We held a wedding three years ago, but my husband, a pilot, has canceled our trip to get a marriage license eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee was on a test flight. I waited at the courthouse all day. The second time, he got a call from her, made a sharp U-turn, and left me on the side of the road. Every time we scheduled it, something would happen with his trainee. Finally, I decided to leave him. But when I boarded the plane to Paris, he chased me there, frantic and desperate. 1 We’d been “married” for three years, but Mason Croft had never gotten around to making it legal. Today was supposed to be a milestone—his one-thousandth successful flight. It was also the seventeenth time he had promised we would finally go to the courthouse. But at his celebration dinner, while his supervisor was forcing shots on me, Mason was busy feeding appetizers and trading sips of wine with his trainee pilot. I was burning up with a fever, downing drink after drink until I was nearly unconscious, but he never once glanced my way. I could see the pity in our colleagues’ eyes, the unspoken “you deserve better” hanging in the air. It was obvious to everyone who I was doing this for. But after the dinner, Mason, the man who was supposed to take me to get our marriage license, stood me up again. He pulled his convertible up to the restaurant entrance and put a hand out to stop me from getting in. "Cora drank too much on my behalf," he said, his voice flat. "I'm taking her home. You can grab a cab." "We probably won't make it to the courthouse this afternoon. We'll reschedule." He didn't wait for my reaction. He got out, opened the passenger door, and gently helped his trainee into the seat. We’d been together for eight years, married for three. This was the seventeenth time Mason had postponed our official marriage because of Cora. Usually, this would be my breaking point. I would have dissolved into tears, screaming at him, demanding to know who his real wife was, who had actually been taking drinks for him all night. But this time, I just smiled. "Okay. Drive safe." Mason froze, clearly taken aback by my calm demeanor. A moment later, his face hardened back into its usual indifference. "I'll buy you a gift tonight to make it up to you." He sped off, carefully rolling up the passenger-side window to shield a drunk Cora from the wind. He used to hate the smell of alcohol in his car. Whenever I'd had too much to drink for him, he'd put the top down, even in the dead of winter. He certainly never would have rolled up the window. It hit me then. The rules were just different when it was me in the car. The midday Miami heat was suffocating, but a strange, profound chill settled deep in my bones. I took a deep breath and put my wallet, the one holding my ID for the license, back in my purse. I knew then that our eight-year relationship had to be put away with it. 2 That afternoon, I went straight back to the airline's headquarters and submitted my resignation. "Does Mason know you're quitting?" my manager asked, shocked. I was, after all, the airline's top-rated flight attendant for seven consecutive years. My future here was limitless. A bitter smile touched my lips. "I'll tell him tonight. Not that he'll care." "I don't understand," she sighed, her expression full of regret. "You two pioneered new routes together, won 'Best Crew' awards together. Three years ago, even the CEO came to your wedding. Everyone was so envious. But now…" She was right. Those were beautiful memories. But memories were all they were. There was no going back. It was after ten by the time I got home. The apartment was dark and empty. Just then, a notification popped up on my phone. A new social media post from Cora, and she had tagged me. "Thanks to my amazing mentor for spending the afternoon with me! As a thank you, I'm taking him to the Jay-Z concert tomorrow! So excited!" I knew then that Mason, who had promised to be home, wasn't coming home. This had become a familiar pattern over the past three years. I made myself a bowl of instant noodles and opened my laptop. My inbox was full of job offers from airlines around the world. My cursor hovered over the one from Air France, and without a second thought, I clicked "accept." Then I booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two days from now. Five years ago, on a flight to Paris, Mason had experienced the worst crisis of his career. Since then, the word "Paris" had become a taboo. He refused to fly there, and he'd made sure I never did either. Mason, I thought, once I'm in Paris, we'll never have to see each other again. 3 The next morning, I started packing. I was halfway through when Mason walked in, wearing a crisp, pink button-down. A cloud of rich, floral perfume followed him into the room. The scent hit me, and I froze. He used to despise perfume. Because of him, I hadn't worn a single drop in years. I'd even thrown away my entire collection. It wasn't that he hated perfume, I realized. He just hated it on me. He saw the open suitcases and paused. "Cora was too hungover to drive last night. I got a hotel room. That's why I didn't come home." I glanced up at him, surprised. It was the first time in three years he'd bothered to explain himself. I just nodded, not saying a word. He walked over to me, his eyes on the luggage. "Are you packing for a flight?" "Something like that," I said. He seemed to visibly relax at my answer. "I have to run. I just came back to grab something. Can't stay for lunch." "Okay." I didn't look up, just kept folding clothes. I had planned to tell him I'd quit over lunch, to finally put an end to our eight years together. It seemed I wouldn't get the chance. Mason grabbed a red gift bag from the closet, picked up his jacket, and rushed out the door. CRASH! The photo frame that had hung by the door for eight years suddenly fell, shattering on the floor. Glass sprayed everywhere. I looked over. It was a picture of Mason and me at our first concert together, our hands clasped, our faces beaming. He had promised me that day that no matter how busy he got, he would take me to a concert every year. But ever since Cora became his trainee, he had forgotten. The only sound in the empty apartment was the ticking of the clock. After a long silence, I swept up the broken glass. I took the photo, a perfect capsule of our past happiness, and threw it, along with the last remnants of my feelings for him, into the trash. 4 That evening, exhausted from packing, I was lying in bed when my best friend called. "What is wrong with Mason? This is too much! Did you see his feed? He's all over it, showing off with that homewrecker Cora." "You guys aren't even divorced yet! How could he?" As she ranted, I opened my phone. The first post was from Cora. In the photo, she was wearing a new Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, and in her hands was the red gift bag Mason had picked up that afternoon. I finally understood. He'd come home to get Cora's concert gift. The caption read: "Three years since we met. So lucky to have you, Mason. Happy third anniversary!" My mind went blank. Three years? That's right. Today was supposed to be my third wedding anniversary with Mason. We had never once celebrated it. I had completely forgotten. I let out a long breath. "He doesn't need a divorce," I told my friend. "We were never legally married." "What?" "You've been 'married' for three years, and he never got a license with you?" My friend's shriek was so loud it almost deafened me. Yes. We had a wedding three years ago. And he had canceled on me seventeen times. 5 At eleven that night, Mason came home, a rare occurrence. He took off his jacket and went to hang it on the hook by the door. He stopped, staring at the empty space where our photo used to be. "Where's our picture?" he asked, walking into the bedroom without even putting his jacket down, a hint of panic in his voice. "It fell. It broke." He looked towards the trash can by the door, saw the shattered glass, and his shoulders relaxed. He put his jacket aside and pulled out a shopping bag with a new Louis Vuitton purse inside. "I didn't get a chance to give you your gift yesterday," he said. "And today is our third wedding anniversary. So… Happy Anniversary." He placed the bag on the bed. For a moment, I thought I'd misheard him. After three years, he actually remembered our anniversary? But then I saw the receipt. The purchase time was thirty minutes ago. Cora's post must have reminded him. He'd just picked it up on his way home. He didn't know that I already had two of this exact same bag in my closet. I said nothing, just stared at him. "By the way," he said, his tone shifting, "the annual airline awards are coming up. Can you… can you step aside this year? Cora's been in the industry for three years, and her biggest dream is to win 'Best Attendant,' just like you. You've won it so many times. Can you let her have it this year?" He looked uncomfortable saying it. I had to laugh. So this last-minute gift had a price tag after all. "Fine," I said calmly. Not just this year. Next year, the year after—I would never compete with her again. Because after tonight, I would be gone. "You… you agree?" My quick reply seemed to surprise him. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat. "Cora is my trainee. You're her mentor's wife. This is how it should be." He paused, as if just remembering. "Oh, right, you're flying tomorrow, aren't you? What time is your flight?" "Three in the afternoon." I looked at him, deciding to take this last chance to tell him I was leaving. But before I could speak, his phone rang. It was Cora. Her saccharine voice drifted from the phone. She was on her period, had no pads, and was calling Mason for help. He hung up and looked at me, a guilty expression on his face. "Uh… Cora's in a bit of a jam. She's all alone, can't handle it. I should probably go." For the first time, his voice held a note of pleading. I swallowed the words I was about to say and forced a smile. "It's fine. Go." He looked immensely relieved. He stood up, and as he was leaving, he said again, "Your flight is at three, so there's still time. Tomorrow, ten a.m. Let's go get the license. I promise, no matter what happens this time, I'll be there." A bitter smile played on my lips. He wouldn't even give me the chance to break up with him face-to-face. The next morning, I finished packing. I didn't go to the courthouse. I went straight to the airport. By noon, I still hadn't received a single call from Mason asking why I wasn't there. As I was boarding my flight that afternoon, I finally got a text from him: "Sorry, Cora wasn't feeling well today. I just took her to the hospital. We missed our appointment. When you get back from this trip, I'll take you to the courthouse first thing." I felt nothing. Of course. The eighteenth time was a no-show too. "Don't bother, Mason. I've quit my job. I'm on my way to Paris. After today, we will never see each other again." I sent the message, my final message, and prepared to turn off my phone. The next second, the chat window, which had been silent for so long, began to vibrate uncontrollably. 6 The flight attendant's voice came over the intercom, announcing the final boarding call. I ignored the buzzing of my phone, deleted Mason's contact, and turned it off. From that moment on, Mason Croft and I were finished.
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