Rejecting Alexander

I arrived at LAX two hours early, my heart fluttering with anticipation. The flight from San Francisco had been bumpy, but nothing could dampen my spirits. Three years with Alexander, and I still got butterflies thinking about surprising him. I'd worn his favorite dress—a simple navy blue sheath that he once said made my eyes look like midnight—under my worn cardigan, a comfort piece I'd had since college.

The peonies in my hand were starting to droop slightly in the terminal heat. Pink peonies—Alexander's favorite. "They remind me of you," he'd told me once, "beautiful but resilient." I'd spent forty minutes at the florist, making sure each bloom was perfect.

"Flight 1422 from New York, now arriving at Gate 37," the announcement crackled overhead.

I checked my reflection in my phone screen, pinching color into my cheeks. The lack of sleep from working late on his quarterly reports was showing, but I hoped he wouldn't notice. I just wanted to see the look on his face when he realized I'd come all this way just for him.

I positioned myself where I could see the stream of passengers exiting the gate but where he wouldn't immediately spot me. My plan was to wait until he passed, then call his name. I'd imagined his surprised smile a hundred times on the flight here.

The first-class passengers began to emerge. I stood on my tiptoes, scanning the crowd. And then I saw him.

Alexander's tall frame was unmistakable, his confident stride marking him as someone who knew his worth in the world. My lips parted to call his name—but the sound died in my throat.

He wasn't alone.

A woman walked beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm with familiar ease. She was stunning—tall, willowy, with honey-blonde hair that caught the fluorescent lights. But it wasn't her beauty that made my blood turn to ice. It was the way Alexander was looking at her.

In three years, he had never once looked at me like that.

His eyes were soft, unguarded. The smile on his face wasn't the measured, camera-ready smile I knew. It was raw, real. Intimate. His hand covered hers, thumb stroking her skin with unconscious tenderness.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The peonies trembled in my grasp as I watched him lean down and whisper something in her ear. She laughed—a bright, musical sound—and he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her temple with such naked affection that I felt physically ill.

They walked past me, not six feet away, and neither noticed me standing there. I was invisible. I had always been invisible.

Somehow, I made it back to the airport bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection. The woman who looked back at me was a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, lost.

"Are you okay?" asked a concerned woman at the sink beside me.

I nodded mechanically. Was I okay? I didn't know what I was.

The journey back to Manhattan passed in a blur. I sat rigid on the plane, the rejected flowers wilting in the seat beside me. I couldn't bear to throw them away yet. They were evidence of something—my foolishness, perhaps. Or the death of whatever I thought Alexander and I had shared.

Back in my apartment—our apartment, though Alexander spent more nights at his penthouse than here—I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. It was 2:14 AM. He hadn't called. Hadn't texted to say he'd landed safely, as he always did after trips.

Because he wasn't alone tonight.

My fingers moved of their own accord, typing out a message: "Flowers for you 💐"

I hit send before I could think better of it, then immediately regretted it. What was I doing? What did I expect him to say?

No response came.

I grabbed my coat and headed out into the night, finding an all-night coffee shop on the corner. The iced coffee I ordered did nothing to settle my churning stomach. As I sat there, watching the city's insomniacs drift in and out, the truth I'd been avoiding for hours finally settled over me like a shroud.

That woman wasn't a colleague. Wasn't a friend.

She was someone he loved. Really loved.

Which meant everything between us had been... what? A convenience? A placeholder?

A lie.

I didn't know her name. Didn't know how long she'd been in his life. But I knew, with sickening certainty, that she was the reason Alexander had never fully let me in. Never introduced me to his family. Never talked about our future.

I was just keeping his bed warm until she came home.