At the bottom of the airstairs of his jet, he kisses me formally on both cheeks.
“Goodbye, Sloane.”
He turns and walks away without a glance.
Pretending his cool demeanor doesn’t hurt, even though it’s a ruse, I trudge up the airstairs and take a seat in one of the big captain’s chairs in front near the galley. On the table between the chairs is a book.
The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. One of the pages is dog-eared. When I turn to it, a single passage is highlighted.
“Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”
My throat constricted, I whisper, “Me, too, gangster. Me, too.”
The cabin door closes. The plane takes off. I buckle my lap belt, close my eyes, and do box breathing until I realize that stupid s**t never works.
Then I raid the booze cabinet in the galley and g
