PART 2
You walk away from Ricardo’s seat without looking back.
Your heels move smoothly down the aisle, your uniform stays perfect, and the tray in your hands does not tremble. To everyone else in first class, you look like a professional flight attendant serving champagne before an overnight flight to Barcelona.
But inside your chest, something has gone silent.
Not broken.
Silent.
Ricardo always feared your tears because tears gave him a script. He could comfort you, deny things, kiss your forehead, call you emotional, and wait until you forgave him. But silence gives him nothing to hold.
In the galley, your coworker Carla looks at you once and immediately understands something is wrong.
“Elena,” she whispers. “Was that really him?”
You place the champagne bottle back into the ice bucket with careful precision.
“Yes.”
“With her?”
You inhale through your nose.
“Yes.”
Carla’s face hardens. “Do you want me to switch sections?”
For one second, you almost say yes.
You almost hide in the back of the aircraft, let another attendant serve first class, and spend the next eleven hours crying behind a curtain. You almost become the woman Ricardo expects you to be.
But then you remember his message from that morning.
“Amor, ya voy llegando a Guadalajara.”
You look through the galley curtain at seat 2A, where your husband sits beside another woman on a flight to Spain.
“No,” you say. “I’ll handle my section.”
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