“You proposed to me here.”
A few passengers nearby had begun glancing in our direction.
Tyler looked toward the flight crew.
Then toward me.
“Claire, please. There’s a crew conference room down the hall.”
“You know where it is?” I asked.
“Of course I know where it is.”
“Good. Lead the way.”
For the first
time in our marriage, Tyler obeyed without arguing.
—
The room was small and windowless, with a scratched table, six plastic chairs, a coffee machine, and an airline safety poster curling away from the wall.
It smelled faintly of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner.
Mason sat beside me.
Vanessa sat across from us.
Tyler remained standing.
I noticed he had taken off his pilot cap.
For some reason, that mattered.
Without it, without the uniformed confidence, without the cockpit door between him and everyone else, he looked smaller.
Ordinary.
Human.
Mason’s backpack rested in his lap.
The folded corner of his drawing stuck out of the front pocket.
I couldn’t look at it for long.
Vanessa placed the hospital photograph on the table.
“Explain.”
Tyler rubbed both hands over his face.
“There are things you don’t understand.”
I nearly laughed.
“That sentence should be printed on the official uniform of guilty
husbands.”
“Claire.”
“No. Don’t use my name like we’re having an argument about whose turn it was to buy groceries.”
Mason looked down.
I stopped immediately.
I put my hand over his.
That was the problem.
I wanted answers.
But I wanted something else more.
I wanted my son protected from the blast radius.
“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “would you like to sit outside with one of the flight attendants?”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
“Mason—”
“No.”
His voice shook, but he held my eyes.
“Everybody keeps talking about me.”
That silenced all three adults.
Mason swallowed.
“I want to know why.”
There are moments when your child suddenly seems older than they were five seconds before.
I hated that this was one of them.
I brushed his hair away from his forehead.
“Okay.”
Tyler pulled out a chair.
