuck out of the pocket, and clipped beside it was a pale hair clip, small and delicate. Not mine.

I didn't touch it. I picked up my phone and opened my email, where the hiring correspondence from Seattle was still sitting. I opened the ticket page. Boston to Seattle, one-way.

Booking confirmed.