Chapter 2 — Clouded Horizons

Julien

The hum of the plane’s engines was a dull backdrop to the sharper noise in Julien’s mind. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw set as he stared straight ahead. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. A packed flight to Paris, and yet here he was, seated next to Isabelle Laurent. His ex-wife. The woman who had once been his everything, and then, as abruptly as a soufflé collapsing, nothing.

Julien exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze sliding sideways despite himself. Isabelle sat angled toward the window, her dark hair pinned back in its signature loose bun, though now streaked with faint strands of gray. Her fingers traced the edges of her camera—her ever-present companion—a gesture so familiar it struck him like the faint aroma of lavender that used to linger in their old apartment. He hadn’t thought about that scent in years, but now it clung to his memory, unwanted and stubborn.

Her posture was stiff, her body radiating the same tension that had knotted his shoulders since he realized they’d be sharing this flight, this row, this armrest. “Of all the seats on this plane,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that it was unclear even to him whether he hoped she would hear.

She did. Her lips twitched—was that annoyance, amusement, or some inscrutable mix of both?—before her face smoothed into a mask of polite indifference. “You think I planned this?” she replied evenly, not turning her head. Her voice was calm, measured, but there was a tautness beneath the surface, like a violin string stretched too tight.

“No, of course not. That would require some kind of cosmic conspiracy, wouldn’t it?” He let out a humorless laugh, the bitterness curling out before he could stop it.

Isabelle didn’t respond. The silence between them stretched taut, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Julien shifted in his seat, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing the silver streaks at his temples. He hated this—the awkward, stilted dance of polite avoidance. It was so far removed from the easy intimacy they had once shared, the kind that made a single glance say everything.

But that was years ago. Another life.

He flipped through the in-flight magazine in his lap, the glossy photos of pristine, impossible lives mocking him. His thoughts refused to stay tethered to the present, wandering instead to memories he’d tried to bury. The way Isabelle had looked the first time she’d stepped into his bistro, camera slung around her neck, her gaze sweeping the room as though it were alive. The way her laugh had sounded when he’d nervously set a plate of coq au vin in front of her—a laugh that had felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

His fingers tightened on the magazine, crinkling the edges of the pages. None of it mattered now. None of it.

“I see you still hate sitting still,” Isabelle said suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of the engines.

Julien glanced at her, startled. She was looking at him now, her green eyes sharp and probing. That gaze—it had always unnerved him. He’d once joked that her camera wasn’t necessary; she already had a lens built into her soul.

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Old habits die hard.”

Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Some things don’t change,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Julien opened his mouth to reply when the plane jolted suddenly, a sharp dip that sent his stomach lurching into his throat. Around them, passengers gasped, a few letting out startled cries. The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, advising everyone to remain seated with their seatbelts fastened.

Without thinking, Julien’s hand shot out, gripping the armrest between them. His fingers brushed against Isabelle’s, and he realized with a jolt that she had done the same. For a moment, neither of them moved, their hands frozen in that accidental contact. Her skin was warm against his, a sharp, jarring contrast to the cold metal beneath their fingers.

His emotions simmered, threatening to boil over. Pride, regret, and something raw he couldn’t name all vied for control. He pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat. “Sorry,” he muttered, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for—the touch, the years of silence, or the storm of feelings breaking through his carefully composed exterior.

Isabelle shook her head, her gaze dropping to her lap. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice tight. She adjusted her camera strap with quick, precise movements, as though the act could steady her.

The turbulence ebbed, the plane settling into a steadier rhythm. Julien let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, loosening his grip on the armrest. He glanced at Isabelle again, catching her as she turned to look out the window.

The sunlight streaming through the glass caught the streaks of gray in her hair, illuminating the faint lines etched at the corners of her eyes. She looked older, more tired, but there was a quiet strength in her posture, something resilient that hadn’t been there before. It stirred something in him—a pang of regret, perhaps, or maybe just the ghost of something he wasn’t ready to name.

“Still carrying that old thing?” he asked, nodding toward her camera. The words came out brusquely, his voice a defense mechanism as much as the armrest had been moments before.

Isabelle turned back to him, her expression unreadable. “Every day,” she said simply, her fingers brushing the edges of the camera as if to shield it from his gaze.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know, there are easier ways to take pictures now. Phones, for instance.”

Her lips twitched, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might coax a laugh from her. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him with that same piercing gaze. “And yet, you still write your recipes by hand in that leather journal of yours,” she countered, her tone light but pointed.

The words hit him like a direct strike. His chest tightened at the mention of the journal—his grandmother’s journal, the one she’d entrusted to him before she passed. He hadn’t touched it in months, hadn’t dared to. It sat on a shelf in his bistro’s kitchen, gathering dust, a silent reminder of everything he felt he’d failed to live up to.

“You’ve got me there,” he admitted, forcing a faint smile.

Isabelle’s expression softened, just slightly, and for a brief moment, the tension between them seemed to ease. But then the plane jolted again, and she clutched her camera reflexively, her knuckles whitening. The moment passed, leaving only the brittle remnants of what might have been.

Julien leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. He could still feel the weight of her presence beside him, the memories pressing in from all sides. He wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the chasm between them. But the words stuck in his throat, barricaded by pride and fear.

Instead, he let the silence settle over them once more, heavy and unresolved, as the plane carried them closer to a city that promised no escape from the past.