Chapter 2 — Landing in the Past

The Pragmatist

The plane’s wheels screeched against the tarmac, jolting the Pragmatist out of his thoughts. For the past two hours, he had pretended to focus on the notes for his conference presentation, but his mind betrayed him, circling endlessly around the woman seated beside him. The Dreamer. His ex-wife. Six years of carefully maintained distance undone by a single, improbable seating arrangement.

He glanced sideways, careful not to linger. She was tucking her scarf—a deep emerald and sapphire swirl of silk—into the collar of her coat, her movements brisk and precise. That scarf. He could still remember the day she first wore it, the way she’d twirled it in her hands, laughing about how it reminded her of brushstrokes on a canvas. He had admired how effortlessly she seemed to embody the art she so loved. Now, it was just another reminder of a life he had tried—and failed—to compartmentalize.

She caught him looking. Her hazel eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face before she returned to smoothing the scarf. Her expression settled into practiced neutrality, but he felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Memory was a cruel thing, tugging him under when he least wanted it.

“Paris looks different than I remember,” she said suddenly, her tone measured and distant. She wasn’t looking at him but out the small airplane window, where the golden light of dawn bathed the Charles de Gaulle terminal in a hazy glow.

“You always said it looked best in spring,” he replied cautiously, his voice low. Each word felt like a step onto a minefield.

Her lips twitched, curving into something that might have been a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose I did.”

The silence between them solidified, heavy and awkward. He leaned back in his seat, gripping the worn leather cover of his sketchbook. The turbulence earlier had rattled him—not the plane, but the reflexive act of reaching for her hand. The moment had been so brief, so instinctual, yet it lingered. The warmth of her palm, the weight of her trust, even for just a heartbeat—it was all too familiar and far too dangerous. His mind flashed to another time, another plane, her hand in his as they descended into this very city, newlyweds who believed in forever.

The fasten seatbelt sign blinked off, and the cabin erupted into the usual flurry of passengers unbuckling, stretching, and retrieving luggage. He didn’t move, waiting for her to gather her things first. She stood, smoothing the skirt of her dress and lifting her carry-on bag with practiced ease. As she reached for her scarf, which had slipped onto his armrest, her hand hesitated. For the briefest moment, he saw it: a crack in her composure, a flicker of hesitation, perhaps vulnerability, before she steeled herself.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice clipped, her mask firmly back in place.

“Of course,” he muttered, stepping aside to let her pass. She didn’t meet his eyes.

By the time he collected his own bag and followed her into the terminal, she was several paces ahead, her scarf trailing behind her like a banner. He couldn’t help but notice how she walked—head high, shoulders squared, as though daring the world to challenge her. It was a walk he remembered well, one that had once inspired him to push himself harder, to be better. Now, it only reminded him of how far he had fallen short. Guilt gnawed at him, unwelcome and unrelenting.

The customs line was mercifully short, though the minutes still stretched long enough to leave him too much time to think. About her. About the impossibility of this encounter. Fate, he thought bitterly, had a cruel sense of humor. He let his gaze wander, catching glimpses of Parisian advertisements and the faint outlines of the city beyond the terminal windows. The sight stirred something unspoken within him—a longing he couldn’t quite place.

As he approached the terminal exit, he spotted her standing at the taxi stand, her phone pressed to her ear. She was speaking in quick, fluent French, her free hand gesturing in small, precise movements as she explained something to the driver. He had forgotten how effortlessly she could command a conversation when she wanted to. It was a talent he had admired—until it had made him feel small.

He hesitated, unsure whether to wait or take a different route. Before he could decide, she glanced up and spotted him. Her expression was unreadable, but she ended her call and stepped toward him.

“Your hotel,” she said, her voice neutral, “is it the Montclair on Rue Saint-Dominique?”

He blinked. “Yes. How did you—”

She held up a card, the hotel’s logo embossed in silver. “They sent a shuttle for us. Apparently, we’re neighbors.”

Neighbors. Of course. Paris was a sprawling city, yet somehow, they’d ended up side by side. He forced a polite smile, though the thought of crossing paths with her repeatedly over the next few days made his stomach tighten. Perhaps this wasn’t fate. Perhaps it was a test.

“Convenient,” he said simply, falling into step beside her as they approached the waiting shuttle.

The ride into the city was quiet, the hum of the engine and the faint chatter of other passengers filling the space between them. He watched Paris blur past the window, the familiar rooftops and wrought iron balconies stirring memories of an earlier version of himself. The last time he had been here, he’d been a different man, full of ambition and naivety. The city had been a promise then, a blank canvas. Now, it felt like a mirror, reflecting all the cracks he had tried to conceal.

“You’re presenting at the symposium?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence. She was looking at him now, her hazel eyes sharper than he remembered.

“Yes,” he replied. “Urban housing developments. Nothing glamorous, I’m afraid.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You always did have a talent for underselling yourself.”

A flicker of warmth touched her tone, catching him off guard. He felt the corners of his mouth tug upward despite himself. “And you’re here for…?”

“The exhibit,” she said, her voice softening as she looked out the window. “It’s… important.”

Important. The word hung in the air, heavy with all the things left unsaid. He wanted to ask her more, to understand why this exhibit mattered so much, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded, letting the silence settle back between them.

When the shuttle pulled up in front of their hotels, she was the first to step out, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. He followed, his suitcase rolling noisily behind him. The two hotels stood side by side, their façades a study in contrasts. Hers was sleek and modern, all polished glass and sharp angles. His was older, its weathered stone and wrought iron balconies a quiet nod to the past. He couldn’t ignore how much they reflected their owners—her relentless ambition, his clinging nostalgia.

“Well,” she said, turning to face him. “It seems we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

“It seems so,” he replied, his voice steady despite the swirl of emotions beneath the surface.

She nodded, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without another word, she turned and entered her hotel, the glass doors sliding shut behind her.

He stood there for a moment, the city’s sounds and scents washing over him. The faint aroma of coffee and fresh bread drifted from a nearby café, mingling with the distant hum of traffic. His hand tightened around the handle of his suitcase as he turned toward his own hotel.

The past, it seemed, was not so easily left behind. And Paris, with its golden light and quiet streets, felt like it was waiting for something to begin again.