Chapter 2 — Turbulent Conversations

Ethan

The flight attendant’s voice droned on, a practiced monotone blending with the hum of the engines and the faint hiss of recycled air. Ethan’s fingers tightened and loosened the edge of his seatbelt, his knuckles brushing the worn fabric. The motion was mindless, a futile attempt to quiet the unease coiling in his chest.

To his left, Amelia sat with her trademark composed posture, her back straight, her gaze fixed on the in-flight magazine that she wasn’t reading. Her auburn hair—looser now than when they’d boarded—skimmed her shoulder, strands slipping free from the messy bun she always tied it into. The faint scent of lavender shampoo reached him, soft and achingly familiar. A scent that pulled him backward, five years, to when it had lingered on his pillow, in the folds of her scarf, in the corners of a life they’d once shared.

Five years. And now, here she was, close enough that the brush of her sleeve against his arm felt inevitable, yet distant enough to make him feel like an intruder.

Ethan shifted in his seat, the space between them too small for the weight of their silence. He cleared his throat, the sound louder than intended. “So... Paris,” he said, aiming for casual, though he heard the awkwardness in his voice.

Amelia didn’t look at him. Her piercing green eyes, sharp and unreadable, remained on the glossy pages in her lap. “Yes. Paris,” she replied, her tone clipped, cool.

He hesitated, unsure how to bridge the chasm that had grown between them. Their last words to each other had been exchanged through sterile emails about legal paperwork. Now, the years stretched taut between them, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

“Work trip?” he asked finally, wincing at the banality of the question but grasping for something to fill the air.

Amelia turned a page with deliberate slowness, her movements deliberate and controlled. “Yes. I’m working on a piece about expatriates,” she said. Then, without glancing up, she added, “And you?”

He paused. Honesty, he decided, would be simpler than evasion. “I’m auditioning for a position at La Maison Laurent.”

That got her attention. Her eyes flicked toward him, and though her expression remained neutral, he caught the spark of surprise there. “Laurent? As in Chef Laurent Moreau? Michelin-starred Laurent?”

“Yeah,” he said, his throat tightening under the weight of her scrutiny. He could feel her appraising him now, no longer dismissive but curious.

Her brow furrowed, just slightly, as if she were trying to reconcile the Ethan she once knew with the man sitting beside her. “Quite the leap,” she said, the faintest note of skepticism laced into her tone.

“It is,” he admitted, his fingers brushing the armrest as if for something to steady himself.

She didn’t say more, but her silence was weighted, her thoughts almost audible in the space between them. Ethan Hayes, who couldn’t keep his own restaurant afloat, aiming for one of the most prestigious kitchens in Paris.

“Good luck,” she said finally. Her voice was neutral, but he thought he caught a flicker of sincerity beneath the polished surface.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his throat tightening. He wanted to say more, to explain why he was here, why this mattered, but the words tangled in his chest.

The flight attendant appeared then, offering drinks. Ethan ordered a whiskey, neat. Amelia hesitated for a moment before mirroring his choice.

He raised an eyebrow as the attendant handed them their glasses. “Since when do you drink whiskey?”

“Since I stopped caring about calorie counts,” she replied, her tone sharp but with a faint edge of humor.

He chuckled unexpectedly, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “To not caring.”

She clinked her glass against his, though her lips didn’t quite form a smile. The whiskey burned on its way down, a welcome distraction from the knot of tension in his chest.

“So,” Amelia said after a moment, her voice edged with forced politeness, “how’s life? Other than this audition, I mean.”

Ethan exhaled slowly, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. “Complicated.”

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Isn’t it always?”

He hesitated, debating how much to tell her. She wasn’t a safe space anymore, but there was something about her presence—familiar yet distant—that made him want to unravel everything.

“My restaurant didn’t make it,” he admitted, the confession heavier than he’d anticipated. “I thought I could do it alone, but I couldn’t.”

Amelia blinked, her composed exterior faltering for just a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and this time, her voice carried no pretense.

“Don’t be,” he replied quickly, shaking his head. “It was my fault. I thought I had it all figured out, but...” He trailed off, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Turns out, I didn’t.”

Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, the ache in her expression mirrored his own. “That must have been... hard,” she said quietly.

“It was,” he admitted. “But you know, life goes on. Or at least, it’s supposed to.”

She nodded absently, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I know the feeling,” she murmured.

The engines roared as the plane hit a patch of turbulence, jolting them both. Amelia’s drink sloshed, and her phone slipped off the tray table, skidding to the floor between their feet. Without thinking, Ethan bent to retrieve it.

When he handed it back to her, his breath caught. The screen displayed a photo—soft golden light, cobblestone streets, and the two of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her hair had been longer then, loose waves spilling over her shoulders, and she’d been laughing, her face alight with a joy he hadn’t seen in years.

Amelia snatched the phone from his hand, locking the screen with an abrupt motion. “Old photo,” she said curtly, setting it face-down on the tray table.

But the image was already burned into Ethan’s mind. “I remember that day,” he said softly, his voice tinged with something between longing and regret.

She didn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she stared straight ahead.

“Best croissant I’ve ever had,” he added, trying to lighten the mood, though his voice betrayed the ache beneath the words.

Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Ethan—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, holding up his hands. “We’re not doing this.”

“Exactly,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “We’re not doing this.”

The turbulence smoothed out, but the air between them remained charged. Ethan drained the rest of his whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the ache in his chest.

“You’re still wearing it,” he said after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amelia frowned. “What?”

“The necklace. From the Seine.”

Her hand instinctively went to her neck, her fingers brushing the delicate silver charm. She hadn’t even realized she was still wearing it.

“It’s just a necklace,” she said defensively.

“Sure,” he replied, his tone unreadable.

The rest of the flight passed in strained silence, the occasional clink of glasses and rustle of paper the only sounds between them. But as the plane began its descent into Paris, Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.