I Quit Chasing His Flight Path

"Why are you up so early today?" Brandon Smith asked with a slight frown as he walked out of the bedroom, pulling his work suitcase.

I held my mug and watched him carefully attach the four-stripe epaulettes to his white shirt.

"I couldn't sleep, so I got up to have some coffee," I replied.

He walked over to the kitchen island, casually picked up the other cup of coffee I had just poured, and took a sip.

"Did you stay up late again last night watching those silly shows?" he asked.

"No."

"Melissa Howard, your sleep schedule is becoming increasingly worse," Brandon said, his tone carrying its usual lecturing edge.

He lifted his wrist to check his watch. "I'm flying to Frankwell soon. It's a four-day round trip."

"Okay."

Brandon seemed a little surprised by how overly calm I was today.

Normally, before he flew a long international route, I would always get his stomach medicine, melatonin, and neck pillow ready a day early. I'd then pack them into his work suitcase.

I would also remind him again and again to text me after he landed.

But today, I did none of that. I just sat on the barstool and watched him.

"Where did you put my stomach medicine?" he asked as he rummaged through the side pocket of his suitcase.

"Second drawer under the TV stand. Get it yourself."

He paused for a moment, then turned his head and looked at me.

"What's up with you today? You can't even walk a few steps?"

"I'm a little tired," I replied nonchalantly.

He sighed before walking to the TV stand. He pulled open the drawer, took out the medicine box, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"You stay at home all day. I don't know what you have to be tired about."

Brandon's phone, placed on the countertop, lit up. A message appeared, with the contact name being a bear emoji.

"Brandon, it's getting colder in Frankwell. Remember to bring a thick coat."

Brandon picked up the phone, making the screen light illuminate the slight upward curve of his lips. Then, without even bothering to zip up his suitcase first, he typed a quick reply with one hand.

"A text from a coworker?" I asked, looking at the bear emoji.

He locked the screen and slipped the phone into his trouser pocket. "Yeah. It's Wilma Chapman. She's also flying this route today, working behind in the cabin."

"Isn't she a Chief Purser for domestic routes?"

"The company reassigned her temporarily. She's helping train some new flight attendants."

He answered very naturally, not even needing time to make up an excuse.

I stared at his upright back and recalled the locked album from last night, the one with more than 40 photos in it.

Every shot was captured by him personally from way up in the sky. He never showed me a single one, but he shared all of them freely with Wilma.

"Brandon," I called out.

He was putting on his shoes at the entryway. "What is it?"

"Do you still remember what day next Wednesday is?"

He didn't stop in his movements as he replied, "Next Wednesday? There's a simulator retraining at the company. Why?"

"Never mind."

Next Wednesday was our eighth anniversary.

Eight years ago, on that day, Brandon got the offer letter to be a First Officer. He was so excited that he spun me around in our rented apartment.

He said that, later on, he would pick out the most beautiful clouds from high up in the sky for me.

He had forgotten this.

"I'm heading out. I'll text you after I land," he said, pushing the front door open.

"Brandon." I stopped him again.

His hand lingered on the doorknob, and he looked somewhat annoyed. "What now? The crew shuttle is waiting for me downstairs."

"Your suitcase zipper isn't closed all the way."

He glanced down, then casually zipped it shut. "Got it. You're acting weird today."

The door closed behind him, and the apartment sank back into dead silence.

I walked over to my computer and stared at the purchase record of the one-way flight to Dalco that would depart in a week. I was glad that I didn't register our marriage with him. Otherwise, it would be more complicated.

Seven days were enough for me to clean away all traces of our relationship from these eight years.

Just then, my phone rang. It was my best friend, Natalie Sanford.

"Did you make up your mind?" she asked.

"I did."

"You've made your decision, so there's no going back. When are you planning to tell Brandon?"

"The day I leave."

Natalie was silent for a few seconds on the other end, then she asked, "Melissa, are you really giving up on eight years of your youth just like that?"

"I don't want it anymore."

I looked at the cup of coffee that had already gone cold on the kitchen island.

"Natalie, have you seen the sunset that he captured for someone else?"

"What?"

"It's really beautiful."

I turned my phone facedown on the table.

"Unfortunately, it wasn't for me."