Chapter 10
Three years after Flight 912, Dakota boarded a flight to Florence.
This time, I was waiting for her at the gate.
Alone.
No lies.
No mistress.
No fake business trip.
No company card.
I had purchased my own ticket.
Economy Plus.
Dakota had laughed when she saw the reservation.
“You know you can afford first class.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you sitting in row twenty-two?”
“Character development.”
She rolled her eyes.
The truth was simpler.
I wanted the trip to feel new.
Not an imitation of the journey that had destroyed our marriage.
Dakota was not working the flight.
She had taken four days off.
That alone was rare.
Her training role kept her busy, and she guarded her vacation time fiercely.
We had been dating again for almost two years.
Dating.
The word still surprised people who knew we had once been married.
My father stopped asking what came next.
Marianne never asked.
Sam occasionally referred to Dakota as “your ex-wife-girlfriend,” mostly because he enjoyed watching me suffer.
We lived separately.
We had keys to each other’s apartments.
We spent four nights together most weeks.
We attended counseling once a month.
There was no engagement ring.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
That uncertainty no longer frightened me the way it once would have.
At the gate, Dakota handed me her passport.
“Hold this.”
I stared at it.
“What?”
“You used to complain that I never let you hold my documents.”
“You used to complain that I lost everything.”
“You did.”
“I lost one boarding pass.”
“You lost it between security and the gate.”
“Ancient history.”
She smiled.
“Hold the passport.”
I did.
When boarding began, Dakota became quieter.
I noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Want to wait?”
She shook her head.
“No. I want to do this.”
We entered the jet bridge.
Halfway down, Dakota stopped.
Passengers moved around us.
“Miles.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember exactly where I was standing?”
I knew what she meant.
“At the aircraft door.”
“No. Which side?”
“Left.”
She nodded.
“I remember too.”
We continued.
A flight attendant greeted us.
“Welcome aboard.”
Two ordinary words.
Dakota’s hand found mine.
I looked at her.
She squeezed once.
Then released it.
Our seats were together.
No champagne waited.
I sat by the window.
Dakota took the aisle.
After takeoff, she fell asleep against my shoulder.
I remained still for almost an hour because I did not want to wake her.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, she opened her eyes.
“You can move.”
“My arm is dead.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Probably permanent.”
“Tragic.”
She sat upright.
The cabin lights were dim.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then Dakota said, “I almost hated Florence.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You went back.”
“Many times.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“You know now.”
The sentence was gentle.
Yes.
I knew now.
I knew her routes.
Her favorite coffee.
The name of the trainee who drove her insane.
The way she became quiet before difficult evaluations.
The fact that she still practiced Italian while cooking.
I knew because I listened.
Not because I monitored.
There was a difference.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That I missed a lot.”
“You did.”
“I’m glad I don’t anymore.”
She rested her head against the seat.
“Miles.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you suggest Florence?”
I had prepared several answers.
None felt honest enough.
“Because I was afraid of it.”
She waited.
“I didn’t want the worst thing I did to own an entire city.”
Dakota looked toward the dark window.
“And?”
“And I wanted to see it with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you loved Florence before I contaminated it.”
Her face tightened slightly.
“I don’t want to give you a speech.”
“Good.”
“I just wanted to go somewhere you loved and not make it about me.”
Dakota laughed softly.
“You realize that sentence is partly about you.”
“Therapy has limits.”
She smiled.
When we landed, Florence was bright with autumn sunlight.
We left the airport as ordinary tourists.
No crew obligations.
No reporters.
No attorneys.
No financial investigations.
We checked into separate rooms.
That had been Dakota’s idea.
I had agreed.
At noon, we walked beside the Arno.
Dakota showed me a tiny café Marianne had introduced her to years earlier.
We ate outside.
Later, we visited the Uffizi.
Dakota stood in front of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus for nearly ten minutes.
I had not known she loved Renaissance paintings.
Then I corrected myself.
I had not known before.
Now I did.
That evening, we walked toward Piazzale Michelangelo.
The climb left me embarrassingly winded.
Dakota enjoyed that.
“You need more cardio.”
“I have excellent cardio.”
“You took a taxi three blocks last week.”
“It was raining.”
“You own an umbrella.”
“It was aggressive rain.”
By the time we reached the overlook, sunset had spread across Florence.
The city glowed beneath us.
Dakota became quiet.
I did too.
This was the kind of moment where movies demanded a ring.
I had one.
Not in my pocket.
Back in Chicago.
Locked in my desk.
I had purchased it six months earlier.
Then I decided not to bring it.
Dakota looked at me.
“You’re thinking loudly.”
“I’m talented.”
“What is it?”
I took a breath.
“I bought a ring.”
Her face went still.
“It’s in Chicago.”
“Why?”
“Because I almost brought it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because Florence already has one memory of me turning your life into a stage for my decisions.”
Dakota stared at me.
“I didn’t want to bring you here and create a situation where saying no would ruin the trip.”
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she looked back toward the city.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
“That doesn’t mean I never want to ask.”
“I know.”
“It means I’ll ask when we’ve talked about the answer first.”
She smiled.
“Radical concept.”
“I’m pioneering it.”
Dakota leaned against the stone wall.
“Do you want to marry me again?”
There it was.
No dramatic proposal.
No ring.
Just truth.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Long enough to buy a ring.”
She laughed.
Then grew serious.
“I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
“What if we become the same people?”
“We won’t.”
“You sound certain.”
“I’m certain we can’t become exactly the same people. That doesn’t mean we can’t become different kinds of terrible.”
Dakota burst out laughing.
“That may be the worst reassurance anyone has ever given.”
“I’m trying to be realistic.”
She wiped her eyes.
Then her expression softened.
“I think about it too.”
“Marriage?”
“Yes.”
My heart beat harder.
“But not yet.”
“Okay.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
She searched my face.
“When?”
“When we both want the answer more than we fear the question.”
Dakota looked back toward Florence.
“Keep the ring.”
“I plan to.”
“Don’t upgrade it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were absolutely going to.”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
She nudged my shoulder.
We watched the sunset.
Nothing was resolved.
And somehow, that felt more secure than the certainty of our first marriage.
Because uncertainty spoken aloud was safer than certainty built on assumptions.
We returned to Chicago four days later.
Six months passed.
Then nine.
One Saturday morning, Dakota came to my apartment carrying groceries.
She found me assembling a desk.
Incorrectly.
Again.
“You’re hopeless.”
“The instructions are badly written.”
“They have pictures.”
“Hostile pictures.”
She set the groceries down.
“Miles.”
Something in her voice made me stop.
“Yes?”
“Where’s the ring?”
My hands went still.
“What?”
“The ring.”
“In my desk.”
“The desk you’re replacing?”
“No. Bedroom desk.”
She walked toward the bedroom.
I followed.
Dakota opened the drawer.
The box was there.
She did not touch it.
“Open it.”
I did.
Inside was a simple platinum ring with a small diamond.
Nothing like the large ring I had given her the first time.
Dakota looked at it.
“Why this one?”
“Because I liked it.”
“That’s all?”
“And because you once said your old ring caught on everything when you worked.”
She looked at me.
“You remembered that?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
I waited.
Finally, she said, “Ask me.”
My throat tightened.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I did not kneel immediately.
Not because I did not want to.
Because I needed one final question.
“If I ask, are you saying yes because you want a marriage with me, or because you want to prove we fixed the old one?”
Dakota stared at me.
Then she closed the ring box.
For one terrifying second, I thought I had ruined it.
Instead, she placed the box in my hand.
“The old marriage is dead.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“I don’t want it back.”
“I know.”
“I want the man standing in front of me.”
My vision blurred.
Dakota smiled.
“Now you can kneel.”
So I did.
No restaurant.
No crowd.
No champagne.
No company money.
Just the two of us beside a half-assembled desk.
“Dakota Bennett—”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Dakota Reed.”
“Right.”
She laughed through tears.
I started again.
“Dakota Reed, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
One word.
Freely given.
I placed the ring on her finger.
Then I stood.
Dakota kissed me.
Years earlier, I had believed marriage meant someone had promised not to leave.
Now I understood it meant nothing of the kind.
A vow did not remove another person’s freedom.
Love did not create ownership.
Trust was not a permanent balance deposited on a wedding day.
It was a thousand small decisions.
And it could be spent.
Or protected.
May you like
Or destroyed.
Or, sometimes, slowly earned again.
