My Dead Husband Was Sitting In First Class
Part 1
The man sitting in Seat 3A has the exact face and voice of the husband I buried seven years ago.
As I step into the first-class cabin, the scent of expensive cologne and roasted nuts hits me.
The weight of the silver tray presses heavily into my trembling palms.
I force my customer service smile into place before lowering my gaze to pour the golden champagne.
A masculine hand rests on the armrest while long fingers drum a familiar rhythm against the leather.
When my eyes travel up his arm, my breath catches in my throat.
Because my hands are shaking so violently, the tray slips from my grip and shatters against the carpeted floor.
Champagne splashes across my uniform shoes as my chest tightens around my racing heart.
Craig.
Sitting there in a tailored charcoal suit, his jawline bears the exact same angles I used to trace in the dark.
Although it seems completely impossible, he has the same thick dark hair and amber eyes with gold flecks near the pupil.
Those familiar eyes lock onto mine.
Tilting his head, he offers a polite, empty smile.
“No harm done,” he says.
Rumbling deep in his chest, his voice sounds exactly like the one that used to whisper promises in my ear.
Even though I planned his funeral and raised our daughter alone ever since that terrible day, my dead husband is sitting right in front of me.
While my lungs burn for air, Brenda grips my elbow from behind.
“Megan, are you okay?”
Sounding like it comes from underwater, her voice barely registers in my spinning mind.
I cannot tear my eyes away from him.
A beautiful blonde woman leans against his shoulder while tracing a manicured nail down his bicep.
“Don’t be stingy with the pours, gorgeous,” Craig says with a wink before turning his attention back to the blonde.
He does not know me.
He stares right at me without a single flicker of recognition.
As seven years of crushing grief rip open inside me, I think of the pain of watching Lily cry over photographs of a man she never met.
I stumble backward and sprint down the aisle toward the tiny lavatory.
I slam the door shut and grip the plastic sink until my knuckles turn white.
While my pale reflection stares back at me, my hands shake uncontrollably.
Even though the grief counselor warned me about hallucinations, hallucinations do not drink champagne or wear charcoal suits.
I grab a paper towel, run it under freezing water, and press it against my burning neck.
I need answers.
When I finally pull open the door, the cabin is empty and Seat 3A is vacant.
“He left,” Brenda says near the galley.
I grab her arm and beg her for the passenger manifest.
Although she reminds me it violates airline policy, she sighs and hands me a folded sheet of paper.
My eyes frantically scan the list.
Seat 3A belongs to Craig Xavier West.
Since it is the exact same name, this cannot be a coincidence.
According to the printed text, he is staying at the Grand Azure Hotel downtown.
I tear off my apron, tell the captain I have food poisoning, and sprint off the plane.
Rain lashes against the taxi window on the ride into the city.
With violently shaking hands, I clutch a worn photograph of Lily in my pocket.
I step into the hotel lobby as the smell of leather and lilies overwhelms me.
I march straight toward the reception desk and demand to see Craig West.
Because Sarah the receptionist refuses to give out guest information, I slam my hands on the marble counter.
A familiar voice echoes near the elevators.
I turn around and see Craig checking his silver watch by the brass doors.
I cross the lobby in heavy strides.
“Craig.”
He turns around and frowns in confusion.
“Yes?”
“We need to talk.”
His eyes scan my face without showing any emotion.
“Oh, it is you.”
My breath hitches in my chest.
“The flight attendant who spilled the drinks,” he adds.
I clench my fists until my fingernails bite into my palms.
“You pretended to be dead for seven years,” I spit out.
He blinks in surprise and claims he has no idea what I am talking about.
I raise my hand and slap him across the face.
The crack echoes through the silent lobby before his head snaps to the side.
When he turns back to me, his eyes flash a brilliant, inhuman gold for a split second.
I freeze in place as I remember how he always hid that golden flash.
“You hate cilantro,” I say, my voice trembling.
He goes entirely still.
“You fold your socks instead of rolling them,” I continue.
He clenches his jaw and glares at me.
“You left because of Lily,” I accuse while pulling the photo from my pocket and shoving it against his chest.
“She looks just like you.”
Turning on my heel, I march toward the revolving doors and leave him standing there with our daughter’s picture.
