Chapter 2 — Turbulence of the Past

Julian

The steady drone of the airplane engines hummed through the cabin, a low, unyielding vibration that Julian Laurent usually found soothing. Flying had always offered him a strange kind of solace—the enforced stillness, the suspension of time, the way the earth below vanished into a patchwork of clouds. But today, seated next to Claire Dupont, his ex-wife, the calm was an illusion. The turbulence wasn’t outside; it was here, between them. Silent, invisible, but undeniably there.

Claire shifted beside him, her posture composed, her face unreadable. She had always been good at that—hiding the storm beneath an exterior of quiet control. Julian glanced at her, unbidden memories curling around his thoughts like smoke. Her hair was swept into a messy bun, a few strands brushing her neck. She stared out the window, her hand absently running along the strap of her leather satchel. That satchel. It had been with her forever, a constant companion through their shared history. He could still see her with it slung over her shoulder during those lazy Saturday mornings when they’d wander through markets together, her camera peeking out, ready to capture the world.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence, half to stop himself from getting lost in her presence. "So," he began, aiming for casual, "Paris. Big trip for you."

Claire turned toward him, her hazel eyes meeting his. There was something there—a flicker of wariness, maybe, or something softer, harder to name. "It’s work," she replied crisply, though her tone lacked sharpness. "The exhibit opens in a few days."

He nodded, fumbling for the right words. "I heard. Congratulations."

She tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You heard?"

"Lila mentioned it," he said with a shrug, though her best friend’s occasional updates felt more like breadcrumbs from a life he wasn’t part of anymore.

Her smile faded, replaced by an expression he couldn’t quite read. "It’s… a big deal," she admitted after a pause, her voice softening. "I’ve been working toward this for years."

Julian wanted to say something meaningful, something to bridge the chasm between them. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, he tapped his leather-bound journal against his knee, the worn edges grounding him. "Must be a lot of pressure," he said finally.

"You could say that." She shifted, pulling her satchel closer, her fingers lingering on the strap as if it were an anchor.

The conversation faltered, leaving them adrift in the awkward silence that had defined their relationship for the past year. Julian stared at the tray table in front of him, his fingers tracing the frayed spine of his journal. He debated opening it, letting his eyes fall on one of the unsent letters tucked inside, but the thought felt too raw, too vulnerable.

Finally, he spoke. "I’m going to see Henri."

Claire’s gaze flicked toward him, her brow furrowing. "Your mentor?"

He nodded. "Yeah. He’s… not well. This might be my last chance to—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. The image of Henri, once larger than life, now diminished, was almost unbearable. He could still hear his booming laugh, the way he’d slap Julian on the back after a perfect dish. *Life gets away from you sometimes, doesn’t it, mon garçon?*

"I’m sorry," Claire said softly, and this time her voice was free of its usual guardedness.

Julian glanced at her, caught off guard by her sincerity. For a moment, he saw the woman he had fallen in love with, the one who had always understood the weight of his dreams, even when they collided with her own.

"Thanks," he murmured. "It’s… complicated. I haven’t seen him in years."

Claire hesitated, her fingers tightening around her satchel. "Why not?"

He hesitated too, unsure how much to reveal. "I guess I let life get in the way. Work, marriage..." He trailed off, the unsaid words hanging in the air like a thread pulled taut.

She pressed her lips together, her gaze dropping to her lap. "Marriage," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

The engines hummed on, relentless, as if echoing the distance between them.

"It wasn’t just you," Claire said suddenly, her voice deliberate, as though the words were being pried loose.

Julian turned to her, startled. "What?"

"Our marriage." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "It wasn’t just you. I know I played my part in… how things ended."

He blinked, her admission catching him entirely off guard. Relief and guilt tangled in his chest. "Claire, you don’t—"

"I do," she interrupted, her tone firm yet trembling at the edges. "I was so focused on my career, on proving myself, that I didn’t see what it was costing us. What it was costing you."

Julian stared at her, her words sinking into the spaces he thought were long closed. He had spent so much time replaying their arguments, their silences, their unraveling. Hearing her acknowledge her role felt surreal, almost unbearable.

"You weren’t the only one," he said quietly, his fingers tightening around the spine of his journal. "I made my choices too. And I don’t think I ever told you… how proud I was of you. Of what you were doing."

Claire’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through her calm exterior. For a moment, he thought he saw them glisten, but she blinked and looked away, her hand clutching the strap of her satchel. He wondered if her fingers brushed against the hidden postcard inside, the one he didn’t know existed but that tied her to the past they both tried to forget.

"Well," she said finally, her voice steadier now. "I guess we both have our regrets."

He nodded, the weight of her words settling over him. Regrets. They had plenty of those, didn’t they?

The silence that followed felt less strained this time, as if the air between them had shifted. They talked about Paris—the city’s quirks, its beauty, its contradictions. Julian shared a story about a disastrous attempt to make coq au vin during his first trip as a young chef.

"I think I managed to burn the wine," he said, shaking his head.

Claire laughed, and the sound tugged at something deep inside him. It wasn’t loud or carefree, but it was real. "I didn’t think that was even possible."

"It takes real talent," he replied, grinning despite himself.

The plane jolted slightly, a reminder of the turbulence outside. Julian glanced at Claire, who had tightened her grip on the armrest.

"You okay?" he asked, concern slipping through his usual reserve.

She nodded, though her knuckles remained white. "Fine. Just… not a fan of turbulence."

"Some things don’t change," he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

She shot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. "And you’re still annoyingly calm about everything, I see."

"I wouldn’t say everything," he replied, the weight of their shared history threading through his tone.

She didn’t respond, but the silence between them felt different now—less like a chasm and more like a fragile bridge.

As the plane descended, Julian found himself glancing at her again. She was staring out the window, her profile illuminated by the dim cabin lights, her expression distant. He wondered what she was thinking, whether she was replaying the same memories that looped through his mind.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself a spark of hope. Maybe this trip to Paris wasn’t just about Henri. Maybe it could be about something else—understanding, closure, or perhaps something neither of them dared to name.

The seatbelt sign dinged, and Claire turned to him, her expression unreadable.

"Looks like we’re almost there," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice low. His hand rested on his journal, the frayed edges rough beneath his fingertips. "Almost there."