Chapter 8
Dakota texted me first.
Three weeks after Denver.
I was sitting in a client meeting when my phone vibrated.
Coffee Thursday?
I read the message four times.
Then I put the phone facedown and finished the meeting.
That was harder than it sounds.
Old Miles would have answered before the second vibration.
New Miles waited forty-three minutes because six other people had traveled to hear me speak about their company, and I had promised myself I would stop treating whoever demanded my emotions most loudly as more important than whoever had legitimately been given my time.
When the meeting ended, I answered.
Yes. Where?
Dakota chose a café near Lincoln Park.
Thursday arrived with cold rain.
She was already there.
Her wrist was still supported by a brace, but the sling was gone.
I ordered coffee and sat across from her.
“This feels strange,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Good strange or bad strange?”
“I’m trying not to assign meaning before you do.”
Dakota smiled.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She stirred her coffee.
“I asked you here because I want to tell you something before you hear it from someone else.”
My stomach tightened.
“All right.”
“I’m considering leaving the airline.”
I blinked.
Of all possibilities, that had not occurred to me.
“Why?”
“The training department offered me a permanent position.”
“That sounds like staying.”
“It’s ground based.”
“Oh.”
“I’d still fly occasionally, but mostly evaluations, safety training, international crew development.”
I watched her.
“You want it.”
“I think so.”
“Then congratulations.”
“That’s it?”
“What else should I say?”
Dakota laughed.
“I don’t know. You used to have opinions about everything.”
“I still do.”
“What’s your opinion?”
“I think you should decide whether you want it.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That’s infuriatingly reasonable.”
“I’m trying.”
“I can tell.”
She looked out the window.
“I used to make career decisions around your schedule.”
I said nothing.
“I almost turned down international certification because you complained we never had weekends.”
“I remember.”
“No. You remember the argument.”
She looked back at me.
“You didn’t know I almost withdrew.”
That hurt because she was right.
“I didn’t.”
“Marianne convinced me not to.”
“I owe Marianne a lot.”
“So do I.”
We sat quietly.
Then Dakota said, “I accepted the position yesterday.”
A smile came before I could stop it.
“I’m proud of you.”
She studied my face.
“Thank you.”
We finished coffee.
Neither rushed away.
That became the beginning of something neither of us named.
Coffee every few weeks.
Sometimes lunch.
Once, a museum exhibit Dakota wanted to see.
Nothing romantic.
No touching.
No discussion of getting back together.
And because we refused to name it, I became painfully aware of every temptation to assume.
When Dakota laughed at something I said, I reminded myself that laughter was not forgiveness.
When she called because her car battery died, I helped arrange roadside service rather than rushing across the city like a hero in search of a scene.
When my birthday arrived and she sent a message at 8:03 a.m., I replied thank you and did not ask whether she wanted dinner.
Then December came.
My father hosted a small holiday dinner.
For the first time since my mother died, he invited people who were not connected to business.
Alan.
Sam.
Marianne.
Dakota.
And me.
I almost asked him whether inviting Dakota was wise.
Then I remembered it was his house.
His friendship.
Not my decision.
Dakota arrived wearing a dark green dress.
I had seen her in hundreds of dresses during our marriage.
This one still made me forget how sentences worked.
She handed my father a bottle of wine.
He hugged her.
I stayed near the fireplace.
When she approached, she smiled.
“You look nervous.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“You.”
“Very flattering.”
“Not intended as flattery.”
She laughed.
Dinner was warm.
Normal.
That frightened me more than conflict.
Normality invited memory.
Dakota sitting beside my father.
Marianne telling a story.
Someone opening wine.
For brief moments, I could imagine nothing terrible had happened.
Then I would see Dakota’s bare left hand and remember.
After dinner, snow began falling.
By ten, roads were slick.
Marianne left first.
Alan followed.
Dakota stood near the front window checking the weather.
My father approached me.
“Guest room is available.”
“For Dakota?”
“For anyone.”
“Tell her.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
“I’ve learned something about interfering.”
Apparently everyone had.
Dakota eventually decided to leave.
“I’ll drive you,” I said.
She looked at me.
I immediately added, “If you want. My car has winter tires. Otherwise, I can call you a car.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
The drive took thirty minutes.
Snow covered Lake Shore Drive.
Dakota watched the city pass.
“Do you remember our first winter?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We got stuck near Milwaukee.”
“Your terrible little Honda.”
“My reliable little Honda.”
“It had one functioning windshield wiper.”
“It had character.”
“It had hypothermia.”
She laughed.
I did too.
Then the laughter faded.
“That was a good trip,” she said.
“It was.”
We had been married less than a year.
No money.
No company car.
No expensive hotels.
Just the two of us arguing over directions and eating gas-station sandwiches while waiting for a tow truck.
“I miss who we were then,” Dakota said.
My hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“So do I.”
“I used to think that meant I missed our marriage.”
I waited.
“It doesn’t.”
The sentence hurt.
But I had learned not to run from pain by rewriting what caused it.
“I understand.”
She turned toward me.
“Do you?”
“I miss who I was then too. But we can’t become those people again.”
“No.”
“We know too much.”
“Yes.”
We reached her building.
Snow covered the sidewalk.
I pulled to the curb.
Dakota did not immediately open the door.
“Miles.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about us.”
Every heartbeat became loud.
I kept my face still.
“Okay.”
“I don’t want our marriage back.”
“I know.”
“No. I need you to hear all of it.”
I nodded.
She continued.
“I don’t want the house. I don’t want the version of us where your career decides the calendar and I keep adjusting. I don’t want to become the woman who checks receipts because she’s afraid to trust her husband.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
Her voice softened.
“That’s why I’m telling you.”
I looked at her.
“What are you telling me?”
“That I don’t want the old marriage.”
Snow struck the windshield.
“But I don’t know whether that means I want nothing.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Dakota looked frightened now.
More frightened than she had looked confronting me on Flight 912.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said. “And I don’t want you turning uncertainty into a promise.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“If we try anything, it starts from zero.”
“Okay.”
“No anniversary.”
“Okay.”
“No pretending the divorce didn’t happen.”
“Okay.”
“No moving in.”
“Dakota.”
“What?”
“I said okay.”
She exhaled.
I almost smiled.
Then she said, “And if I decide I can’t do it, you let me go.”
That was the hardest condition.
Which meant it was the most important.
“Yes.”
She searched my face.
“Can you actually promise that?”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
I continued.
“I can promise I’ll try. I can promise I won’t punish you, manipulate you, or make you responsible for my disappointment. But I can’t promise letting you go won’t hurt.”
Dakota stared at me.
Then she smiled.
“That might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve had practice.”
She opened the door.
I thought the conversation was over.
Then she leaned back into the car.
“Dinner Saturday?”
“A date?”
Dakota considered it.
“Yes.”
My heart nearly broke for an entirely different reason.
“What time?”
“Seven.”
“Where?”
“You choose.”
She started to close the door.
“Dakota.”
She looked back.
“I’m not going to use the company card.”
For half a second she looked stunned.
Then she laughed so hard she had to hold the car door.
I laughed with her.
The sound followed me all the way home.
Our first marriage had begun with certainty.
We were young.
In love.
Convinced love was enough.
Whatever this was began differently.
With history.
Damage.
Boundaries.
And a woman standing in the snow making it clear that she was not returning to the life she escaped.
May you like
If I wanted to know her again, I would have to meet her where she stood.
Not where I remembered leaving her.
