Their flight from Honolulu was due to land at 2:47. By the time they gathered luggage, rented righteousness, and drove toward Oak Street expecting to walk into my life with tropical tans and rehearsed excuses, the email would already be working its way through every corner of the social network they curated so carefully.
When boarding started, I closed the laptop and stood.
My seat had been upgraded because I used miles I had been saving for a honeymoon I would never take. In first class, a flight attendant in immaculate navy asked whether I wanted champagne before takeoff.
“Yes,” I said.
She handed me the flute with a polite smile. “Celebrating something?”
I looked past her through the oval window at the runway lights smeared by drizzle.
“Yes,” I said. “An ending.”