Chapter 1
Right before boarding, William Shore helped me fix my scarf and said that when the project wrapped up, he'd take me up north to see the Northern Lights.
After the plane took off, I scrolled through my feed and came across a post.
In the photo, a woman was holding a child, and a man's hand rested on her shoulder.
There was a crescent-shaped scar at the base of his thumb.
That was the scar William got at twenty-seven, when he protected me from broken glass.
The post read: [He snuck our son and me out to see the Northern Lights, behind his wife's back.]
I stared at that scar for so long that the flight attendant asked if I wanted some coffee.
I turned off my phone and booked the next available flight home after landing.
Those Northern Lights weren't meant for me, so I gave up on them.
*****
As the plane broke through the clouds, the sky outside turned into a blinding sheet of white.
I turned my phone screen off, then back on.
That photo was still stuck in my mind.
The woman was wearing a cream-colored down jacket, hair blowing across her lips. The little boy in her arms wore a blue knit hat, grinning and showing off his two front teeth.
His face wasn't in the shot, just half a shoulder and one hand.
I could recognize that hand anywhere.
There was a faint ring mark at the base of his ring finger, a crescent-shaped scar on the web of his thumb, and a rough callus on the side of his right middle finger from years of writing.
Every morning, when William made coffee, he would use that hand to push my coffee cup a little farther away, saying I shouldn't drink too much on an empty stomach.
It was also that hand that signed the surgery consent form when my mom was in the hospital, and helped me up from the bench in the hospital hallway, telling me he'd always be there for me.
Now, that hand was resting on another woman's shoulder.
The woman's post headline was written breezily: [At last, he brought our son and me to see the Northern Lights.]
I kept scrolling, and each line on the screen hit me harder.
[He said it was freezing here and didn't want our son to come, but our boy wanted to see the sky blossom.]
[He's always said he owed us for the past few years, and today, he finally made it up.]
[Even if we can't be out in the open, I know I'm the one he truly wants to be with.]
I couldn't take my eyes off those words. "the past few years".
It was like someone had poured a glass of ice water into my stomach. The chill crawled up my throat and lodged there, making it hard to breathe.
The flight attendant pushed the cart down the aisle, the metal wheels making a soft friction sound against the carpet.
She bent down and asked, "Ma'am, would you like some coffee?"
I opened my mouth, but my throat was tight, so I just nodded.
The paper cup landed on the tray table, steam curling upward.
I reached for it, but my fingertips brushed the hot surface, and I flinched back.
The passenger next to me glanced over, then went back to sleep.
I didn't cry. Tears would only make me look pitiful.
I pulled up the woman's profile.
Her name was Grace Lane.
Her feed was full of photos: a bouquet of flowers with no name attached, just the corner of a men's wristwatch, a kid's birthday cake decorated with [Happy 4th Birthday], and a photo taken in the airport lounge.
In that photo, outside the window, there was a plane from the same airline as our flight.
The post read: [He was supposed to go on their anniversary trip with her today, but he changed his mind at the last minute, saying there was an emergency at work. In the end, he came to me instead.]
My fingers gripped the edge of my phone so hard that my fingertips turned white.
Three months ago, I booked our seventh-anniversary trip to Northern Europe.
I made over twenty pages of plans, including routes, hotels, aurora tours, sleigh trains, each one neatly tabulated.
William chuckled when he saw it. "Emily, you're more thorough than our bidding team."
I said, "It's our seventh anniversary."
He replied, "Of course, seven years. I haven't forgotten."
Three days before we were supposed to leave, he got a call and stepped out onto the balcony, keeping his voice low.
I watched his silhouette through the glass, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other pressed to his forehead.
When he came back inside, he said, "Emily, I'm sorry. Something came up with the overseas project. I'll have to join you a couple of days late."
I opened my suitcase, then closed it again.
I asked, "Should I go ahead without you?"
He said, "I don't want you going alone. Let's push it to next month. I'll take care of the flight and hotel fees."
That night, I tucked the travel guide away in the drawer.
William wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting gently on my shoulder, his voice close to my ear. "I'm sorry for making you feel this way."
Now I finally realized that it wasn't about any project.
It was Grace and her son's trip to see the Northern Lights.
The plane's announcement came on, saying we'd be landing in twenty minutes.
I scrolled all the way through Grace's profile, saving each post as a screenshot.
She loved to show off.
She posted her kid's building blocks, the necklace he bought her, and the same birthday cake every year.
For five years.
Her son was already four and a half.
William and I had been married for seven years.
Everything lined up perfectly.