Chapter 2

The day after Ethan flew out, I started clearing out the house.

I logged into the smart home hub first.

The thermostat, the lighting, the medication reminders, the coffee maker schedule, the bedroom blackout blinds, the air purifier cycles. I had configured every one of them, setting by setting.

Ethan had never once asked how any of it worked.

All he knew was that the water was always the right temperature when he woke up, the living room lights were on when he landed and came home, and his medication was ready at the right time no matter what time zone he'd flown in from.

I transferred admin access to him, removed all the shared schedules, and deleted my account.

The system prompted a confirmation.

"After deactivation, your voice and behavioral data will be permanently removed."

I clicked confirm.

From now on, this house would only recognize him.

Packing was faster than I'd expected.

Two suitcases. That was all it took.

An entire wall of the closet was filled with his uniforms, jackets, and souvenirs from cities around the world.

A mug from Tokyo. A belt from Rome. A tie clip from Paris. A cologne from Dubai.

Some were for coworkers, some for friends at the flying club, some were things he said he'd just picked up on a whim.

Not a single one was for me.

I'd asked him about it once.

He said airport shops were overpriced and the stuff was useless. Just taking up space.

It turned out he wasn't against buying things. He just never thought of me.

On the nightstand sat a Polaroid, taken the day he first wore his captain's epaulettes.

In the photo, I stood next to him, smiling even wider than he was.

I didn't tear it up, and I didn't take it with me.

I turned the photo face down and placed it in his drawer.

When I picked up the dark flight jacket, I paused.

There was a row of tiny stitches along the right cuff.

I had sewn them.

In the weeks after the miscarriage, I couldn't stand for long, so I'd sit on the couch watching aviation weather courses, listening to cloud classifications while I stitched up his fraying cuff.

The first time the stitching came out crooked, I ripped it out and started over.

When Ethan came home, he didn't even glance at it. He just said he needed to wear it the next day and reminded me not to forget to iron it.

I hung the jacket back up.

Right alongside everything else I'd ever mended for him.

That evening, Ethan sent a message.

"Landed."

A few minutes later, another one.

"They have those dates you used to love here in Dubai. Want me to bring some back?"

I replied, "No thanks."

He texted back almost immediately.

"Nora, there you go again. I'm just asking if you want something. Don't act like you've been wronged."

I stared at the message and let out a small laugh.

He didn't even need to know what had happened.

The moment I wasn't as accommodating as usual, he could immediately frame it as me being emotional.

I didn't reply.

On social media, Skyler had just posted her solo flight celebration photos.

She stood on the tarmac, no wings pin on her chest, but a men's flight jacket draped over her shoulders.

Ethan's jacket.

The camera had caught the cuff.

The row of stitches I'd ripped out and redone was clearly visible.

The caption read: "First time going up alone. My legs were still shaking when I landed. Good thing someone kept telling me I could do it."

Someone in the comments asked whose jacket it was.

She replied with a small bird emoji. No explanation.

I closed the page.

The pain was dull, like being touched through a thick glove. It had lost its edge.

I just kept thinking about how, after losing the baby, I'd sat on the couch and stitched his jacket back together, one stitch at a time.

And now, that same jacket was draped over another woman's shoulders, celebrating the solo flight I'd been talked out of.

At nine that night, I signed a lease online for a small cabin by the river in Bend.

Six months of rent, paid upfront.

After the payment went through, the landlord sent the door code and move-in instructions.

I pulled up the flight school's enrollment page again and added the next refresher course to my application.

Before submitting, the system asked me to upload my old logbook.

I glanced at the logbook in my suitcase but didn't photograph it right away.

Seven years without flying. The old records might not even count anymore.

But it didn't matter.

Even if I had to start from scratch, I would fly again.