It ends quietly.
CHAPTER 2
Flight
“I knew it,” Clara says. “All men are the same cheating motherfuckers.” There it is. The rage I can’t quite access yet. Delivered cleanly and without hesitation.
Silence stretches between us. “Back then,” she adds, “I’d tell you to go on that work trip and get yourself some one-night-stand dick.”
A pause.
“But we’re adults now, so technically I shouldn’t say that.”
She absolutely can. She just likes pretending she’s evolved. My sister has always been on the bright side of life. The glitter. The chaos. The one who can turn a funeral into a networking opportunity. I love her for it. I envy her for it.
I am… not that.
At parties, I’m the girl standing near the snack table pretending to be deeply invested in a bowl of chips so no one feels obligated to talk to me. Conversations feel like interviews I didn’t prepare for and when I do try, when I force myself to be electric, to laugh a little louder, to lean in like I’m fascinated, it works. I can do it. I can perform.
But it drains me. Not physically, mentally. Like I’ve been holding a smile too long and my face starts to ache. By the end of the conversations, I’m exhausted from pretending to be someone who doesn’t need silence to recharge.
Balance, she calls it. Yin and yang.
“Clara… I don’t know what to do.” There. I said it. The sentence I hate more than I was wrong.
“Yes, you do,” she says immediately. No hesitation. “You always do.”
A small, humorless sound escapes my throat.
“Era,” she continues, and now her voice is softer, not kinder, just steadier. “When we were kids and everything went to shit, you were the one who said, ‘There’s always a way.’ Remember that?”
My stomach drops.
I do remember. Broken bikes. Missed rent. Mom crying in the kitchen when she thought we were asleep. There’s always a way, I’d say like I believed it.
“You don’t get to forget your own advice now,” Clara adds. “He’s done this before. You forgave him. He cried. He came back. And now? I’m not even surprised.”
The word surprised lands harder than cheating.
“I know he loves me,” I say. And I hate how small my voice sounds when it comes out.
Clara exhales. Not dramatic. Just tired. “Era. This is not love.”
My chest tightens like someone just pulled something sharp inside it.
Not love.
I look down at my watch. It is 8:06 p.m. Time keeps moving and it feels insulting.
“Call an Uber,” she says calmly. “You have time before boarding.”
Of course she knows what I’m thinking. My flight boards at 10 p.m. Five hours from San Diego to JFK. Five hours in the air with nothing but recycled oxygen and the truth.
There’s always a way. Always a way to forget. Always a way to leave. The question is, am I finally ready to take it?
It’s 8:42 p.m. when I’m hauling my suitcase out of the Uber’s trunk. The airport lights are too bright. Too sterile.
“Thank you. Hope you have a good trip, miss,” the driver says.