Chapter 1

The third voicemail from Dr. Keene came through while I was watching a passenger at the service desk frantically transfer belongings between two overweight suitcases.

"Irene, this is Dr. Keene. The biopsy confirms stomach cancer, and the scans show that it has spread beyond the stomach. We need to discuss treatment options immediately. I know you mentioned a trip, but please--"

I swiped the notification away.

The departures level hummed with ordinary friction--rolling suitcases, flight numbers squawking over the PA system. I tucked my phone deep into the wool lining of my coat, my fingers trembling slightly.

The first time Stellan and I crossed paths, my transmission had seized on a gravel pull-off outside Tok, and he had spent two hours lying in the slush under my chassis with grease smeared across his forehead.

The second time, he had asked me to marry him over a cardboard box of takeout pizza in a rented apartment that smelled of fresh paint.

This time, he was bringing the paperwork to dismantle it.

I spotted him near the glass entrance ten minutes later.

Stellan hadn't bothered to change out of his shop uniform; his dark work trousers were stained with engine oil near the right knee, and his heavy canvas jacket was half-zipped against the damp draft. He held a thick manila envelope tucked firmly under his arm.

Even from thirty paces, I could read the sharp, clean edges of the eighth revision of our divorce agreement.

He caught sight of me and came to a dead halt. For a fraction of a second, I waited for his expression to give way--for the familiar softness around his eyes that used to mean he was glad to see me.

It didn't come. His gaze flicked past my face, dropping immediately to the small canvas duffel bag resting against my boots, then up to the departure board.

"You bought tickets," he said.

"I told you I would."

His eyes moved to the departure board again, as if checking whether there was still time to escape this conversation.

"You told me to meet you at the Delta desk. You didn't mention you'd already checked us in."

"I also told you the flight boards in three hours."

He stepped closer, his jaw tightening. As I shifted my weight, my left sleeve rode down past my palm.

I pulled it back, but not before I caught a brief, sharp look Stellan threw down at my wrist before moving his eyes away too quickly.

I pointed at the manila envelope under his arm. "Did you bring them?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he took in the hollows beneath my cheekbones.

"You look like hell, Irene."

The words scraped against my ribs. I had lost nineteen pounds in four months; my wedding ring spun loosely around my knuckle.

I forced a brittle smile. "Airport lighting."

"I'm serious. When was the last time you slept?"

"About as long as you've gone without looking at your phone." I held out my hand. "The papers, Stellan."

He pulled the envelope free, his thumb catching on the metal clasp. He didn't hand it over yet.

"Cal nearly walked out when I told him I'd be gone for two days," he muttered, glancing around the terminal. "You have any idea what it takes to reschedule two days of engine work on four hours' notice?"

"You didn't have to come."

"If I didn't come, you would have spent the next month calling the shop every twenty minutes." He slid the top paper out just far enough for me to see his signature. Clean. Precise. Stellan Cole. "I signed. Every page."

My chest tightened. "You said you'd sign if I met your terms," he added, waiting.

"After Alaska."

His expression snapped shut. Stellan's thumb bent the metal clasp of the manila envelope until it clicked and stayed crooked. "No."

"Then turn around and go back to your shop."

"You don't get to move the finish line after I cancel appointments, lose a day's revenue, and drive forty miles out of my way."

"Seven days."

Overhead, an automated PA announcement crackled to life, blurring the gate numbers into a wall of static. My hand dropped to my abdomen, pressing hard against the sudden, dull ache beneath my ribs before I forced my fingers back to my side.

"What?" he asked.

"Come with me to Alaska for seven days. Retrace the road we took when we still thought wanting it badly was enough. On the seventh day, I'll sign the final release, and you won't have to look at me ever again."

He stared at me, searching for the hidden trap. He shifted the envelope beneath his arm, already holding it like something he regretted signing.

"I knew this was a stalling tactic," he said quietly.

"It isn't."

"You booked two tickets without asking if my shop could survive a week-long absence."

"I knew your answer if I asked."

"That doesn't make it rational, Irene."

"Then don't come." I locked my eyes onto his. "Go back to Cal. Keep printing out new versions of the agreement. Maybe version nine will finally make me disappear."

"That right there," he hissed, stepping closer. "That's why we're here. Every single conversation has to turn into a war."

"I'm not fighting."

"No, you're holding my life hostage over a scenic detour."

The pain sharpened. I pressed my palm hard against the seam of my coat, biting the inside of my cheek.

I could tell him, the thought whispered. I could pull out my phone, play Dr. Keene's voicemail, and watch his irritation evaporate into terror.

He would take my bag. He would cancel the tickets.

He would drive me straight to a clinic.

But I would spend every remaining hour wondering if he stayed because he loved me, or because civilized men don't abandon sick wives at airport security.

I couldn't survive that math.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small, translucent plastic sleeve. Inside was a piece of cheap, grease-stained paper--the back of a 2018 roadside motel takeout menu, its edges yellowed and frayed.

Stellan's eyes dropped to the paper. His expression flickered.

He didn't need me to explain what it was.

"You still have that?" he asked, his voice losing its sharp edge.

"Every word," I said softly. "The seven promises."

"We'd known each other six months, Irene. We wrote rules because neither of us knew how to argue without leaving."

"You remember the first one," I challenged, stepping closer. "No matter how exhausted or angry we feel, we put down our bags and share a meal before we decide we are done."

Stellan's jaw worked. He looked away, scanning the terminal ceiling. "I remember it."

"One promise for every day we're up north," I whispered, holding up the plastic sleeve. "One day at a time. And when the seventh day ends, I sign the papers, and you take your freedom home."

He was silent for a long time. Around us, a flight from Seattle unloaded its passengers.

Finally, he pulled out his phone, unlocked the screen, and tapped open his messaging app.

Stellan: Change of plans. I need the whole week.

Can you move Miller?

Cal: A week? You're killing me.

I'll handle it. Go.

He locked the phone, shoved it back into his jacket, and let out a long breath.

"There," he muttered. "I gave you your week. Happy?"

He snatched the manila envelope back, shoved it under his arm, and reached down to grab the handle of my canvas duffel before I could stop him.

He hefted its weight, frowning slightly at how easily it lifted off the floor.

"This is it?" he asked. "A week up north, and you packed a gym bag?"

I pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes, hiding the dark circles beneath them.

"I'm not bringing anything back."