"Of course, sir," I said, shifting aside to let him pass. "Welcome aboard. Your seat is straight ahead." I turned back to the pair blocking the entrance. Ryan's hand tightened around the handle of his suitcase, and the woman in red withdrew her fingers from his arm. That small movement was the first honest thing anyone had done since they stepped onto the jet bridge.
"Who is she?" the woman demanded.
"I'm Valerie Carter," I said. "Ryan's wife."
There was a second when the only sound was the ventilation running above us. The woman's mouth opened slightly, then closed. A strained laugh escaped her, the kind a person makes when the alternative is accepting a fact that has just ruined every assumption beneath her feet. "That's impossible. He told me you were divorced."
"We had breakfast together this morning," I replied.
Ryan's jaw hardened. "Ashley, we are not doing this here."
So her name was Ashley. Until then, she had existed in my mind as an outline suggested by missed dinners, hotel charges, unexplained flowers on credit-card statements, and the private laughter that disappeared whenever I entered a room. Hearing an actual name made her suddenly human, which was somehow more painful than the idea of her had been. Ashley Monroe was a person with a boarding pass, a suitcase, a favorite shade of lipstick, and a face showing the first signs of betrayal.
"You said the divorce papers were signed six months ago," she told him, loud enough that two passengers in the line turned their heads. "You said everything was final."
"Lower your voice," Ryan hissed.
It was the same command he used whenever I asked why another woman had called him at midnight. It was also the tone he used when the mortgage payment was late but his new truck had arrived on schedule. For a fraction of a second my body responded from habit, my shoulders tightening as if I were the one being reprimanded. Then I remembered where I was, straightened my posture, and held out my hand.
"Your boarding passes, please. You're delaying boarding."
He stared at me with disbelief. "Valerie, what are you doing here?"
I looked down at my navy uniform, the neatly folded scarf at my neck, and the wings pinned above my name. "My job," I said.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know. The passes, Ryan."
He surrendered them at last. His name was printed beside seat 2A and Ashley's beside 2B, both in first class, both booked for a four-day trip from Dallas to Cancun. The reservation codes were separate, though the tickets had been purchased with the same card. My eyes moved across the details automatically because performing ordinary tasks in an extraordinary moment was the only way to keep my hands steady.
"Seats 2A and 2B," I told them. "Straight ahead on your left. Please keep the aisle clear."
Ashley stayed where she was. "He said you two had been separated for almost a year."
"We haven't filed for divorce," I answered.